#BUT THE REST WAS DONE ON KINDLE

[leonmyeon]

Doodles I did in the whiteboard thing

also there's your raph plastron with the patch this time

[sungwoonha]

about to do smth so 🙂🥴

[soft-sunbird]

A post for Hilda

When I was a kid, I had lots of room to run around outside. It was a beautiful place to live. Running from one side of the property to the other would take you probably about a minute. There was plenty of grass, plenty of trees, plenty of wildlife. I couldn't ask for better.

Hilda, pregnant with her firstborn child, has been lying awake all night; fretting over the slow trickle of the donations that just barely keep her alive. Knowing that the water is contaminated and the little food she is lucky enough to eat is insufficient nutrition for the life kindling inside her, no doubt the little one feels her stress already.

When I was a kid, we had a few plastic barrels lying around, and we had enormous fun kicking them down the slope to watch them roll away. We'd chase them all the way down to the bottom of the hill, and then push them back up again. Push, push, push. And then we could do it all over again.

It's a great and daunting thing to ask for help. Yet Hilda has braved this uncomfortable, exhausting charade for days upon days upon months upon months, and is still struggling. She needs to eat! She needs to be warm and healthy and safe! She needs to know that there are good, kind people in the world who care what happens to her. She needs our support. Today, tomorrow, and the day after that. Every day until she can say, "Thank you. I am okay now."

Hilda, sister I didn't know I had, I hope you can rest a little easier soon. I hope these words stir the hearts of our community and they push the barrel with me. Every pair of hands that pushes this barrel moves it a little further up the hill to where it needs to go, and I promise, when we're done, we can admire the view together.

Follow @hildanasr1 and maybe frigidwife and veryveryvomit too (they care about her just as much as I do) Vets: gaza-evacuation-funds #6 | bilal-salah0 | khanger | ana-bananya | a-shade-of-blue | dlxxv-vetted-donations

[soulofapatrick]

Always Her - Garrick Tavis x female reader 

Summary: You're sick of Garrick always choosing Violet over you because Xaden says so

Warnings: angst

Words: 2K

Notes: I hope this does the request sent justice and sorry for ant typos this hasn't been proof read

Y/N’s POV

The hallways are eerily quiet as I make my way back toward the Riders’ dorms, the cold stone walls amplifying the echo of my footsteps. Shadows pool in the corners, stretching long and heavy under the faint glow of mage lights. My stomach twists as I think of the untouched meal sitting on the table in my room. It’s gone cold by now, the once-perfect plans I had for Garrick and me unraveling yet again.

He didn’t show up.

Again.

I tell myself not to be surprised. I knew this would happen. Garrick has been distant for weeks now, and every time I try to reach him, to pull him back into us, he slips further away. Still, it doesn’t stop the simmering frustration from clawing up my spine as I round the corner.

That’s when I see him.

He’s sitting on the stone floor outside Violet’s door, his broad shoulders leaning against the wall. His arms rest casually on his bent knees, but I know better. His head is tilted back just enough to suggest he’s relaxed, but the tension radiating off him tells another story. He’s on high alert even now. Watching. Guarding. Protecting.

Always her.

My steps falter, anger sparking like a match struck too close to dry kindling. I pause for a moment, staring at him in disbelief, before the sharp echo of my footsteps announces my approach. His head snaps toward me, his dark eyes narrowing at the sound. At first, his expression is unreadable, that cool, professional mask he wears so well. But the second he catches sight of my face—stormy, unyielding—his shoulders tighten.

He knows.

He knows he’s in trouble.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” My voice is sharper than I intend as I stop in front of him, my arms crossing over my chest.

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Forgot what?”

The audacity.

“Are you serious, Garrick?” I snap, my voice rising. “The meal we planned! Weeks ago. You swore—swore—you’d make time for us, but here you are. Again. Camped outside Violet’s room like some guard dog.”

His jaw tightens as he pushes to his feet, the movement slow and deliberate. He towers over me, his height imposing in the dim corridor, but I don’t back down.

“I’m following orders,” he says evenly, though the edge in his voice betrays his irritation. “Xaden asked me to—”

“I don’t care what Xaden asked you to do!” I cut him off, my voice breaking with frustration. The words spill out faster than I can stop them, raw and unfiltered. “You’re so focused on her that you don’t even see what you’re doing to me! To us!”

“This isn’t about you,” he says firmly, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying to rein himself in.

I laugh, bitter and sharp, the sound echoing between us like a slap. “Isn’t it? Because it sure as hell feels like it’s about me when I’m constantly being pushed aside. Do you even realise how much you’ve been ignoring me? Or is Violet’s safety just more important than the promises you made to me?”

His eyes darken, frustration flashing like lightning across his face. “This is bigger than you and me,” he says, his voice rising slightly. “Violet’s not safe. Not after what happened to Liam. She needs someone looking out for her.”

“And that someone has to be you?” I step closer, my voice trembling with barely-contained anger. “Every second of every day? She’s not a helpless child, Garrick. She doesn’t need you to hold her hand and tuck her in at night!”

“You don’t understand,” he growls, his composure slipping.

“No, I do understand,” I snap, my fists clenching at my sides. “You think it’s your duty to carry everyone else’s burdens, to play the hero, and you don’t care who you hurt in the process. But guess what? I’m done being an afterthought. I’m done being the one left behind while you break every promise you’ve made to me.”

The air between us feels like it might shatter under the weight of my words. His mouth opens as if he wants to say something, but no sound comes out. For a moment, the only thing I can hear is my own ragged breathing.

I shake my head, my chest aching from the effort of holding back tears. “Forget it,” I whisper, the words hollow and final. Turning on my heel, I force my legs to move before he can stop me.

“Y/N,” Garrick calls after me, his voice rough and pleading.

I falter for the briefest of moments, but I don’t stop. Not this time.

Let him sit with the emptiness I’ve felt for weeks. Let him wonder what it means to be left behind.

By the time I reach my room, my vision blurs with tears. The weight in my chest feels unbearable, pressing down on me until I can barely breathe. I slam the door behind me, the sound echoing in the hollow silence, and collapse onto the floor. My hands shake as they press against my face, desperate to contain the flood of sobs I’ve been holding back for far too long. But the dam breaks anyway.

The tears come in heavy, wracking waves, each one a testament to the hurt and frustration that’s been building inside me. I clutch my knees to my chest, feeling as though the walls are closing in.

I don’t know how long I sit there, trembling and broken, before there’s a hesitant knock at the door. The sound barely registers through the storm of my emotions. I don’t answer. I can’t.

The knock comes again, softer this time, but I remain frozen. A moment later, the door creaks open. My heart stutters, but I keep my face buried in my hands. I don’t need to look to know who it is—I can feel his presence like a pulse in the air.

“Y/N.” Garrick’s voice is low and raw, his tone steeped in regret. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t respond. The effort to speak feels insurmountable. Instead, I stay hunched over, my shoulders shaking with the force of my grief.

He steps inside, his movements careful, almost hesitant. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing us in the same space, though the chasm between us feels immeasurable.

Garrick kneels in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. His hands hover in the air, uncertain. “I screwed up,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I know I did.”

His words hit a nerve, but I keep my head down, my tears falling freely.

“I’ve been so focused on protecting Violet,” he continues, each word weighted with guilt. “So caught up in trying to do the right thing for everyone else, that I stopped seeing what it was costing me. What it was costing us. And I hate that I’ve made you feel this way.”

His words are a balm and a fresh wound all at once. They dig deep, unearthing the raw ache inside me. “Do you even care, Garrick?” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Or am I just… another thing on your list of priorities?”

He inhales sharply, his hands finally settling gently on mine. His touch is warm, grounding, but it’s not enough to ease the ache in my chest.

“I care,” he says firmly, his voice steady despite the crack I can hear beneath it. “More than anything. You’re not just a priority—you’re everything to me. And I hate that I’ve made you feel otherwise.”

I lift my head then, my tear-streaked face meeting his. His storm-gray eyes are wide, almost frantic, as though he’s afraid I might disappear right in front of him.

“You can’t just say that, Garrick,” I choke out, my throat raw. “You have to prove it. I can’t keep doing this if I’m always going to come second.”

“I will prove it,” he says, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tighten around mine, a silent plea. “I’ll make this right. I don’t know how yet, but I will. I can’t lose you, Y/N. Not over this.”

The desperation in his voice gives me pause. I search his face, trying to decipher the truth in his words. His usual stoic mask is gone, replaced by an unguarded vulnerability that cuts through my defences.

“Okay,” I whisper after what feels like an eternity. “But this is your last chance, Garrick. Don’t make me regret it.”

Relief floods his expression, and before I can say anything else, he pulls me into his arms. His embrace is fierce, almost crushing, like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers. I let him hold me, my cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t care,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice quieter now, almost broken. “Because I do, Y/N. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

I pull back just enough to meet his gaze again, my hands still clutching the front of his shirt. His eyes are searching mine, filled with something raw and desperate, something that looks like it’s tearing him apart.

“Then why do you make it so damn hard to believe that?” I ask, my voice soft but no less cutting.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks away, as if he can’t bear the weight of my stare. “Because I don’t know how to balance it all,” he admits, his voice heavy with self-loathing. “I’ve always been the one who follows orders, who puts the mission first. And now… now I’m trying to figure out how to be the guy who puts you first, too. But I’m screwing it up.”

“You are,” I say bluntly, though there’s no venom in my voice anymore. “And it’s not just about Violet or Xaden. It’s about you deciding that what I need isn’t as important as what everyone else needs. That’s what hurts the most, Garrick. Feeling like I’m not worth the effort.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve better than that. You deserve better than me. But if you’ll let me, I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that you’re the most important thing in my world.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. My walls begin to crumble, brick by fragile brick, as I let myself hope.

“Words are easy, Garrick,” I say, my voice trembling. “Actions are harder. And I need to see that you mean it. I need more than promises right now.”

“I know,” he says, his hands cupping my face with a tenderness that steals my breath. “I’ll show you. I swear I’ll show you.”

Before I can respond, he leans in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s desperate and raw, filled with all the things he’s been unable to say. For a moment, I freeze, overwhelmed by the intensity of it. But then I melt into him, my hands fisting his shirt as I pour everything I’m feeling—hurt, love, anger, and hope—into that one moment.

When we finally break apart, we’re both gasping for air, our foreheads resting together.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

My heart stutters, and for a moment, I can’t speak. But then I let out a shaky breath, a small, tentative smile tugging at my lips. “I love you too, Garrick,” I whisper. “But you need to stop breaking my heart.”

“I will,” he promises, his lips brushing softly against my forehead. “I’ll prove it to you. Every day. For as long as you’ll let me.”

For the first time in a long time, I feel something like hope flicker to life in my chest. It’s fragile, uncertain, but it’s there.

And for now, that’s enough.

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

[zepskies]

AS TRADITION DICTATES

Pairing: Éomer x Reader 

Summary: Your marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark has been arranged in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor. The morning after the ceremony, your new husband continues to defy your expectations.

AN: I’ve been wanting to write something for Éomer for a while now, so here we go! Confession: this one-shot actually comes from an Éomer x OFC story I have fully outlined, called The Appeasement Bride. I adapted this snippet into a reader insert story.

Word Count: 1.7K

Posted on Patreon: 1/21/2025

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Spiciness, fluff, newlyweds trying to suss each other out lol.

You woke just after the dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon and filtering through the open window. Its light began to wash over your face and stir you from a deep, well-earned sleep.

Your hand slipped out from under your head and drifted over…and you frowned. Opening your eyes, you realized that your husband’s side of the bed was empty and cold. Already, it seemed, he didn’t care to be with you when you woke. Had you done something wrong?

Flashes of memory from the night before conjured in your mind; of the surprising carefulness in his calloused hands, of hot, sweat-slick skin against yours, and the rasp of his beard as his lips and deft fingers taught you more of pleasure.

A shiver ran down your spine, blooming some warmth between your legs. Surely, if you had displeased him, he would’ve told you so. Or maybe he was polite enough to withhold that from you, along with most of his other thoughts. Éomer was often so stoic, it was difficult for you to learn your husband, even before the wedding ceremony yesterday.

You had come to Rohan over a month ago, and in that time, you had been able to glean precious little about him other than the ones he seemed to value most: his sister, his cousin, his uncle, Théoden King, his country, and his horse.

Not that he told you any of these things in words. You saw it in his actions—by the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke to you and others with fairness and courtesy, not arrogance. You’d heard gossip of his infamous temper, but so far, you had not seen it.

Nor did you see him now.

Perhaps he had more pressing work to do. In these past few weeks, you saw a bit of how demanding his station could be, and you understood his duty to patrol the Riddermark as Third Marshal of these lands. However, if he could’ve just been courteous enough to wake you before he left—

The heavy door of the bed chamber opened to Éomer himself. He wore only breeches and boots, his wheat-blonde hair loose and unadorned down his back. You swallowed a surprised gasp and watched him from the bed, unconsciously bringing the fur blanket up to your shoulders.

He met you with a polite, “Good morning,” before he continued inside to stoke the fire. He held more kindling wood in his arms, and he laid it on the platform before the fireplace.

“Good morning,” you nodded, though your cheeks warmed in a blush at the sight of his bare chest (you remembered that slightly wooly patch well). The defined muscles of his shoulders and arms shifted with his movements.

You were also a little embarrassed for overthinking.

“You rose early,” you added belatedly, for lack of something better to say.

“I am accustomed to it,” he said.

He finished with the fire and stood. You couldn’t help the way he captured your gaze, his measured steps bringing him closer to the bed. You sat up to meet him, the furs draping from your body, covering only where you held the soft fabric over your breasts. His eyes were an interesting shade of green as they roamed over you.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

Somehow it was not what you were expecting, though it was perfectly agreeable. Your blush deepened.

“Very well, thank you.”

He nodded. Then, something almost hesitant passed through his gaze.

“I’ve drawn a bath for you, unless you prefer to rest longer,” he said.

You blinked. “Really?” That was a kindness you did not expect.

Éomer’s lips tugged upwards. He offered you his hand. Though you hesitated, you slipped your free hand into his. Instinctively you took the furs with you to cover yourself, your face warming down to your neck under the weight of his amused stare.

Your hair was a tangled mess along with the sheets remaining tousled on the bed, and you realized that your body was sore in places you had never felt so. He led you around a simple wooden partition to a wide bath that was built into the ground. Your eyes widened at the luxury of it.

You had noticed that Rohan largely valued comfort and efficiency over ornateness in their architecture, but it seemed they lavished some things with greater detail.

Éomer helped you step into the bath. He took the furs from you, still with that amused glint, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking note of your bare, supple form, what glimpse he was able to get before you lowered yourself into the steaming water. He had explored each and every lovely curve the night before, but you were lovelier to behold in the morning, he thought.

You looked up at him with some hesitance, but there was a question there that he thought he would like to answer.

“Have you already bathed?” you asked.

“Yes,” he nodded, ��I will leave you to your leisure. Breakfast will be brought up in a little while.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you,” you said.

Was that a note of disappointment in your tone, in the downturn of your face?

Éomer paused, but he did as he set out to do, leaving you to your bath in peace. He went over to his side of the bed to continue dressing himself, slipping a long shirt over his head that he tucked into his breeches. Though he tried not to let them, his thoughts of you remained.

Meanwhile, you relished in the hot water relieving your sore muscles (and other places). You washed and hummed a little tune to yourself, forgetting that you weren’t entirely alone, despite the partition.

By the time you left the bath, dried off and dressed in a heavy robe over a thin dressing gown, your new husband was already munching on bread and fruit and other good things that were brought up from the kitchens. He welcomed you to sit with him by the fire, where two wide chairs were draped with furs to make them comfortable. You joined him, and the tray of goods rested in between your seats.

“Do you have much to do?” you asked, while buttering a slice of bread. The crust was hard and somewhat sour, but the inside was soft and delicious.

“The only business I must attend to today is to remain kept with my wife,” Éomer said. He glanced up at you, once again capturing your gaze. “As tradition dictates.”

By the Valar, was there no end to how you blushed around this man? You only couldn’t tell if being kept by you was a duty he relished in.

You almost didn’t hear him when he added, “Tomorrow we will see your family off. They ride back to Gondor.”

Belatedly, you nodded. Éomer saw the note of melancholy cross your face.

“I am sure it is…a sooner parting than you would like,” he said.

You offered him a rueful smile. “Yes, but…not as difficult a goodbye as I thought it would be.”

One of his brows rose. “Why is that?”

Drawing in a deep breath, you mustered a little courage to answer him honestly.

“I did not know what to expect when I arrived in Rohan, but its lands have beauty of its own. Its people have integrity and courage, and its noble house is noble indeed,” you said. A small, true smile brightened you when you looked at him. “It is honorable, and kind.”

Éomer blinked in surprise. On his face it was still muted, but it was there. Your words touched him. He cleared his throat, for some reason finding his face a bit warm. In his eyes, you continued to be a wonder. He too hadn’t known what to expect from a woman of Gondor. He knew what many in your country thought of the people of Rohan—simple folk at best, and horse-wild barbarians at worst. With you, he’d mostly expected a haughty, spoiled brat.

He’d never been more willing to be proven wrong. In fact, the more he learned about you, the more beautiful you became.

He reached over, almost hesitant to cover your hand with his larger one. He was suddenly very conscious of his rougher palm in contrast with your soft skin.

“Regardless of how we were entered into this arrangement, I stand by my vows,” he said. “I will honor and protect you, and do my utmost to make you comfortable here in my home.” 

You smiled. Your hand turned under his to curl your fingers around his palm.

“I will also honor and protect you in whatever way I am able. And I will do my utmost for your house, for it is now mine as well,” you replied.

Éomer brushed his thumb over the back of your hand. He rose out of his seat enough to lean over, and he kissed you. It was sincere, but all too brief. You leaned towards him after he broke away, left wanting more as your eyes slid open.

Recognizing that look of desire stirred his own, deep in the pit of his stomach. He tugged on your hand meaningfully and guided you out of your chair, over to him. You tentatively sat across his lap, uttering a laugh when you slid backwards and landed against his chest. Your hand flew there to steady yourself. Éomer clasped it against his heart and claimed you in a deeper, rougher kiss, one fueled by a craving he couldn’t name.

You held his bearded face and hummed sweetly into his mouth. You matched his fervor, your fingers slipping into his hair and instinctively tightening a stronghold. He groaned in response. His hands, large and strong, moved over your side and down your back, while the other squeezed the supple flesh of your hip through your thin gown.

Soon, it wasn’t enough. He slid his arms around your waist and under your knees before he stood with you in his arms. He smiled at your squeal of surprise. It was the first real smile you’d ever seen upon his face. It delighted you to be the one who put it there.

He carried you to back his bed. Our bed.

But still, it was only a matter of lust, if twined with mutual respect and…curiosity.

You did not love him. (Yet.)

AN: Love me some blonde, medieval cowboy Karl Urban. 😘💜

⋆˙⟡ Read the Sequel: A Subtle Invitation

Summary: “You needn’t be so formal,” Éomer said. His lips moved against the shell of your ear. “I am Éomer, especially when we are alone.”

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

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[sunandflame]

Where Flame Rests

When someone who’s always protected finally lets themselves be protected, it’s a sacred kind of softness.

Warnings: none, just fluff

Word Count: 1338

Pairing: Kyojuro Rengoku x Wife!Reader

crossposted on AO3

a/n: the beautiful header art is from the amazing and sweet @erexart who also gave me this super cute request idea. I am sorry for the other ideas but this one just made my heart flutter and I had to write this. And I had so much fun while doing that I had to turn it into a fic and not drabble! So thank you so much for that🥹❤️

The sun had dipped low in the sky, filtering through the shoji screen in streaks of amber and gold — the kind of light that made shadows stretch and warmth linger just a little longer across the wooden floorboards.

You sat with your back propped against the wall of the engawa, knees loosely bent beneath the familiar weight of his head in your lap.

Kyojuro’s hair had grown unruly these past months.

The wild length of it spilled like fire over your thighs, tangled in places where sleep or sweat or battle-weary days had woven little knots of neglect. It was still beautiful — golden silk ignited with vermillion tips — but it had taken on the unpolished look of someone who was no longer performing for the world. No longer standing tall on the battlefield, blade in hand, flame in his voice.

He didn’t need to anymore.

You dipped your fingers into the strands gently, lifting them away from his neck, trying not to tug too hard where the worst of the tangles had taken root. You felt him shift slightly, a soft exhale brushing against the fabric of your yukata.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. Or, tried to. It barely registered as a twitch.

“No… it feels nice.” His voice was low and warm, like kindling on embers — no longer roaring, but still unmistakably Kyojuro.

There had been a time when he wouldn’t let you help.

Not out of pride, never that, but because he didn’t want to burden you. His arms, though still strong, no longer moved like they once did. His grip failed him on bad days, and the old wound near his ribs made even the simplest stretches feel like drawn blades against his skin. It was humbling for him, who once stood unshaken before Upper Moons.

But lately, he’d started letting go more.

He leaned into your help. He leaned into you.

And tonight, he’d let his knees fold beneath him on the tatami and rest his head in your lap without asking — just tilted his head with that quiet look in his eyes, and you understood.

The brush glided through his hair now with more ease. You detangled the worst of it with slow fingers, working your way through flame-colored lengths that gleamed in the fading light. Your hands knew his hair the way your heart knew his rhythm — slow now, less rushed. But still steady. Still warm.

He hummed once, a soft sound of contentment, before going utterly still.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Instead, you leaned forward just slightly, brushing your lips against the crown of his head, where the heat of him was strongest, and stayed there.

His breathing had evened out.

Your fingers stilled where they had been combing slowly through the final strands, and you smiled to yourself, holding still like the moment might shatter if you so much as breathed too loud.

Kyojuro Rengoku — your husband, your flame — had fallen asleep in your lap.

The weight of him was warm, familiar. Trusting.

You rested one hand gently across his shoulder, the other still buried in his hair.

And for once, you allowed yourself to be the strong one. To protect him from the cold draft seeping in through the paper doors. To run your fingers through fire without fear.

To keep him safe — as he had done for so long — here, in the quiet he finally deserved.

He stirred in the warmth of half-sleep, not yet ready to leave the quiet.

There was a pressure beneath his cheek — soft, warm — and fingers still threaded through his hair like whispers. His body registered the weight and presence of you before his mind did. He knew it in the way a tree knows sunlight.

You were there.

His wife.

His beloved.

He stayed still, not wanting to break the peace that wrapped around him like a woven blanket. There were things he remembered vaguely: the gentle tug of a brush in his hair, your voice asking if it hurt, the faintest kiss against the crown of his head. And then, nothing. Sleep had pulled him under like the tide.

It was rare for him to fall asleep like that. So quickly. So trustingly.

But your lap had felt like home. And your hands… gods, your hands.

They had once trembled when touching his wounds, when caring for him after Akaza. But now they moved with the confidence of love — steady and patient. Not afraid of his pain. Not afraid of him.

He opened his eyes slowly.

You were looking down at him.

Noticing, maybe, that he was awake now — but you didn’t speak. You just smiled.

His breath caught in his throat.

There was a softness to your expression that belonged only to these stolen, quiet moments. Hair loosely pulled back, eyes half-lidded with peace, fingers still tangled in his hair like you’d never stopped brushing it — like you didn’t want to.

He had seen you bloodied in battle. Crying in grief. Laughing in celebration.

But like this — serene, devoted, gently watchful — you were something sacred.

He wanted to thank you. Say your name. But the words didn’t come.

His body didn’t move.

He didn’t want to disturb the way you looked at him now. As though he wasn't a retired Flame Hashira with a body that betrayed him some days. As though he was still whole, still strong — still worthy of this kind of love.

A hand rose, slowly, from where it rested at your side. He reached for you — not with urgency, but reverence — and let his fingers graze along the hem of your sleeve.

You looked down, tilting your head. “You’re awake?”

He nodded, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Only just,” he whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “I didn’t mean to… fall asleep like that.”

“You needed it,” you murmured. And then, quieter still: “I’m glad you let yourself rest.”

Kyojuro closed his eyes again.

The pulse of love inside his chest was slow, but steady — a kind of heat that didn’t roar like fire, but glowed with a gentler burn. The kind that stayed through the night.

He moved his hand to rest over your knee and gave it a small, grateful squeeze. “You’re so good to me…”

You brushed your fingers through his bangs again, tucking them away from his face. “Of course I am.”

His throat tightened.

So much had been taken from him — the speed of his sword, the power in his arms, the battles that once gave his life shape. And yet… here, in your lap, wrapped in the scent of sakura and late summer wind, he had never felt richer.

He had everything.

Everything he had ever fought to protect — love, warmth, a place to lay his head — lived here, in the curve of your smile and the cradle of your lap.

“I think I could stay here forever,” he murmured. And in a voice made soft by the weight of emotion he rarely let show, he added, “I love you.”

You bent slowly, gently, and kissed his forehead — and if he hadn't been so still, he might’ve trembled from it.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I love you too.”

And for once, he let himself believe it fully.

[daryltwdixon]

Chapter 6

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || fluff, this chapter is nsfw, Pre-Boston QZ, Stockholm Syndrome, slow burn, raider!joel, captor!joel, a little bit of dark!joel, homestead, kidnapping, dark themes, morally gray comfort, slow burn, mentions of violence and death, referenced abusive family || notes: again thank you for your love and patience on this!! I daydream about these two all day and then get stuck when writing them because I want to do them justice :') enjoy!

You made yourself busy for the rest of the day.

Normally, most of your chores were done by midday—garden tended, laundry rinsed (now that you had more than just the clothes on your back) and hung, water hauled from the well—but you found ways to keep moving. Anything to stay out of the house. Anything to keep your hands occupied while your mind refused to be still.

You weeded the front path for the second time that week, even though it didn’t really need it. You pulled up overgrowth around the porch, tried to flatten the wild patches into something that looked intentional. Homely. Like a place someone might come home to.

Samson followed close behind, his big paws thudding softly over the grass, tongue lolling as he sniffed the air, circled you, then flopped in the shade nearby. You swore he could sense that restless current in your chest, that burning prickle at the back of your neck that hadn’t left since the morning.

Since you’d seen him.

You hadn’t meant to. God knows you weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But the image of him, there, in the bedroom you shared now, door just barely ajar, sitting on the side of the bed was hard to shake now that you had seen it. The way you had watched his hand moving in a rhythm that skyrocketed your pulse, his mouth slack and breath catching in his throat. And worse…so much worse was the way he had whispered your name. Like it had been clawed out of him. 

But you made sure to leave before he could see you, before whatever haze had fogged your brain could freeze you in place. You turned fast, heart in your throat, catching your breath in the kitchen before stumbling out the front door, splashing cold water on your face from the well.

Even now, hands covered in dirt and scraped raw from wiry weeds, you couldn’t stop seeing it. Couldn’t stop feeling it.

And it only got worse when Joel finally made an appearance onto the porch. You heard him, hell, felt his presence before your eyes caught the movement. 

When your eyes dared to look over at him, your stomach twisted. He looked so…normal. His worn boots, faded and stained denim jeans and plaid shirt with the rolled up sleeves. But now, you saw more. Things you’re not sure you would’ve noticed before. Because now there was a flush blotching at the column of his throat where his skin met his collar. His eyes found yours across the yard with a flicker of something more than recognition. Something like the embers of coals at the end of a bonfire, smoldering low and warm. 

You dropped your gaze immediately, wrestling with a patch of stubborn grass near the front step. 

“You got the whole yard torn up,” he eventually said, his voice a bit quieter than usual.

You didn’t look up at him though, “Thought we needed a path.”

There was a pause. You could picture him in your mind’s eye so easily—standing there, nodding, eyes scanning the land like he always did.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “looks good.”

You hummed a non-response, and soon you heard the screen door creak shut again as he went back inside. You exhaled, wiping the back of your hand against your sweaty forehead, only then realizing how tightly your hands had curled into fists.

“A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green. The…the water is warm too, for it has s-slipped twinklin’ over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool…”

Your voice was barely above a whisper, eyes flicking across the blurred, water-warped lines. You gripped the fragile copy of Of Mice and Men tighter in your hands, the spine cracking faintly as your shoulders readjusted against the headboard for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

“…on one s-side of the river the golden foothill slopes curve up to the strong and rocky Gabilan Mountains, but…but on the v-valley side the water is lined with trees—willows fresh and green with every spring–”

The sound of your legs shifting over the bedspread was deafening in the stillness, skin brushing skin and itchy fabric in the quiet hush of candlelight. It made you falter, your voice catching on the next word as your eyes skimmed the page but didn’t see it. Then a voice broke through the silence, low and rough and startling in its closeness.

“You okay?”

Joel’s voice broke the disturbing loud silence of the room. You thought he’d fallen asleep long ago, unmoving beside you. But when you looked over, one of his eyes was open, peering up at you. His arms were tucked behind his head, elbows bent wide, the thin pillow beneath him flattened and bunched up where it sagged under his head.

“F-fine,” you answered quickly, your voice breaking beneath the weight of his one eyed stare. His brow twitched, just a little as he just kept watching as you turned back to your book, trying to will your heartbeat to slow.

But your eyes barely landed on the page again before they drifted sideways again. To him.

The slope of his nose. The shadowed dip of his throat. The harsh scar carved across the bridge of it. And his mouth, so soft and full, partially under behind that dark, peppered beard you couldn’t stop thinking about. About how it felt against your skin when he kissed you. How it tickled and scratched against your sensitive flesh. It gave you goosebumps even now— how warm he felt when he was that close.

The soft cotton of his shirt clung slightly at the collarbone, wrinkled and worn. He hadn’t gotten under the covers yet, and the candle beside the bed casted its dim, flickering light across the soft skin of his abdomen, the tufts of dark hair just visible where his shirt had ridden up and those old cotton pants slouched low on his hips.

Then he shifted, and your gaze shot back to his face only to find both of his eyes were open now. Fixed on you.

Your breath caught, and you whipped your head back to the book, holding it like a shield.

“--c-carrying in their lower l-leaf, uh, junctures the d-debris of the winter's flooding; and sycamores with mottled, w-white, recumbent limbs and…um, and branches that arch over the pool.”

You were muttering, tripping over your words, you knew that, but really were trying to refocus, yet the words were just lines and loops now. Useless.

You licked your lips without thinking, and he must have noticed, because the silence shifted, and he spoke again.

“You sure you’re alright?” Joel asked, quieter now, but there was something unmistakable in his voice. A teasing edge.

“I said I’m fine,” you replied, sharper than maybe you should’ve been at his amused tone. Your thighs pressed together again, knees colliding as you pulled them up closer to your body. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until it was too late.

“What’s got you all squirmy tonight?” Joel asked. His voice wrapped around you, thick and slow like molasses.

“Not squirming.”

He didn’t argue or tease anymore, but instead, his hand reached forward, fingers sending electric impulses through yours as they brushed against your hand where you held your book. He pulled it gently from your grip, folding it closed with care and setting it aside. 

“C’mon,” he murmured, warm light flickering against his cheekbones as he looked at you with sincerity, “talk to me.”

You curled your knees in closer, wrapping your arms around them as your back settled against the headboard. The space between you crackled, your throat tightening with the words you wanted to say. 

“I…” you cleared your already dry throat. “I saw…”

He waited, humming his gentle coaxing for you to continue.

You swallowed hard, eyes shifting to fix on him.

“I saw you.”

Joel didn’t move. But you were watching closely, watching every little shift in his face. You caught the way his mouth tightened, the faint pink rising along the tips of his ears. Subtle, maybe. Easy to miss in the dim light.

“What do y’mean?” he asked, voice low and steady, and the pink was moving to his cheeks as he asked it.

You hesitated, then forced the words out. “When I didn’t know where you were. I… I came upstairs.”

Just as quickly as something passed over his expression, it was gone. His shoulders tensed as he sat up a little straighter, arms lowering from behind his head to brace against the mattress.

“What exactly did you see, sweetheart?” he let out a deep exhale as he situated himself up.

Your eyes moved away again, back to the end of the bed, chin resting on your knees as you hugged them closer to your torso. Your thighs were molded together but it still wasn’t enough to ease the pulsing you felt. So foreign. So…strange.

“You were…” Your throat tightened. “You were sitting on the bed. I didn’t mean to look, I didn’t. I just—I walked by and the door was cracked and I—”

You stopped yourself before it turned into rambling. Before it sounded like an apology you weren’t even sure you owed him.

Joel didn’t speak right away. He shifted on the bed, leaning back, palms resting on his knees. He exhaled slow through his nose, jaw flexing once before his gaze slid away. “You ain’t in trouble,” he said after a beat, voice rough but soft. “Just… wasn’t expectin’ you to say that.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight.

“It made me feel…” You paused, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. “Weird.”

You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face now, “Weird how?”

You licked your lips. “Like my body got all… warm. Hot. And uncomfortable. And tingly.” The word sounded ridiculous out loud. You stared at your toes, face warm. “I didn’t know what to do with it. I…I still don’t.”

Joel shifted on the mattress. You could sense it, the stiffness in his shoulders, the subtle tension in his breath. But when he spoke again, his voice was calm and measured. Always kind now.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he said gently. “It’s just your body… reactin’. Don’t gotta be embarrassed.”

You glanced over at him. His face was carefully neutral, but the blush creeping up his neck said otherwise.

“How do you… make it go away?” you asked, nearly a whisper, “it hurts.”

He blinked, eyebrows twitching, and for a second, you thought he hadn’t heard you. But then his eyes found yours again, sharper this time. Curious. Cautious.

His voice was careful. “You never… tried to deal with it yourself?”

You shook your head. “Not really. Once… I had…” You swallowed. “There was a boy. Back before… he was part of the group my—” you faltered, mouth suddenly dry. “Our families used to…trade or work with each other. And he and I messed around a little. But when my father found out…” Your eyes met Joel’s, not finishing the story. You didn’t think you had to.

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then you added, almost to yourself, “I’m not…untouched. But I’ve never really, I don’t know, seen the point in all of it. Not until today.”

Joel’s voice dropped. “And what changed today?”

You swallowed. Your voice was barely a breath as you told him: “You said my name.”

Something passed between you then—something hot and slow and tingling with electricity.

Joel’s eyes softened at the edges, but his shoulders stayed tense. He exhaled through his nose and shifted closer. His hand reached out, stopped just short of yours. “You trust me?”

You nodded. It was as easy as breathing. Whatever hesitation you might’ve had days ago was gone with the girl who might’ve cowered at his outstretched hand.

He patted the cotton of his legs. “Okay. C’mere.”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. It wasn’t the first time he’d beckoned you closer. As if it was getting more and more natural for you to give in, to come to him. And so, you crawled toward him now, settling between his thighs. He reached for a pillow and tucked it behind his back, leaning against the headboard, then gently pulled you back with him until your spine rested against his chest.

“You tell me if this gets too much,” he murmured near your ear, his warm breath sending goosebumps to rise over your flesh.

Your only answer was another nod, your voice completely taken by the sudden closeness. Your fingers twitched where they hovered over his legs, uncertainty flooding your senses.

“Breathe,” he said gently, “just relax.”

You exhaled long and low before letting your hands rest against his thighs, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. Joel was quiet as his hands found your skin, so gentle and warm as he began to learn the shape of you. 

I ain't gonna touch you. Not unless you ask.

You weren’t sure what brought the memory back. Maybe it was the way his touch now came with warmth instead of warning, maybe it was how fast everything had changed in the quiet weeks since. How different he was. How different you were. 

Because you were hardly the same girl who had screamed and clawed at him, that girl who spat through cracked lips and flinched from his reach. 

The bruises had faded. Your cheeks had filled out, warmed with color from real meals and something that resembled a life. One that felt worth living.

You weren’t begging for freedom anymore. There were no more plans, no more escape routes scratched into your thoughts. No more counting the days. Because now, all you wanted was to be closer. Your body ached for it, your mind softening every time he was near.

His thumb moved in slow circles just above your hip, not wandering, but steady. A touch that was meant to soothe but made your stomach flutter nonetheless.

You weren’t afraid of his hands anymore.

Now, as you shifted slightly against him, your thighs pressed together on instinct. He felt the way your breath caught, the way your shoulders pulled tight, and he only held you a little closer in response.

“Still okay?” he asked, his lips close to your jaw now.

You sucked in a breath, trying to steady yourself, and nodded, smaller this time. “Mhm.”

“Talk to me,” he said gently.

“I just… I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, voice a whisper.

“That’s alright, baby,” he said, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw, “Don’t gotta do nothin’, just watch.”

You nodded again, uncertain if you had any more voice as his hand on your waist moved again, gliding over the front of your stomach, knuckles brushing up beneath the hem of your shirt. He paused there, warm palm resting just above your navel. The fabric had bunched slightly, and you could feel every ridge of his calluses against your skin. 

“Can I?” he asked.

You nodded. This time, without pause.

His hand continued upward, slow and reverent. He wasn’t searching for anything. Just learning. His fingers brushed the underside of your breast, then stopped. Another pause. 

“Okay?” he whispered.

“Joel,” you exhaled, shoulders rolling back with impatience, “please.”

He pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, lips warm where the strap of your shirt had fallen. You could feel the smile that pulled at his lips against your skin, small and hidden. 

When his broad, calloused hand cupped you, your breath hitched. Not because it was bold or rough—but maybe because it wasn’t. His touch was patient, like he had all the time in the world and he’d wait until your skin stopped trembling and your ribs stopped shaking.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, lips still brushing your skin along the top of your shoulder. “Sweet girl. Let me show you.”

Your mind was caught between the heat of his hands and the weight of the names he kept whispering. Sweetheart. Baby. Sweet girl. Each one made your head spin, left your chest aching in ways you didn’t know how to explain. You’d said such cruel things to him all those days ago—sharp, angry words thrown like stones—and still, here he was. His touch was steady. His voice was gentle. He called you sweet like it was the only truth he knew.

Your eyes followed his movement, blinking down at the stretch of fabric over his knuckles as his hand curved to fit around the fullness of you beneath your shirt, and he squeezed, just ever so slightly, and you gasped. The sound pulled a soft rumbling from his throat, and a sudden warmth pooled even worse in your lower abdomen. His breath was coming in heavier now, the other hand now moving to your waist to anchor you to him. 

“T-take it off, please.” you said.

You thought maybe you’d be embarrassed, to be begging him like this. To be this open about the need growing between you. But now that his warm, broad hands were all over you, you couldn’t help it. The ache that pulsed between your legs lit your body like a fuse for him.

He didn’t hesitate, helping you pull the shirt over your head and setting it aside, his hands returning immediately. His palm spanned your waist, warm and steady, and he breathed out as if he needed a moment to take it all in.

“So pretty,” he said, voice hushed. He dipped his head, lips trailing along your neck, making you arch back into him without thinking.

You didn’t let yourself linger on the words for too long.

Pretty.

You weren’t sure when the last time was that someone had called you that and meant it. Or maybe no one ever had. Not your family, that you knew for certain.

Not when your skin would split and bruise beneath their hands, when your hair was tangled and your mouth bled. But now, beneath his hands, Joel’s, with his voice like that, you believed it for a second. 

He held you tighter, his fingers kneading you until they found the soft peaks of your breasts, taking the nipples between his digits so gently. Like he already knew where your body wanted him. You inhaled sharply, a shaky breath that melted out of you as his thumbs swept gently over sensitive skin. 

Everything was so quiet except your breathing, the soft rasp of it mingling with his. His lips hovered near your ear, his voice a low murmur that sent a ripple down your spine.

"That's it," he said. "Doin’ so good for me, baby."

The praise settled over you like a warm blanket, melting away what little nerves still clung to the corners of your thoughts. You weren't shy anymore. You weren’t uncertain. You just felt... wanted. Held.

He didn’t rush. Just breathed with you, deep and quiet, like he was syncing himself to the rhythm of your body. You didn’t think it was because he thought you were fragile, but because he knew what it meant for you to be touched like this and not flinch. No more pulling away, no more unease. Instead, you were arching and pushing back into his chest, breathing deeply at the feeling of him so thick and real against you. There was no mistaking the feeling at the base of your spine, something that sat heavy and rigid against you. It only made the ache between your legs so much worse, feeling it. Feeling him.

One of his hands slipped from your waist, trailing down your stomach with quiet intent. The rough pads of his fingertips stirred your skin into fluttering sparks, soft and ticklish and impossibly warm. Had you always been this sensitive? It felt like your body had been waiting for this—him—for longer than you could admit. Every brush of skin ignited something sharp and shivery beneath the surface. Your lips parted on instinct, tongue darting out to wet them, breath held like you were afraid to exhale and break the spell. 

He didn’t continue his descent into your cotton sleeping pants though, but instead massaged his palm down your thigh, coaxing your leg to fall open over his, and then the other. 

His breath was warm against your ear, your jaw, the column of your throat, “Tell me how you felt,” he murmured, “when you saw me.”

“I told you–”

“Tell me again.” His teeth grazed your ear, the gentlest bite, then just enough pressure to make your whole body jump. A little sound escaped you, sharp and startled, like the breath had been knocked from your lungs.

Your hands reached for him without thinking. One gripped the wrist still spread across your chest, anchoring you in place. The other dug into the muscle of his thigh beside you, trying to hold onto something solid.

“I felt…” you swallowed, “I was…confused. At first.” 

He hummed in understanding, not pushing or rushing you to go on. His hand cupped under your knee and pulled your leg so it hung over his outstretched leg, spreading you further. You obeyed and followed suit with your other leg, forcing your body to fully recline against him. 

“B-but you…” you started, then faltered, your voice catching in your throat. You sucked in a shaky breath, your fingers tightening around his wrist. “You looked like you were in pain. But not the bad kind. Like—like it hurt to feel that good.”

Joel didn’t say anything at first, but his lips brushed your temple, his breath steady even as you felt the way his chest rose against your back. His hand slid slowly along your thigh, gently holding you open, his fingers dipping into the flesh of your inner thigh, making you subconsciously push your knees wider for him. Inviting him. Needing him.

“And it…” you blinked slowly, watching his hand carefully move up your thigh, “It felt like my blood was on fire. I wanted to feel it too. To feel it…w-with you. I didn’t know it could feel like that, like I would ever feel like that.”

His nose brushed the curve of your ear, and you felt the shape of his smile just before he pressed his mouth beneath it—soft, not smug. There was no teasing in it. Just something quiet. Maybe something grateful. And proud.

“And now?” he asked.

You nodded, barely. The motion was tight, like your body didn’t trust itself to move too much.

“Worse now,” you breathed.

“Where?”

The question landed deep in your stomach, and lower. It seemed to pulse in the air around you. You felt your thigh twitch beneath his palm as it moved higher—still slow, still careful. His touch wasn’t searching. It was listening. Curious, yes. But not impatient. His fingers, all roughness and warmth, stopped just shy of where you burned for him. The air felt thinner there, like the heat coming off your skin was something he could see.

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers shook where they dug into his thigh. But then you reached for him. You lifted your hand and found his, large and steady and waiting on your leg. You curled your fingers around his wrist, then slid down to his hand, guiding him.

Your breath trembled in your chest as you moved him to your center, pressing his fingers where you wanted him most. It took everything not to pull away from the weight of being seen like that.

“Here,” you said, barely more than a breath.

Your hand looked so small, resting on top of his. His palm spread over you, warm and solid, the heel of it against your mound, his fingers brushing the damp cotton between your thighs. The contact was almost nothing, but it sent shockwaves of something through you. Something like need and want and hunger. 

Something you never felt allowed to ask for. 

“Here?” he echoed.

You swallowed hard. Your hips twitched, just barely, a subtle press upward into his palm that gave him everything he needed.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He hummed in understanding, the sound low and steady in his chest, vibrating against your back like a lullaby turned electric. The warmth of it traveled straight through your spine.

His hand slipped away, and you almost whined at the loss, already missing the heat of his knuckles beneath your palm. But then you felt the careful glide of his fingertips at your waistband, a pause there in quiet question. Your breath caught. Every nerve was alive under the brush of his rough fingers, the contrast of calloused skin against your soft belly making you twitch. Not in fear. Not in doubt. You hoped he could feel it. That he could tell it wasn’t rejection—but anticipation.

He moved his hand lower then, more confident, tugging gently at the waistband until he slid beneath it, fingers traveling freely right to where you asked him to be. Where you ached and pulsed and craved. 

The first thing you noticed was the thickness of his digits. Rough with years of hard work and survival, now dragging over skin that had never been touched like this before. His fingers moved slowly, unhurried, pressing into the wetness that had gathered between your thighs that had gathered while you fidgeted and tried to keep from falling apart. 

You gasped like the air had been knocked from your lungs. Not from pain, but from the gentleness of it, the unbearable tenderness that nearly tickled. Two fingers slipped through your slick, parting you with a touch so careful it felt almost sacred. They teased up and down, brushing just slightly over your bundle of nerves, then back down again. He didn’t rush. Didn’t press harder. Just kept his rhythm steady, devastating in its patience.

“Shouldn’t be lettin’ an old man like me touch you like this, baby.” he muttered, his breath wrecked and warm against your neck. You jolted against him, and your hands found his arm, gripping tight like you needed something to hold onto before you floated out of your body.

“Next time you feel that ache, this is what you do, alright?”

You shook your head before he could finish, your breath catching in your throat with another pass of his fingers.

“No?” he said with a soft, breathless laugh, part surprise, part pleasure.

“Wa–want you.” you whispered, fingers digging into his arm, “Don’t care t-that you’re… older.”

A low groan rumbled from his chest. Then his mouth was back on your ear, teeth catching the lobe, tongue tracing over it with slow, heated teasing. You could feel him rigid against your lower back, straining through his clothes. But he didn’t push. Didn’t take. He just held you, steady and open, his hand between your legs like he had always belonged there.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and quiet. “Next time you feel like this, you come find me.”

You nodded, lips parting around a broken moan as he circled that sensitive spot again, more firmly this time. Your back arched without permission. The tension inside you was tight, hot, unbearable.

His other hand never left your chest.

It cradled you, the heel of his palm warm over your breast, fingers curled gently around the curve like he wanted to hold your heartbeat in his hand. His thumb brushed softly across your nipple in slow, grounding strokes that had you gasping anew, nerves pulled tight and raw from both sides now.

The rhythm between your legs stayed steady, each slow circle of his fingers more devastating than the last. You were slick and trembling, your body drawn so tight you thought you might split apart. His mouth found the curve of your jaw, then lower, lips dragging over the skin of your throat in open-mouthed kisses.

His fingers moved with unbearable patience. He circled you, again and again until you couldn’t tell whether you were holding back or being held together by him alone.

Then, with a murmured hush against your throat—“It’s alright”—he shifted lower.

You barely had time to breathe before you felt it.

The first press of his finger, thick and careful, slipping into you with a slow, steady push that had your entire body going still. Your walls clenched around him, instinctive and tight, and he stilled there, giving you time, letting you feel the stretch, the shape of him inside you.

You felt him breathing you in.

His lips skimmed your collarbone, your shoulder, the underside of your jaw. He kissed every inch like it was something sacred, something his, and with every press of his mouth, the fire in your belly climbed higher, coiling tight and hungry and aching to be let loose.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured against your skin. He didn’t sound smug. He sounded wrecked.

You couldn’t answer. Your hands scrambled for purchase, clinging to his muscled arm like it might tether you to the earth.

His fingers pushed into you again, deeper this time, slower, curling up before pulling back just enough to feel the friction of your walls clench around him. The wet sound of it — of you — was filthy and beautiful, and he didn’t stop. Didn’t stop kissing you, didn’t stop touching you as you climbed up the foreign ascent to bliss.

“Gonna take care of you,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear again. “Let me.”

You nodded frantically, body rocking helplessly against his hand, hips chasing the friction he gave so generously. He cupped your breast in his palm, full and heavy, squeezing gently as his thumb teased your nipple in time with the pulsing strokes between your legs.

Your breath broke into gasps. Your thighs tightened around his wrist. The heat in you was rising sharp and fast now, no longer a slow burn but a wave cresting at full height.

“Joel,” you whimpered, breathless.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, hand working you faster now, lips pressing firm into the hollow of your throat. “Do you feel that? Ever felt that before?”

“N-no– I don’t think–oh!” 

The world tunneled to nothing but his hand, his mouth, the low groan that tore through his chest as he felt you clench around his fingers, your body seizing with a cry that broke you open. Your whole body clenched hard around him, your muscles locking as you let out a sound you’d never heard from yourself before. It was raw. Guttural. Like your body had waited your whole life for this one moment and didn’t know how to contain it.

You’d never felt anything like it. You didn’t know you could.

He didn’t let up. Didn’t pull away. His fingers stayed deep inside you, moving just enough to draw every wave out of you, and his mouth never left your skin. He whispered something against your jaw, something low and quiet and maybe your name, but it was lost beneath the roaring in your ears.

You didn’t know when it ended.

When the trembling slowed, your body went soft against him, boneless and spent. Joel was still holding you, his arm a solid anchor around your ribs, his hand resting low between your thighs, not teasing anymore—just there. Warm and steady.

He kissed your cheek. Your temple. The sweat-damp hair stuck to your skin.

When he finally eased his hand from between your thighs, he didn’t let go of you completely. He rested it on your bare hip, fingers splayed gently over the curve of you, still damp with your slick. The absence of his touch left a hollow ache, but the way he held you after, so tender and reverent, made you feel fuller than before.

His breath skimmed your ear, low and soft. “How do you feel?”

You let out a quiet hum, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “Mmm…”

He smiled against your neck, “Think it’s time for sleep.”

Your fingers trailed along his thigh, lazy, reluctant to let him go. “What about you?”

But before he could answer, Samson’s bark cracked through the quiet.

You both went still. You had forgotten about the mutt in your moment of tangled limbs and shared breaths. 

But the dog’s warning wasn’t playful or curious. It wasn’t the whine he often made when squirrels scurried up trees in quick escape. It was sharp and vicious, the kind of bark that didn’t carry up the stairs for just anything.

He let out another snarl—low, guttural, full of threat.

Joel’s entire body tensed behind you. The warmth in the room vanished in a breath, as though someone had pulled a curtain shut on it.

He was already moving.

“Stay here,” he muttered, voice suddenly clipped, already reaching into the drawer beside the bed as he stood up. The revolver clicked as he checked the chamber, then snapped it shut with finality.

Your throat went dry as he disappeared down the hall.

You sat up, still flushed, heart pounding in your ribs, pulling the blanket over your bare chest. The sudden silence after Samson’s growl was deafening, like even the house itself was holding its breath.

The ache between your legs hadn’t faded, but now it was eclipsed by a new kind of tension. Something sharp and cold as stone.

Fear.

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[diaryofavillainwhore]

— Corrupt Me Softly

She smiled too easily. That’s the first thing he noticed about her.

In a city choked with smoke and rot, she was all softness and light. The kind of girl who bent to help a bleeding stranger. Who picked flowers from the cracks in the pavement. Who still clapped when pro heroes gave speeches and said things like “We’ll protect you.”

It was fucking laughable. Pathetic. He hated girls like that. He wanted girls like that. No, he wanted her.

Dabi first saw her during a league attack gone wrong. Her arms were wrapped around a sobbing child, blood on her hands, eyes wide and too brave. She looked up and saw him through the fire. His face was half hidden by staples and shadow, but he saw her clearly. That beautiful soft face, the big eyes. And what she didn’t do. What she should’ve done. She didn’t scream or beg. She watched him with unblinking eyes… and that was it.

He should’ve turned her into kindling. Should’ve reduced her to bones and ash, like the rest of the meatbags in the way. But something about her made him pause for a second. And in that second, the idea planted itself like a spark on dry wood.

What would someone like her sound like when she cried for him?

She didn’t even know his name, not really. She had heard rumors about the league of villains and its members. But he was like whispers in the smoke.

And he followed her every day. Sat on rooftops with a cigarette between his teeth, watching her go about her sunshine life. She wore skirts that floated when she walked. Took care of stray cats. Gave money to buskers. Laughed with her friends like she hadn’t seen a man burn alive last week.

He started slow. A scorched bouquet outside her door. A voice in the dark. A heat on the back of her neck when she walked alone. She left her curtains open like an invitation, like she wanted to be seen.

And Dabi? He watched her sleep. Watched her press her knees together in bed like she was pretending not to be needy. She was aching for something she didn’t understand yet and it made him smile, because he’d be the only one able to give it to her.

Then the man at her work smiled too long. Chatted her up with clear intentions. She was too naive to notice, but Dabi saw everything, and he acted.

Two days later, he was found in an alley, tongue cooked black, hands melted down to the knuckles. No suspects. No witnesses. Just a message burned into the bricks.

‘Don’t touch what’s mine.’

She knew. She knew he was watching her, and she didn’t tell the heroes. That’s when he knew she’d break.

When he finally showed himself again, it was in the alley behind her apartment. Her hands trembled, But she didn’t run.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered.

He stepped close. Breath hot against her ear. His fingers slid over her jaw like he was touching glass. “Everything.”

And he took everything piece by piece. First, her time. Then, her truth. He made her lie to her friends. Made her second-guess the people she trusted. Made her sneak out just to hear his voice. She started trembling not from fear, but from want. From the sick little thrill of hearing her name curl off his tongue like a threat.

When she told him she still believed in heroes, he laughed. “Then why do you moan like a sinner when I touch you?”

One day, she came to her childhood home to black smoke in the distance. Gone—burned to the ground. Every memory, every piece of who she used to be, gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

He found her on her knees in the rain, sobbing. And all he did was kneel behind her and stroke her hair like a lover. “They never gave a fuck about you. They loved your brother more. They always did. Now they can’t hurt you anymore.”

She screamed at him. Fought him. Hit him until her knuckles split. And he let her, because pain is still attention and rage is still connection.

Beneath it all, her heart was cracking like glass under pressure. “You’re sick,” she spat.

“No, baby,” he purred, cupping her face, his thumb brushing the tear on her cheek. “I’m in love.”

She had a plan. A secret exit stashed under the floorboards—money, a burner phone, a recording of what Dabi had done. Names. Dates. Faces.

He had changed her. He had Warped her. He had twisted everything she believed in. But maybe… maybe she still had time to undo it.

She told herself she wasn’t running from him, just running back to the truth. Back to the heroes she once adored. To justice and to the light that used to warm her, before cold flames surrounded her like a shield. No, not a shield, but a cage.

One last chance to escape the monster who lived in her shadow.

She got as far as one street away from the agency. Her hands trembled as she looked up at the building. Its sleek glass windows reflecting hope, safety, salvation.

Her eyes burned with tears. She stepped forward, and a hand closed over her wrist. Hot. Unmistakable. Dabi.

“You really thought I wouldn’t find out?” he murmured behind her, low and calm, the way it always was right before he snapped. “After everything I gave you, everything I burned for you… you really thought you could crawl back to them?”

She gasped, tried to yank her arm free, but he was already dragging her backwards into the alley. Into the dark, and out of sight.

Her body betrayed her, like whenever he touched her. When she smelled that unmistakable scent of smoke and musk. She shivered at his touch, weak with adrenaline and full of twisted memories.

“No—let me go, Dabi—” she whimpered weakly.

“No,” he growled, shoving her against the damp brick wall, pressing his body to hers. “You don’t get to fucking leave.”

Despite the beautiful sunny day, the alley was tight and cold. A siren wailed in the distance. She still could see the hero agency’s sign, beyond the edge of the wall. So close. Even a single scream could save her, but the fear of what would happen to Dabi overpowered the need to step back into the light.

So she let him held her there, trapped in the shadows, his hands sliding under her shirt like he owned her.

“You thought you were a civilian again?” he sneered. “That you could go back to your little sunshine life and wash the filth off? You’re not one of them anymore. You’re mine.”

She whimpered, struggling, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I just wanted to feel normal again.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice turned dangerously soft. “You were normal. I made you better. I made you real. I made you mine. And now you’re gonna show me you remember that.”

She froze as he dropped to his knees in the filth of the alleyway, yanked her panties down beneath her skirt, and pushed her thighs apart. “Dabi, no—please, someone might see—”

“Then maybe they’ll learn who you belong to.”

He licked a slow stripe up her inner thigh, fingers bruising her hips as he buried his face into her soaked cunt. There wasn’t anything gentle about the way he ate her. Every lick, every suck was punishment. Her back arched against the brick. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry. It was sick and twisted how she wept for him.

“That’s it,” he rasped against her pussy, pulling away just enough to look up at her. “Say you missed me. Say you missed my mouth, my cock, my hands around your throat. Say you don’t want them. You want me.”

She shook her head, choking on a sob, “I—I wanted out—”

“Liar. You wanted to be caught. You wanted me to remind you how fucking good it feels to be ruined.”

He stood and opened the zipper of his pants, enough to free his partly burned cock out. Angry, hot and leaking for her. He gripped her thigh with one hand and hooked it around his waist. The other holds his cock tightly, smacking it against her swollen clit until she was sobbing. Then he thrusted into her in one brutal push. She cried out, eyes wide, walls clenching around him with betrayal and sick, molten need.

“You hear that?” he growled, rolling his hips in slow, devastating rhythm. “That wet little pussy knows where she belongs. Not in some glass tower full of hypocrites. Not at the feet of heroes. Here. In the dark. Taking me like a fucking whore.”

He kissed her like he was starving. Fucked her like he was punishing her for the thought of leaving. Slow and mean, hands holding her open, body caging her in, fucking her against the bricks like she was nothing but his plaything.

“Tell me,” he hissed against her ear, “do the heroes make you cum like I do? Do they choke you while you beg for more? Do they own your fucking soul like I do?”

She sobbed and wailed and squeezed her eyes shut. Pleasure and shame blurted the edges of her mind. “Please,” she whimpered.

He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in with a growl. “Say. It. Say you’re mine. Say you never fucking left.”

And with her face soaked, her thighs shaking, her pussy gripping him like she never wanted to let go—she cracked. She cracked and broke completely. “I’m yours. I never left. I can’t—I can’t live without you—”

He groaned deeply and looked up to the sky, like he was thanking every fucked up god that she’d be finally his. His hips started to stutter as he ground deep inside her and spilled her womb full of him. He held her there for a long moment, still buried inside her. His grip bruised her skin, two hearts pounding like war drums and finding the same rhythm.

Then he kissed her temple so sweetly it made her cry again. “That’s my girl. You’ll never leave again. Not unless you want the world to burn for it.”

for @dabislittlemouse, because corruption never felt so good

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Four: Impure Thoughts

Warnings: 18+ | Death | Klansmen | Voyeurism (kind of) | Masturbation | Pillow Humping | Sexual Tension | Religious Control | Religious Abuse | These warnings are lowkey wild

The night draped over the land like a funeral shroud. Every flicker of lantern light and every echo of boot on dirt carried the weight of what was about to come. A hush had fallen over the farm land as the twins left the main house and their men took their assigned positions. Even the crickets had gone quiet.

When the moon rose high enough in the midnight sky it dropped a spotlight down on them and the Klan appeared like filthy roaches scattering everywhere. Flames bobbed through the trees, mounted riders circled the north field brandishing rifles… and a loud unsettling jeer carried across the land like a foul odor.

At the head of Smoke and Stack’s small army the twins stood tall and silent. Smoke’s dark suit glittered under the moon, every inch a promise of control. Stack’s sharper, leaner posture radiated danger like a viper ready to strike. A hush fell as the Klansmen dismounted and marched toward the clearing. Their grins hidden behind sheets covering their cowardly appearance. The wood of their torches carved shadows across their masks. They thought fear would be enough. They thought God was on their side.

They were wrong. And then… the night blew apart.

Smoke stepped forward with calm precision. “I’m not in a good mood tonight and y’all got bout’ five seconds to turn your asses around or I’ll be using your bodies as kindling.” A chant arose behind the Klan, like rot in a grave.

Stack whistled and everyone sprung into action. Ten Klan members hit the dirt before they even raised their rifles. His pistol whispered like a crack of thunder in the air after he pulled the trigger. A torch fell and the man holding it staggered. A shot rang again… a silent echo… and there was no fire. Just a scream cut short.

The intruders fell back, disoriented and bewildered by how this battle was playing out. Members of the Klan tried to rally but the twins moved too fast. Smoke launched forward next and his rifle cracked twice. The sight caught a mounted man in the thigh as he charged. His body sagged, he tumbled. Smoke reloaded without breaking his calm demeanor. He was bored, irritated, and still way too tense.

Stack was in a blur of violence and giggling through it all. His gold cufflinks flicked sparks when he spun the barrel of his revolver. One moment he was drawing his pistol, the next he was holstering it again, two bullets, two Klan men shot down in the head before they realized what had happened. Within minutes the Klan line broke and fear spiked through their ranks. Horses reared. Some ran screaming. Some dropped their weapons and crawled back to the tree line begging for mercy… But mercy didn’t exist on this land tonight.

After an hour of pure chaos the twins and their army looked at the pathetic bodies piled high. Not a single one of them had been touched yet by the invaders. By the time dawn painted the horizon pale pink, the land lay quiet. Smoke and Stack’s men cleaned rifles and checked wounds that didn’t exist. Corpses of the Klan stacked up and enough damage was done to send a silent message to everyone within a 100 mile radius.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Smoke watched the sunrise from the porch as Stack rested his hand on his shoulder.

“Too easy?” Stack murmured.

Smoke nodded, gaze fixed on the horizon. “God don’t always need to smite the wicked… Sometimes he sends two brothers in suits.”

Stack cracked a grin. “Amen to that.”

The twins didn’t get to savor their win for long. They looked across the land and noticed Pastor Samuel with a twisted look on his face as he stormed towards them. Neither twin could tell if the man was happy, angry, or just needed to take a shit.

Straightening up, both men stood tall, dust and death still lingering around them like a crown. Stack cracked his neck with an exaggerated tilt of his head while Smoke kept his hand resting on his pistol. He didn’t draw… he didn’t need to. But the heat of his palm against the grip kept his temper from rising all the way to his mouth.

And yet, the moment he looked at Pastor Samuel, all he could think about was her. The bruises. The way she winced when she tried to walk. The guilt that wasn’t hers. Those knees. Bloody, raw, and bent before scripture. All because of him.

“Hell,” Smoke muttered under his breath, jaw tight. “I don’t even like the way that muthafucka breathes.”

Stack whispered low, just enough for Smoke to hear. “Wanna pop that nigga like a tick.”

The Pastor came closer, shoes crunching over dirt and gravel and hands folded behind his back like a plantation overseer. He looked over the battlefield without saying a word, his eyes lingering on the fallen torches, the rotting pile of dead bodies, the precision and power on display by men he claimed not to trust.

“Didn’t ask you to kill nobody,” he finally said, his tone full of judgment and disgust. “Told you to protect my land. Not bring damnation down on it.”

Stack let out a surprised grunt and raised an eyebrow. “You want us to apologize for winnin’?”

Samuel’s eyes flicked to him, then to Smoke… like if he had the power and courage to kill him, he would. “I want you, your demon twin, and your men on the north field only. That was the deal. You stay off my porch, outta my home, and away from my daughter.”

Stack blinked slowly, then let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Which part got you so twisted up, preacher? That we did your job, or that your daughter looks at us like we ain’t the monsters from Hell everyone thinks we are?”

Smoke didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. His stare was sharp enough to peel bark off a tree. “You oughta be careful what you say next,” he told the pastor flatly. “’Cause the only reason your land’s still yours is ‘cause we took care of what you couldn’t. And when it come to Sera… it’s obvious that it ain’t us she need protectin’ from.”

“She needs protectin’ from everything you are,” Samuel snapped, his voice cracking for just a second. “From temptation. From lawlessness. From men who think violence is salvation.”

That made Stack snort loudly. “Nigga, this is Clarksdale, Mississippi. Ain’t no such thing as salvation down here unless you kill for it.”

Smoke took a step closer. Just one. Which was enough to make the preacher stiffen. “You ever make her bleed again,” Smoke hissed in a venomous tone, “and you’ll be lookin’ up at me from the dirt, beggin’ God for mercy I ain’t got.”

Pastor Samuel’s nostrils flared, but he held his tongue. The air between the three of them thickened. You could taste it… sour… humid… full of fury. “North field,” the pastor spat again, like the words were bile on his tongue. “Stay outta my house and stay away from my damn daughter!”

“Wasn’t plannin’ to step foot in your house,” Smoke replied. “And she ain’t yours. That’s a grown woman with a mind of her own.”

“She ain’t yours either,” Pastor Samuel barked. “But I know you was in her room last night. That stench—” he stepped forward now, trying to muster some authority, his voice rising with brittle rage, “—that filth on her skin… you reek of it! Whiskey and sin. I smelled it when I went in to wake her for mornin’ prayer.”

Stack cocked his head, a smile curling his lips. “Boy, you must got a death wish.”

“You think I don’t know what you did?” Pastor Samuel growled. “You touched my daughter, and I swear before the Lord, I will kill you.”

That was the last word out of his mouth before Smoke’s fist cracked across his jaw like a bolt of thunder. The pastor didn’t even have time to grunt. His body whipped sideways, feet skidding in the dirt before he collapsed in a heap near the steps of the porch, blood already trickling from his split lip.

“Then you best make peace with your god tonight,” Smoke snarled, looming over him with fire in his eyes.

Stack, who had been laughing just moments ago, went still. Something behind his eyes shifted into something dark and unhinged. The smile on his face disappeared, replaced by a quiet and eerie stillness. He crouched beside the groaning preacher with his fingers twitching like he was trying to choose which bone to break first.

“I could cut your tongue out,” Stack murmured. “Feed it to you while you pray. Could hang you upside down from that oak tree in your yard and skin your back with a rusty knife. I’d take my time, too. Paint this porch red, inside and out.” Pastor Samuel tried to move, tried to scramble back, but his body wasn’t ready to listen.

Stack leaned in close, his voice now deceivingly sweet and soft. “Or maybe I’ll just wait till you sleep and slit you quiet. Let you meet your God without even a scream.”

Smoke leaned over and spit near Pastor Samuel’s boot. “You a man of God? Start actin’ like one. ’Cause next time we find her cryin’ or bruised, you gon’ be wearin’ that collar in a coffin. And put her furniture back in her bedroom. Today.”

Stack slowly stood to his full height, brushed the dust off his sleeves, and glanced down with a devious smirk. “Ain’t no holy ghost gon’ save you from us.”

With that, the twins turned and headed toward the north field leaving Pastor Samuel on the ground, bloodied and broken, as the weight of their threat lingered heavier than any sermon he’d ever preached. And in the bedroom window above them, hidden behind white lace curtains, Sera watched everything. Her fingers pressed to the glass, a soft ache blooming in her chest that she didn’t have words for yet. A feeling she’d never known before, equal parts fear and curiosity.

Down below, Stack leaned over to his brother as they walked side by side. “Thinkin’ about her again?”

“Shut up.”

Stack grinned. “You think he knows he’s already lost her?”

Smoke’s jaw flexed, hand once again brushing his pistol. “He will.”

A week passed since the night the land bled fire and the Klan ran like dogs in the dark. But you wouldn’t know it now. The sun rose the same. The roosters crowed with no regard for the victory buried in the soil beneath their claws. And the little house once brimming with tension and whispers had gone quiet. Way too quiet.

Sera stood at the kitchen sink with her sleeves rolled to her elbows while she scrubbed the same plate for the third time. The water had gone cold and her fingers pruned, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her mind wandered like it often did now.

The new dresses her father brought home were heavier, stiff with modesty and shaped to completely erase her. High collars, thick cotton, long hems that brushed the floor like she was gliding through a mourning veil. She was to wear them every day. No more yellow. No more blue. No more sundresses that unintentionally cling and make men’s eyes linger longer than they should. When she analyzed herself in the mirror each morning it told her nothing. She was now just a ghost of a girl with her untamed ginger hair lazily pinned up and her new clothing the physical embodiment of hopelessness.

“Girl, why you standing there daydreaming?” her father’s voice barked from the hallway.

Sera blinked herself out of her daze. “I’m washing, Daddy.”

“Well, wash faster. Ain’t no point in staring at soap suds like they gon’ save you.” His voice trailed off as he went back to his study. Since the explosion with the twins he’s been spending more time in his study and less time unnecessarily punishing Sera.

The lack of ‘unnecessary’ punishments didn’t mean Samuel wasn’t able to find other ways to keep his daughter obedient. After being embarrassed by the twins, he gave Sera a strict schedule and a new set of rules to follow:

Monday through Saturday:

5:00 AM - 9:00 AM Prayer

10:00 AM - 1:00 PM Chores

2:00 PM - 3:00 PM Cooking

4:00 PM - 6:00 PM Chores

7:00 PM - 8:00 PM Bible Study

8:00 PM - 5:00 AM Sleep

Sunday:

5:00 AM - 7:00 AM Prayer

8:00 AM - 2:00 PM Church

3:00 PM - 4:00 PM Cooking

5:00 PM - 7:00 PM Chores

8:00 PM - 5:00 AM Sleep

She was no longer allowed to run errands or explore the town alone. And worst of all she was FORBIDDEN from stepping foot near the north field.

The land still buzzed with the ghosts of gunpowder and footfall. Being men of their word, Smoke and Stack kept to their side with their men patrolling like entities that belonged to a different world entirely. One Sera wasn’t allowed to touch. She only saw them from the window now if she parted the curtain just enough. They moved like kings with no crowns, suits still crisp even in the heat, laughter low and sharp like polished knives.

Stack often glanced at the house and sometimes he would wave. The first time he did it she ducked and stayed behind the curtain for a full hour after. She wasn’t sure if he saw her. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to. The second time he did it she nervously waved back and then immediately closed her curtains to pray.

Smoke never looked. Not that she noticed. But somehow she felt him… the weight of his eyes, even when they weren’t directly pointed at her. It made her heart flutter with something she didn’t have a name for yet.

Sera sat quietly in her room with the Bible on her lap. After finding peace on his land now that the Klan was dealt with, Pastor Samuel thought she ‘deserved’ to have her furniture returned to her. The candle on her bedside table had burned low, the wax forming tiny lakes against the holder. Her knees still ached from last week. The blisters were gone, but the skin felt new and thin.

The first night after the battle, Sera stayed awake until her body gave out. But the nights that followed brought something worse than exhaustion; it brought a burning need. A slow, creeping feeling coiled low in her belly and refused to fade away. It started when the house fell quiet. When no one called her name. That’s when she felt it the most… The phantom touch of Smoke’s hands, the rough drag of his thumb against her thigh, the careful hold of her knee, the way he said ‘my love’ like it meant something. Those memories were burned into her skin, rewinding again and again until she could barely breathe beneath the weight of them.

By the fifth night, the subtle ache bloomed into a throb and she couldn’t take it anymore.

After finishing her required Bible study for the night, she locked her bedroom door and her heart was racing before she even slid beneath the covers. Her cotton nightgown clung to her thighs already sticky with heat. She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a prayer for forgiveness, but even as her lips moved, her hand was already drifting under the blanket. Trembling and curious.

What would it feel like… If I touched where it hurts? If I pressed where he looked at me… like he wanted to taste my sins?

Her hand slipped slowly underneath her nightgown, grazing over the soft curve of her hip and down the inside of her thigh. She gasped softly when her fingers brushed damp cotton. She was completely soaked. Her legs fell open without thinking. Her fingers slid along her untouched cotton covered cooze, and she bit back a moan— but then she paused when she heard footsteps outside her door.

Cutting her eyes to her bedroom door, she heard them again… slower… heavier… calculated. Not her father. Not a stranger. A step she’d only heard once before, echoing through the hallway the night Smoke found her wrapped in nothing but a towel.

She didn’t need proof to know it was Smoke. During the short time he carried her she had already memorized his walk. She knew the rhythm of his boots, the weight of him, and the gravity he carried when he walked. His presence was pressing through the door, thick as heat, wrapped around her like lust curling beneath the sheets. Her thighs twitched. Her fingers still hovered beneath her gown. The damp cotton clinging tight to her center.

Still, neither of them said anything. And then a single word that was oozing with dominance could be heard through the oak wood. “Continue.”

Her breath shattered and a whimper escaped before she could stop it. Her legs squeezed together and her hips shifted against the mattress with a friction that made her mouth fall open.

He knew. He knew what she was doing. What she was thinking. How badly she wanted relief. No, how badly she needed relief. His voice wasn’t a suggestion and left no room for disobedience. But she was okay with willingly listening to him. Smoke and Stack could tell Sera to jump and she would ask ‘how high?’. In the short amount of time she’s known the twins they’ve proven their devotion to protecting her… Protecting her in a way her father never cared to do.

Her hand moved without conscious thought, slipping beneath her panties as her fingers trembled and grazed her slick heat in an amateurish manner. She gasped, a little louder this time and her knees bent, opening slightly beneath the covers. The sensation in her belly spread fast, hot, wicked, and beautifully.

Although her body seemed to know what to do and how to do it, the battle in her mind was stopping Sera from fully grasping how to get to the point of no return. And it was as if Smoke knew her dilemma.

His voice pierced through the wood of the bedroom door again like thunder before rain, “Don’t be scared. Keep goin’.”

She didn’t answer. Her hand gripped the edge of the blanket and more silence followed. Then… “Find your button… love… circle your finger around it.”

He said it… he said that nickname she had been dying to hear again. Her throat closed around a breath and she blinked into the dark with her face red hot as she tried to follow the instructions given to her. Guiding her inexperienced fingers up and down her slit, she rolled them to the left and to the right. She searched until she felt a bump of flesh that caused her eyes to roll to the back of her head.

Her fingers kept moving on that spot. Faster now, more deliberate. He wasn’t coming in. He wasn’t touching her. He was just standing outside her door, but the thought of him listening to her made the pulsing of her honey pot intensify.

Speaking to her like a devil on her shoulder, his voice soaked in the kind of heat that didn’t belong in a preacher’s house. “Don’t stop,” he drawled, the way he spoke made her body gush.

She whimpered again, hips lifting just a little, chasing the friction her fingers gave. Her breath was unsteady with her curls sticking to her damp temples. Her other hand fisted in the sheets and tugged hard as the sensation swelled in her core. Her whole body felt like it was on cloud nine, chest burning, thighs trembling, and toes curling beneath the blanket. She didn’t know what was happening but she wanted more.

The pleasure mounted fast… a little too fast. Her fingers quickened their pace as they moved in a counterclockwise motion over her swollen clit. A sweet pressure swirled in her belly, like a string was being pulled from deep inside her. Her mouth opened in a breathless moan she couldn’t hold back.

“Let go for me, my love…” Smoke demanded through the closed door. It was as if he could feel the moment rising inside her. And Sera was too wrapped up in herself to notice how breathless his voice was starting to sound.

But she couldn’t finish. Just as she reached the edge, her stomach clenched, and her body bucked but not from release. From panic.

The wave of pleasure inside of her built too fast and just before it broke, she ripped her hand away with a startled gasp, thighs snapping shut, and her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.

“I can’t…” she breathed, barely louder than a whisper. Her body was humming with excitement. Her fingers were drenched and her thighs angrily trembled with denial. And when the shadow on the other side of the door disappeared without another word, she stared at it for a long time.

The screen door groaned behind him as he stepped into the open night. The night air felt colder than usual but it couldn’t burn away the heat rising under his skin. Her voice still clung to him—soft, trembling. “I can’t…”

She had no idea what she’d done to him. No idea that just the sound of her shifting in bed, the catch of her breath, the tension in her voice when she whispered into the dark had officially ruined him. He hadn’t seen a damn thing. But his mind? It painted the rest clear as day.

That cotton nightgown bunched up high on her hips. Her thighs parted, hesitant. Her fingers unsure, slick with curiosity. The blanket rustling with each slow motion of her hand. Her lips parted around silent gasps and maybe biting the bottom one to keep them in. And then that voice… So desperate and honest. “I can’t…”

Goddamn he was in deep. Smoke dragged a hand down his face with his jaw tight, as he cut through the trees and followed the well-worn path back to the north field. Crickets sang around him in a mocking tone. Wind bent through the linen of his suit. And the moon spilled silver across the dirt, but none of it cooled the blaze inside him.

By the time he stepped into the barn, his coat was unbuttoned and his breath still hadn’t evened out.

Stack was sitting on a crate with his shirt off and bare feet propped up while puffing on a cigarette like he had all the time in the world. He lifted his chin when he saw Smoke.

“Where you been?” His voice was casual but his twin could hear there was something sharp beneath it. “Ain’t like you to disappear mid-shift.”

Smoke didn’t stop walking. “Checkin’ the east perimeter.”

Stack arched an eyebrow. “Mhm. That right?”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just moved past him, straight toward the back of the barn.

“Sure took your time,” Stack called after him, grinning around the cigarette. “You paid our girl a visit?”

Smoke’s back tensed for a millisecond but he kept walking. “Get some sleep,” he grumbled, brushing past the curtain and slamming the door to the private quarters shut behind him.

The second it latched, he leaned against it and finally let out the breath he’d been holding since he left her door. His hands ranked frantically through his hair. He was hard as a rock and wound so tight it hurt. All of this and he didn’t even get to see Sera explore herself, only listen.

He envisioned everything in his mind… the way her thighs might’ve trembled as her fingers slipped lower, the way her back probably arched when she got close. The way she might’ve whispered his name if she’d only had the nerve. He could hear it. Mr. Smoke.

Without wasting another second, Smoke began stripping himself of his clothes like a rabid animal. He couldn’t suppress his desires anymore and he let out a dissatisfied growl when he spit on his hand before gripping his throbbing manhood. Sitting on the edge of his bed he desperately dragged his fist up and down his girthy 9 inch rod. Paying ample attention to his sensitive head that was leaking precum and the vein that ran down the curve of his meat. He needed more and jerking off felt like self inflicted punishment opposed to relief.

He paused his movements and quickly scanned his room for an extra pillow he remembered he tossed earlier that morning. Noticing the pillow in a nearby corner, he grabbed it and made his way back to his bed.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” he murmured, throwing the pillow onto the bed and climbing after it, his body already thrumming with pressure. “A grown man… losin’ his mind over a girl who kneecaps he only touched.” After folding the pillow in half, Smoke climbed on top of it and slid his dick through the makeshift opening. It wasn’t Sera, but this would have to do for tonight.

Closing his eyes, Smoke began to rock his hips in a steady motion as he imagined what Sera would look like being stretched to the max. With one hand braced on the mattress and the over on the pillow he imagined how soft and warm her insides must feel and the noises she would make while in ecstasy.

“You feel so good baby… I’ll teach you how to take all of me… My perfect angel…” He mumbled in a needy and hushed tone while losing himself to his fantasy.

Finally he could feel himself getting closer to his peak and he increased his pace as he started drilling into the pillow. He wanted to be discreet in case any wandering souls passed by his room, but right now he didn’t care. His bed squeaked louder and fantasy images of Sera climaxing over and over his dick finally pushed him over the edge.

“I’d be so good to you,” he choked out, groaning low in his throat. “Wouldn’t hurt you. Wouldn’t rush. Just let you feel it all… Stretch you out real good…”

He pushed harder into the pillow, every drag of friction a poor imitation of what he really wanted. Her. Bent beneath him, learning everything from him. Crying out as he brought her to the brink again. And again. And again…

“You think your daddy taught you what obedience is?” he rasped. “I’d teach you with my mouth ‘tween your legs everyday until pleasure is all you know.”

His body jerked, pleasure ripping through him as he imagined her saying his real name through a moan—her fingers digging into his skin and her eyes glazed from a high only he could give her. Smoke groaned through gritted teeth as his hot seed poured out of him and coated the fabric of the pillow. “Fuck…”

Rolling over on his back, his skin glistened with sweat and he threw an arm over his head while steadying his breaths. His hunger wasn’t satisfied, if anything this just made it worse as the blood wasted no time rushing back to his dick and bobbed with need.

“This ain’t enough,” he muttered to himself before grabbing the soiled pillow for round two. “Won’t ever be enough.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

Nobody:

Sera and Smoke:

Meanwhile Stack:

He will get to bust a nut soon I pinky promise!

Tag list: (If I forgot to add you please remind me and blame everything on my dyslexia.)

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious

[jeepers-creeperz]

Friends Who Kiss

Fred Weasley x Slytherin! AFAB! Reader

What happens when Fred Weasley and his best friend spend a night together that turns their friendship upside down? Between awkward encounters and misguided words, you wonder if you and Fred will ever be able to return to your once beautiful friendship.

MDNI 18+ Hogwarts University AU - All characters are in their early 20s, reader is a half blood with one muggle parent.

Warnings: LOTS of angst. Mentions of smut, brief depiction of smut (PinV), swearing, pretty dialogue heavy.

How can we go back to be being friends when we just shared a bed?

A/N: I didn’t fully proofread this, apologies for any typos. I wrote this on a whim. Once again, any and all feedback is appreciated 🤍

Word Count: 5.3k

……………………………………………………………………………………

You laid in Fred’s bed, blankets covering your chest, staring straight up at the red covered curtains that cloaked your best friend’s four poster bed. As he lay next to you, you wondered how you even got yourselves into this situation. As you raked your brain going over how everything about your shared night could ruin the best friendship you’ve ever had, he slept peacefully. A warm, gentle smile placed delicately on his face. You bit your lip looking at him. This was extremely uncharted territory and it scared the shit out of you. You looked at him a moment longer, appreciating all of his peaceful features, hoping it would ease your anxiety. As you laid there, your mind in a trance of both your best friends subtle beauty and absolutely berating yourself, you decided you’ve overstayed your welcome.

You pulled the warm sheets off of your body, whimpering a little as the cold air washed against your bare chest like a wave from the ocean in the middle of winter, goosebumps rose instantly. You heaved yourself out of his bed and grabbed his bathrobe that he always had hanging on one of his four posters and wrapped it around your body, not threatening to make a single noise, scared to wake Fred and have him catch you sneaking away. You gathered your belongings quickly, tiptoeing away, closing the heavy wooden door behind you as quietly as possible. You almost winced at how the door haphazardly slamming would ruin everything.

After getting dressed in the bathrooms of Gryffindor tower, the trip back to the Slytherin common room felt like the longest shameful walk of your entire life. Head hanging low, twiddling with the hem of your skirt, you felt as though you’ve done something terrible. Did you really just have a one night stand with your best friend? And leave him there alone? Your mind was endlessly reeling. You cringed as you sauntered down the stairs to the dungeons, wanting to smack yourself for being so selfish.

It wasn’t that Fred was bad in bed, in all actuality, he was the best person you’ve slept with. No, it was the fact that you just so easily let yourselves trample all over the friendship that already took a lot of neutering to build. It was no secret that Gryffindors and Slytherins had a rivalry. And with you being a more than decent chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team, always giving them a run for their money, you and Fred didn’t exactly start off on the right foot. In fact, he made your life a living hell for the first three years of your life inside the walls of this castle that now seemed so much smaller than it did before. It wasn’t until you started playing by the rules of his own game that the flame of your friendship kindled.

You smiled reminiscing about your old prank wars. The juvenile laughter and careless actions that landed you in detention with the twins so many times that you were almost pushed into a friendship with them by forced proximity alone. Prank wars quickly became shared ideas on how to prank other innocent students and the rest was practically history. Fred Weasley became your favorite person and the one you trusted most in this world.

“Hey Y/N.” Pansy chimed from her spot on the couch in the Slytherin common room, knocking you out of your inner monologue.

“Oh, hey, Pans.” You mumbled, not in the mood for small talk.

“Where have you been?” She wiggles her brows, smirking wickedly at you.

You took a heavy sigh, rubbing your eyes from both frustration and exhaustion. “It’s not really any of your business now is it? Why are you up so early anyway? It’s like 7 in the morning and it’s Saturday.”

“Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of someone else’s bed.” She griped rolling her eyes at you.

“Ugh, Pans, I’m sorry. I just got barely any sleep last night-”

“That’s apparent, yes.” She giggled to herself.

You glared at her, not very pleased with her remark or cutting you off. “I’m leaving.”

“No no! I’m sorry. Come sit please.” She scooted over on the couch and patted the spot next to her. You groaned, really in no place to be having this conversation with her so early in the morning, but you decided to dramatically plop down on the couch next to her anyway. You breathed out heavily through your nose and stared up at the ceiling trying to disconnect with the world as much as possible. “Have you ever slept with someone and instantly regretted it?”

“Most of the time, yes.” She nodded.

You groaned and brought your hands up to your face, rubbing it furiously. “Pansy, I think I really fucked up last night.” You bit your lip, shaking your head as you went over everything all over again. “It’s not like he was bad or anything like that, it just royally fucks everything up.”

“Oh God. Please don’t tell me you slept with a professor.”

“What? Ugh, Pans! Ew!”

“I’m Sorry! I was just making sure you didn’t totally sell yourself for an O in potions….Literally and figuratively.”

She jested, laughing at her own foul joke.

“You’re disgusting. I’m going to bed.” You got up from your seat, dismissing any protest she was giving you to stay and tell her any gruesome detail you’d give her. You simply continued on your way up the stairs to the girls dormitory, flipping her off on the way.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Later that day, you sat in the great hall pushing your food around with your fork, completely oblivious to anything and anyone around you. However, you were taken out of your mopey day dreams as a paper airplane note landed right on top of your plate. You bit your lip and stared at it for a moment, ultimately deciding to drop your fork and slowly opening up the note.

“We need to talk.” Was all that it read. You sighed through your nose trying your best to hide your embarrassment and annoyance. Looking up through your lashes towards the Gryffindor table, you saw Fred staring hopefully at you while subtly pointing his finger towards the door of the great hall. There are about a hundred things you’d rather do than have a conversation with fred right now about feelings and how everything may be ruined. You weren’t sure why you were so terrified of him all of the sudden, for crying out loud, he is your best friend. All you were sure about was that it was in fact weird now.

You dreadfully stood from your spot at the table and carried your way towards the giant doors that enveloped almost an entire stone wall. Fred followed quickly behind you, hot on your heels. Finally out of the room, you made your way down the hall a bit so that curious eyes couldn’t watch over you.

“You wanna tell me why the fuck you completely ditched me this morning?” He whispered angrily through gritted teeth. You simply crossed your arms and shrugged, not daring to make eye contact with him. He scoffed while shaking his head at you. He looked to be absolutely baffled with you.

“Well, I never heard a bad review last night so it can’t possibly be that you were dissatisfied.”

“Humble.” You mumbled. You weren’t about to entertain his bad attitude.

“Sorry, but Y/N, come ON! Was it really so disturbing that you had to leave without leaving so much as a note? And for fucks sake at least have the descency to look at me.” He scoffed once again.

“Fred, what do you want me to say?” You asked, finally looking up to see his face a shade of red that almost matched that of the hue of his hair. He narrowed his eyes on you. “There something in my teeth?” You scowled at him.

“What has gotten into you?”

“YOU! YOU’VE GOTTEN INTO ME! THAT’S THE WHOLE ISSUE!” You yelled before immediately groaning and stomping your foot out of utter frustration. “God, Fred, I really don’t wanna have this conversation with you.”

He looked at you like you had just shot a puppy with the cruciatus curse, and honestly, you felt like you just did too. His usually warm, happy eyes that glimmered so stunningly now filled with anger and sadness. It was a look that did not suit him well.

He slid his tongue across his teeth with a loud click, placing his hands in his pockets so you couldn’t see his fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles were white hot. “If that’s how you feel, then fine. We don’t have to talk about it. In fact, how about we never speak again, how’s that?”

“Wha- Fred, don’t say that.” You pleaded.

Suddenly you heard footsteps coming down the hall and you turned your head away from Fred, hoping that it didn’t look like you were having a quite heated conversation.

“Oh. Hey, Y/N.” Chimed an all too familiar voice. You glanced up at Pansy, offering her the best fake smile that you could muster. “Weasley.” She griped in a disapproving tone. “Is he bothering you?”

“Put your hackles down, Pansy. I’m fine.” you scowled at her. She gave you an odd look as her eyes flashed between you and the tall red headed boy, quickly widening her eyes.

“Is this the guy you were talking about regretting sleeping with?” she pointed her finger between the both of you

“Pansy!” you scolded.

Fred scoffed, smacking his thighs with his hands. “Great. That’s just great.” He turned on his heel, walking away from you and Pansy.

“Fred, wait!” You pleaded again, calling out to him as his long legs carried him through the corridor. Embarrassment and anger coursed through your veins as you shot Pansy a malevolent glare. “Have you ever once thought before opening your daft mouth! Seriously! I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody in my life that’s more simpleminded than you!” You reprimanded her, tears in your eyes.

“Fuck you.” She scowled. “If anything you should be thanking me! Now that miserable sod of a boy will never bother you again.” She pointed in the direction that Fred stormed off in.

You scoffed, completely baffled. You were at a complete loss of words. You lost your best friend in the entire world with one single breath from Pansy Parkinson. You beat yourself up for even opening your mouth to vent to her this morning. You walked away from Pansy, heading somberly back to your dormitories in the dungeons. This had to be the worst day of your life. Truthfully, you really had no idea why you were freaking out so badly about the fact that you and Fred had sex. All your friends in Gryffindor always alluded to you two being together. Was it really so far-fetched?

Once back in your dormitory, you collapsed onto your bed, burying your face into the pillow, groaning loudly into it. How could you be so stupid as to sleep with Fred? How could you be so stupid as to confide in Pansy? How could you be so stupid as to ruin the one good thing you had? Your eyes were threatened with the prickly sting of tears. You squeezed your eyes shut, not daring to let them fall. You wanted to jump into the black lake and let it completely consume you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you shouted into the empty air, slamming your fist onto the bed figuring it was better than the stone wall you actually wanted to punch that would leave your fist inevitably broken. Should you have gone after him? Everything was so confusing and jumbled in your brain you couldn’t make heads or tails of the whole situation.

……………………………………………………………………………………

The sky grew darker and darker as you rotted in your emerald sheets. Cheeks tear stained, eyes red and puffy, nose totally stuffed. You were livid with yourself. You couldn’t even blame Fred for saying he never wanted to speak to you again. You really didn’t want anything to do with yourself either. You turned to your side to stare out at the twilight sky from your stained glass window. You missed him. You hated that he was the person you went to with all your troubles and that your trouble was him leaving you with no one. You couldn’t even go to George. You were sure that he was just as mad at you about the whole event as Fred was.

……………………………………………………………………………………

6 months later

You haven’t spoken to Fred since the day he stormed away from you. Your once colorful life now dull and grey in comparison. You sat in class staring out of the window to the gloomy rain that fell from the dark clouds above Hogwarts.

“Alright class. This project involves partners that I have pre drawn, so after I’ve called names, please find your partners and get to work.” Droned Professor Flitwick from the pedestal he often stood on when addressing the entire class.

You listened to him drawl out names as groans and giggles enveloped the room as they were called on.

“Hmm…ah yes, Fred Weasley and Y/N Y/L/N.” Called Flitwick

What?

You widened your eyes at your professor about to protest but-

“Uh-” A familiar voice chimed in, clearing their throat. “Professor, are you sure George and I can’t be partners? I mean our project would be a lot better it-”

“No, Mr. Weasley. He is already partnered with Mr. Jordan.” Professor Flitwick spoke looking up from his spectacles. Completely unamused.

“Dude, switch with me. He can’t tell the difference anyway.” You heard Fred whisper to his other half.

“No way! I wanna be with Lee, he’s top of the class!” George scolded back to him.

“Please? I’ll write your transfiguration papers for a month!”

“No!...I don’t wanna be her partner! Grow some hair on your chest!”

“Are you seriously telling me-”

You cleared your throat standing directly in front of the twins shared table, too busy in their heated discussion of partners that they didn’t even notice you standing there. “I’m not too peachy keen on this either so let’s just get it over with so we can go back to going about our lives pretending that we don’t exist.”

Fred scoffed at your words. George gave him a look that you could only imagine meant “good luck” and he parted ways with his twin to sit with Lee.

Fred sat stiff as you took your seat beside him. Not some much as moving a muscle as you turned the pages to your book while you began listing off ideas for your project.

“I’m not the t-rex in Jurassic World, Fred. I can still see you even if you don’t move.” You sighed out, just wanting this day to be over.

He made a confused face, finally looking at you.

“What?” He grimaced.

“I- nevermind. Muggle movie that came out a couple years ago.”

“Whatever.” He mumbled and returned to his previous state.

“Are you gonna be this way the entire project? Because believe me, I can do the entire thing by myself and let you stand here and blabber like an idiot come presentation day.” You reprimanded.

He turned his head slowly towards you and gave you a very obvious fake smile. The kind that you would have punched him in the face for if you weren’t in the middle of a full classroom.

“Not like you haven’t been perfectly fine on your own, anyway.” He mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Just fucking get on with it, Y/N. I don’t wanna have to work on this with you longer than I have to. Just think of something easy so we can get it over with.”

“You know what? Forget it. I’ll tell Flitwick I wanna work on it by myself and you can work with George and Lee.” You started gathering your things, trying your best to calm down the choking feeling you felt in your throat as you screamed in your head not to cry. The only issue was, he knew exactly what the face you were making meant. He knew you like a book that he had read front to back over and over until his eyes simply couldn’t handle anymore.

Just as you were about to stand up, he reached out and grabbed your forearm. “No- fuck…wait.” he exasperated.

Your eyes flicked from his grip to his face with a rage in your eyes that would have killed him if it could. He didn’t waver. You didn’t either. Just started at him with an anger you’ve never felt before as your eyes continued to well up with tears.

He finally let go and put his hands in the air, surrendering. You finished gathering your stuff to immediately storm out of the classroom.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Later that evening, you sat in the library, nose buried deep into your charms book as you absentmindedly wrote down notes about disillusionment. You tried your hardest to concentrate on your project as the light from the candles danced above your head, but you knew this issue with Fred was far too heavy on your mind and your heart to get any real work done. You looked up from your book and stared at the door to the library, contemplating if you were really about to do what your heart was screaming so loudly at you to do. You thought for a moment longer. “Fuck it.” you huffed, swiftly closing your books and heading out of the library. Straight to the Gryffindor common room.

You marched past the onlookers in Gryffindor common room and made a b-line straight to the boy’s dormitory. You didn’t even bother knocking on the door, just going straight in. You looked at all the eyes in the room that weren’t Fred’s. You could feel yourself going inwards, but you were determined to make things right.

“Out!” You shouted at everyone. They all scoffed as they looked at eachother.

“Is this girl serious?” Lee Jordan mumbled to George, earning each of them a death glare.

“I’m afraid she is boys. Let’s clear out.” George nodded curtly as everyone filed out of the room except Fred who was laying in his bed with his back turned to you. You bowed your head down standing towards the side as everyone cleared out of the room. Once it was just you and Fred, you shut the door and locked it, enchanting it with the muffliato charm. You took a deep breath in, taking in the warm scent you had grown to miss so deeply. Letting it envelop you without totally crushing your steamrolling.

“We need to talk.” You spoke sternly.

“Careful. Wouldn’t want you to regret being in the same room as me.”

“Oh, Fred, Come on. So I said something stupid and meaningless to someone stupid and meaningless. So what?” You crossed your arms.

“So what?” He mocked and sat up angrily from his spot on his bed, grimacing at you. You clenched your jaw so tightly you thought your teeth could have broken in your mouth. You nodded briskly, standing your ground. He scoffed. “Do you even hear yourself when you speak?”

You blinked. Your confidence beginning to waver.

“You wanted to speak, so speak.” He motioned to the floor as it was yours to take space to make your case. You bit your lip, stepping a bit closer to him. What exactly was it that you wanted to say to him?

“I-”

Silence for a moment.

“I?” He questioned looking at you like you had seven heads. You sighed defeatedly.

“I was selfish, I- I mean for sleeping with you. I mean for fucks sake, you’re- were my best friend and I completely fucked it. I should have never done it.”

“Which part? Sleep with me or blab to Pansy?”

“Both, I guess.” You shrugged.

There was a long stale silence in the room for what felt like forever.

“You know what? You can’t say I tried. I’ll get you the notes to the project tomorrow because it’s clear that our friendship is never going to return. Have a good night.” You turned on your heels to leave.

“Are you daft?” He asked bluntly.

“E-excuse me?” you grimaced looking back at him, completely taken aback.

“No seriously. Are you daft? Do you really think these last 6 months have been easy for me? Do you think it was easy having to tell my family why you were no longer joining us for Christmas holiday or why we were no longer speaking to each other? All the sad sympathetic looks I got like I was some sorry lost puppy from my mother?”

You stayed completely silent as his soap box held the burden of his weight.

“And you know what the worst part is? You acted like I was absolutely nothing to you after it happened. Like I was just some one night stand you didn’t know that you’d never want to deal with again. Is that really all I was to you?”

“No!” Your tears were threatening to fall all over again.

“Given your behavior towards me, it sure does feel that way!”

“What did you want me to do, Fred? Stay here and cuddle with you? Bring you breakfast in bed? Pick flowers by the lake after a picnic together?” You didn’t even realize you were shouting.

“No! But I’d hoped you would’ve had the decency to treat me like a human being!” He stood up from his bed running his hands through his hair out of frustration. You weren’t sure if it was the heated passion of the moment, but something about his disheveled look was giving you flashbacks to that fateful night you shared in the very bed you stood just a few feet from.

“Do you know that night you passed out right away on my chest. Something you’ve done a million different times in a million different circumstances and each and every time I had been terrified to take a simple breath because I dreaded the idea of you moving your head.” He confessed.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words got stuck in your now extremely dry throat.

“How dare you look at me and treat me like I was someone you’ve never even met, let alone claimed to be your best friend.”

“Freddie-” Your voice cracked. His familiar nickname slipping off of your tongue. Old habits do die hard.

“No! Don’t ‘Freddie’ me. You showed me how you feel. That’s fine. All of my cards are on the table, Y/N. I fold.”

“I just want it back to how it was.” You sniffled. You were now fully crying.

“I- you don’t get it.” He sighed rubbing his face. “I don’t want to be friends.” he stated matter of factly.

“What?” You strained. Your voice completely failing you.

Silence again. The only thing filling the air was the sound of your sniffling.

“Is there any way this can be repaired? You broke the silence.

He looked at you through his tired hooded eyes.

“I don’t know.” He sat down on his bed, looking exhausted and defeated. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I knackered and don’t think I have the capacity to continue this conversation.”

You bit your lip, breathing heavily out of your nose.

“I wanna fix this. Now.” You crossed your arms defying his wishes

“You can’t fix half a year's worth of estrangement in one night. It’s just not feasible, Y/N.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m tired.”

“Of me? Of the situation? Of trying?” you egged on.

“No. Can you for once in your life please stop thinking everything is about you? I had quidditch practice at 5 o’clock in the morning and it’s almost 11. I just want to go to bed.” He pleaded.

“No. You’re being avoidant.” You stood your ground.

“Oh for fucks sake- leave!” He shouted.

“No!” You shot back in the same volume.

He got up and stood right in your face, looking down at you as the height difference was staggering. Your breathing hitched as this was the closest you’ve been to him in months. He was pissed. Flashbacks again.

……………………………………………………………………………………

“Oh fuck, Freddie!” You moaned arching your back as he drove his hips deeper and deeper into yours.

“Shhh, love. You have to be quiet.” He whispered as he brought his hand up to cover your mouth. A sad attempt to muffle to sounds that he was enjoying so much.

You dug your nails into the small of his back as he relented into you. Truthfully, you didn’t know how you ended up tangled in your best friend’s bed sheets but it was hardly something you could be upset about in this heavenly moment. You tried your hardest to keep your eyes from rolling back, wanting to keep the intense eye contact between you and Fred as you egged each other on closer and closer to your release.

You paid close attention to everything about him. The freckles that danced around his face, the way the moonlight hit his face so beautifully like the moon rose just for him, the way he was looking at you like you were the only person he ever wanted this with. God, he was perfect. And you were terrified. Terrified that every bit of teasing from his brothers and your friends about you two being in love was actually coming to fruition. Terrified that you were enjoying every thrust of his hips. Terrified you felt like you could never live without the feeling of him buried deep inside your walls again.

Suddenly, you were flipped around, whipping you out of your thoughts and back to the reality you were set in. With you on top, you smiled down at him as you rubbed his chest. “My Freddie.” You whispered and he flashed that damn smile that got you into this in the first place. You felt a wave of affection you had never felt before, scaring you further. “Yours.” He whispered back. Marking himself as your territory.

You started swaying your hips on him, allowing yourself to adjust to his size in this newer, deeper, position. You bit your lip trying your best to hold back a moan. “Fuck!: you whispered, earning a hum of appreciation from him.

“Just like that, princess.” He gripped your hips, guiding you perfectly against his cock.

You gripped the headboard in front of you for stability knowing you were about to unravel any second. You started bouncing on him as you fixed your eyes on the beautiful man underneath you. His fiery hair a tangled mess as strands stuck to his forehead.

“I’m gonna cum, Freddie.” you whispered as you continued your pace.

“Cum for me, gorgeous. You’ve earned it.” He started rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb as he started to trust his hips up into you.

“Fuck fuck fuck! Don’t stop!” you begged.

You were both a moaning mess. Any attempts to stay quiet had completely flown out the window. Each of his thrusts were intentional and messy as he worked his way to your release. Like his life depended on it.

……………………………………………………………………………………

“Why’d you leave?” his question snapping you out of your thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“The morning after we slept together. Why did you leave?” His eyes that usually gleamed with cheer and mischief now sad in comparison.

“I don’t know.” You lied.

“Bullshit.” He quipped.

“Excuse me?” You grimaced.

“Tell me the truth. Give me at least a shred of fucking dignity.” He inched closer as he continued to tower over you.

“Fuck off.” You went to move away but he grabbed your wrist and held you in your position.

“Don’t make me ask again, Y/N.” you gritted through his teeth.

You pulled your wrist from his grip glaring daggers at him. “I was fucking scared, okay?! You happy?!” You yelled.

“Scared of WHAT?!” He laughed in disbelief as he took a step back.

“That if I didn’t get out of that bed, I would have never left! That I would have asked for every single stupid fucking string to be attached! That I would have felt like a fucking idiot when you had said no!” The confession you had been agonizing and denying even yourself of hitting you and Fred like an anvil on the head.

“You didn’t even give me a fucking chance!” He yelled back.

“There was no chance, Fred! That’s the whole problem!” You cried out feeling completely and utterly completely defeated.

“You really are daft, aren’t you?”

“Stop calling me that!” you reprimanded. You wiped the tears from your red face that felt like it had been rubbed completely raw from your sleeve.

“You know, that’s your whole issue, Y/N. You come to these conclusions in your head without hearing anybody out. How are you so sure I would have said that I wouldn’t want strings attached?” He reprimanded back.

You stared down at your feet not saying a word.

“Well?” He encouraged.

“I don’t know, Fred. I guess I just do.” you stated matter of factly.

“Well guess what, Y/N. You’re wrong.” His statement short and blunt but hitting you like an impact from a car going 100 miles per hour.

You looked up at him slowly with furrowed brows, your eyes flickering between his soft hazel ones.

“What?” your voice cracked.

“You’re wrong.” His voice just as blunt as before as he took a step closer to you.

“Fred-” you scoffed. “Don’t patronize me. I know you’re just saying that-”

“Merlin, just be quiet.” He closed the gap between you and pressed his lips hotly against yours.

You furrowed your brows not sure if this was really happening, but you didn’t take long to give in and kiss him back. Every pushed down bit of affection rushing back like a ton of bricks. You wrapped your arms around his neck which led him to pulling you in closer. His strong arms wrapped tightly around your hips. You entangled your fingers into his soft red hair as you begged your knees not to give out on you as you totally melted into him. Your lips dancing together like they were handcrafted for each other.

“I missed you so much.” You cried against his lips.

“I know.” He deepened the kiss and walked you backwards until the back of your knees hit his bed making you fall back into it. You scooted up the bed so that your head could rest comfortable on his plush pillow embossed with the Gryffindor lion on his pillow case. He laid down next to you, gripping your hip again to turn you on to your side. He reconnected your lips as his fingers trailed from your hip to your thigh, pulling it onto his own hip to hold you closer.

You pulled away from the kiss and rested your forehead against his as your fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Freddie?” You asked softly.

“Hmm?” he hummed, rubbing circles on your thigh with his finger.

“I don’t wanna just be friends who kiss.” you stated shyly.

“Me neither.” He whispered back, moving his hand from your leg to the small of your back.

“If we’re gonna do this then we have to be all in.” you looked in his eyes that have now returned to the warmth you were so familiar with. No longer coded with their previous coldness when he would recently look at you.

“All the stupid fucking strungs attached.” He chuckled, joking at the remark you had made earlier.

You smiled as butterflies started whipping around in your stomach, too strong to be considered a flutter. Overwhelmed with both joy and love towards the man you were dreading just hours prior, The man who was your best friend. Your Freddie.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Plssss continue the another ending story its sooo good plsss😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏

Another Ending - End | B. Barnes

Character: ex!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It was supposed to be a short week watching over your niece, who loves romance books. She thought you were just a normal aunt, but it turns out you have secrets.

Tags: Spies, action, threat, offense, fight scene, violence, romance, comedy.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , End .

You asked, and you shall receive. Thanks, Noonie. This is also a wake-up call for me to finish this.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I published my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

It had been a month since they received the data. Life had gone back to normal—well, as normal as it could be. Lori, you, Bucky, and Henry were now living in a new place.

Out of nowhere, Bucky had shown you all his house—a stunning place by the beach. It had floor-to-ceiling glass walls and a garage filled with sports cars.

Lori’s jaw dropped in awe. “I thought you were one of those house-husband types."

“House husband?” Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t wanna know,” you said, brushing off the comment with a shake of your head.

You turned back to the house, your eyes scanning the sleek architecture. “So this is the payment for being a triple agent?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Bucky chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. “No. This is a gift from my dad—to make up for forgetting my 17th birthday.”

Your eyes widened. “You jerk! You made me pay for all the drinks that time!” You playfully shoved his shoulder.

“You were my supervisor back then,” he said, grinning. “It would’ve been disrespectful to say no.”

Then, his expression softened. He reached for your hand and held it gently. “But now, no more lies. Not with you.”

There was a pause. The wind from the beach brushed through your hair as you looked at him, really looked at him. The sunlight caught the side of his face, and in that moment, he wasn’t a spy or a survivor—just someone who wanted a fresh start, same as you.

Inside the house, Lori watched through the large window, a soft smile on her lips.

“My work here is done,” she whispered dramatically.

Henry, sprawled on the sofa with one arm draped over his eyes, groaned. “Are you done spying on them?”

“This isn’t spying,” Lori said, arms flailing in protest. “It’s observation. As Cupid, I did a fantastic job. Romance is in the air!” She clapped her hands. “I can’t wait to be my aunt’s flower girl.”

Henry scoffed, shifting to sit upright. “I wish life was really that easy—for people like me, your aunt, and Bucky.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, frowning.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We live in shadows, Lori. Danger, secrets... The kind of life you’re picturing? It’s not real for people like us. Most of us live with fear, not freedom.”

Lori’s shoulders sagged. “That’s not fair. But you’ve all quit. You deserve another chance. A new start.”

Henry stared at the floor for a moment. “If it were that simple, I’d have reconciled with my ex, and I’d be living in a house with a white picket fence.” He chuckled bitterly. “Instead, I’m here—still alone.”

After a beat, he turned to her. “By the way, why didn’t you go to school?”

Lori glanced away, suddenly interested in the ceiling. “I’m doing online classes.”

“Uh-huh…” Henry raised an eyebrow.

He tilted his head. “What about your mom? Don’t you miss her?”

“She’s busy. Doing a book tour,” she mumbled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I prefer being here.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

You and Lori were walking down the grocery store aisle, your cart half-filled as the wheels squeaked beneath it. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and the cold air from the freezer section drifted across your arms.

Lori reached for a bag of chips and glanced around. “Aunty, remember the last time we came to the store? Someone tried to shoot us—and that’s how we met Bucky.”

You shot her a sharp look and whispered, “Don’t say it out loud.” You scanned the other shoppers, your instincts still on edge.

Lori shrugged, unfazed. “Do you think something exciting will happen again?”

You sighed, pushing the cart forward. “Dear God, I hope not.” You handed her the shopping list. “Can you grab half of the things from the list? Start with aisle three.”

“Okay,” she replied cheerfully, skipping off toward the cereal aisle.

Lori reached for a cereal box on the top shelf, tiptoeing to grab it. As she pulled it down, her grip slipped—almost sending the box tumbling in slow motion. But before it could hit the floor, a hand caught it swiftly.

“Thank you,” she said, blinking in surprise.

The man, dressed in a dark coat, gave her a brief nod. “Pozhaluysta,” (*You're welcome) before turning and walking away without another word.

Lori tilted her head, watching his retreating back. Something about him felt... off. She clutched the box tighter and hurried to find you.

You were by the produce section, picking out apples, when Lori came running up.

“Aunty, I just met someone. He helped me with the cereal box. I think he’s a foreigner—maybe Russian?”

Your smile faded. “Russian?” Your stomach turned. A chill ran down your spine.

You grabbed her wrist gently. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

Back home, the tension clung to you like damp air. You unpacked the groceries in silence, glancing over each item as if expecting something to jump out. Then your hands froze.

Taped under the cereal box was a small note. Folded once. Slipped so subtly it could’ve been missed.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

“Not fair.” - Written in Russian.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Bucky entered the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing your expression.

Wordlessly, you handed him the note.

His eyes scanned the message. His jaw clenched. “Is that…?”

“I’m not sure,” you whispered. “But I have a bad feeling. That man—he spoke to Lori.”

Bucky exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not a good sign.”

You stared out the window, heart pounding. “We have to protect her.”

“She won’t like it,” he warned gently, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You looked back at him, voice firm. “She doesn’t have to like it. She just has to be safe.”

You and Bucky sat Lori down in the living room. The air was heavy with unspoken tension. She tilted her head, curious but cautious.

You took a deep breath. “Lori… I called your mom. She agreed—it’s time for you to go back.”

Lori blinked, her expression frozen for a second. Then her eyes welled with tears. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t want to go. I like it here.”

Your heart cracked at the sight of her trembling lips and glassy eyes. “Sweetheart,” you knelt in front of her, holding her hands gently, “I know it’s hard to understand, but you’re not safe here anymore.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Why? Didn’t you say we were done with the agency? That they wouldn't bother you guys again?”

“We did,” Bucky said quietly, standing nearby with his arms crossed, his jaw tight. “But this isn’t about the agency.”

“Then who?” Lori asked, her voice shaking.

You looked her in the eyes. “Grigory. The weapons dealer. The one from the book you read.”

Lori blinked. “Wait... wasn’t he dead?”

“In the book, yes,” you said softly. “But in real life, there was no body. No confirmation. Just silence.”

Henry, lounging in the corner, added, “His daughter is dead. And that only means one thing—revenge.”

The room fell silent.

Bucky looked down at the floor, jaw clenched. His knuckles were white as he gripped the back of the chair. It was his bullet that ended her life. No one said it, but everyone knew.

You reached out, gently squeezing Bucky’s hand. “It was an order,” you whispered, reminding him—reminding yourself.

That mission had haunted both of you. Sleepless nights. Regret. Silence. The kind of guilt that never left.

Lori wiped her tears and looked at both of you. Her voice was soft but strong. “Then don’t stay stuck in the past. You’ve both punished yourselves long enough.”

Her words pierced straight through you. Bucky looked up in surprise. Even Henry paused, visibly impressed.

“How did you come up with that?” Bucky asked.

“I read a lot of books,” Lori said with a sniff. “Most of the main characters carry trauma. But they learn to live. To move forward.”

She smiled gently. “And destiny always brings people together. If it’s meant for you—it’ll always find a way back to you.”

You choked back a laugh, pulling her into a hug. “Oh, Lori.”

Henry folded his arms with a smirk. “If I’d hired someone like you back in the day, maybe my agents would’ve stuck around longer.”

Bucky leaned over and whispered, “You’re ruining the moment.”

You cupped Lori’s face and looked her in the eyes. “It’s still not safe… but I promise, once this is over—once we’re sure no one is coming after us—we’ll be together again. No more running. No more danger.”

Lori wiped her eyes and nodded slowly. “Fine. But you have to promise we’ll see each other again. Soon.”

The next day, the car was packed and waiting. You walked Lori to the passenger side, holding her hand the whole way.

Bucky stood by the driveway, hands in his jacket pockets.

Before getting in, Lori turned to him. “Will you meet me again?”

He gave her a half-smile. “Of course. We’re besties.”

She giggled, wiping her eyes again. “You better not forget.”

“I won’t,” he said, giving her a small salute.

She climbed into the car, rolled the window down, and waved at Bucky and Henry.

“Bye, guys!”

“Take care, kid,” Henry called, raising his hand.

Bucky gave a short nod and watched the car drive away, silent.

You didn’t say a word as you drove. But your grip on the steering wheel tightened, and your heart quietly promised Lori: This won’t be the end.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The sun dipped low as you drove along the winding highway, mountains casting long shadows over the road. Lori sat quietly beside you, clutching her backpack and watching the trees blur past the window. For the first time since this morning, things seemed calm.

Then you noticed it.

A black SUV, maybe two cars behind. You glanced at the rearview mirror again. Same distance. No change in speed. No attempt to pass.

Your eyes narrowed. You tapped the steering wheel twice—a silent habit whenever your instincts kicked in.

“Aunty?” Lori turned to you.

“Lori, buckle up,” you said calmly.

She frowned but obeyed. “Why?”

You glanced in the mirror once more. The SUV changed lanes as you did. Then another car appeared—one you hadn’t seen before. And then another.

Three. Maybe four.

“They’re following us,” you muttered, your tone low.

“What?” Lori’s voice jumped.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gripped the wheel tighter and pressed down on the gas.

The engine roared as your car surged forward. Tires screeched behind you.

The first bullet hit your rear windshield. Glass shattered.

Lori screamed and ducked instinctively. You kept driving.

Two black sedans flanked you, forcing you into the center lane. Your heart pounded. The world slowed around you—your training taking over.

You swerved right, clipping one of the cars. It spun out, slamming into the guardrail.

“Hold on!” you shouted, pulling a hard left. Lori screamed again, gripping the handle on the ceiling.

You barreled down a side road, the remaining cars close behind. Another shot whizzed past, barely missing your side mirror.

Lori clutched your arm. “They’re still behind us!”

“I see them.”

A third car pulled alongside. A man leaned out with a rifle.

You jerked the wheel, slamming your car into his before he could fire. He flew off-balance. The car spun and crashed into a ditch.

Two left.

You made it to an overpass, but one of the cars rammed into your bumper hard. You lost control for a second, the car skidding toward the concrete barrier.

Lori screamed as you fought the steering. The tires squealed.

Another shot—this one grazed your shoulder. You hissed, pain shooting down your arm.

Then, from the side—a blur of motion.

Boom!

An explosion rocked the road behind you. One of the chasing cars was suddenly engulfed in fire.

Bucky’s motorcycle tore into view like a beast out of hell, his face hidden behind a dark visor, rifle slung across his back.

He shot the last car’s front tire. It flipped in mid-air and crashed in a storm of metal and sparks.

You tried to slow down, adrenaline crashing hard. But the blood loss…

You blinked. The world tilted.

“Aunty!” Lori grabbed your arm. “You’re bleeding!”

You smiled faintly, your voice thin. “You’re safe…”

Then everything went black.

🏥🏥🏥🏥

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly. You lay in a hospital bed, pale but stable, IV lines in your arm. Sedatives had knocked you out. You needed rest, the doctors said. No major internal injuries, but you’d lost too much blood.

Lori sat beside your bed, her arm wrapped in a light bandage. Just a scratch. Her eyes were red from crying, but she stayed strong.

“She protected me,” she whispered. “She didn’t stop driving.”

Bucky stood by the window, fists clenched, jaw tight. His eyes hadn’t left your still form.

He turned to Henry.

“This was a message,” Bucky said, voice low and seething.

Henry nodded grimly. “It was Grigory’s people.”

“That bastard sent mercs after a kid,” Bucky muttered. His tone was ice-cold. “I'm done waiting.”

“Bucky…” Henry tried to reason.

But Bucky was already walking out the door.

💥💥💥💥💥

A cold wind howled through the isolated forest surrounding the crumbling, once-grand mansion. The estate sat like a rotting carcass on the edge of the wilderness—tall iron gates, stone statues overgrown with ivy, and floodlights illuminating the perimeter.

Dozens of guards patrolled the grounds—heavily armed and alert.

But they started dropping.

One by one.

A suppressed sniper round tore through the silence.

A guard on the rooftop collapsed without a sound.

Another crumpled near the front steps, his rifle clattering to the ground.

Panic began to spread. Shouts in Russian echoed through the comms.

“Sniper! Find the bastard!”

But it was too late. Bucky Barnes was already inside.

He moved like a shadow. Black tactical gear, rifle in hand, knife strapped to his thigh. The Winter Soldier persona—cold, controlled, unstoppable—had returned.

Two guards turned the corner.

Two clean shots. Both down before they could raise their weapons.

He stormed down the hallway, the marble floor stained with footprints and blood. He knew exactly where Grigory would be.

Grigory sat behind an antique desk, a cigar smoldering in a crystal ashtray. His once-refined face now worn, eyes bloodshot, grief having chewed through the edges of his sanity.

When the door slammed open, Grigory didn’t even flinch.

Bucky walked in, gun raised, expression stone-cold.

“Been a long time,” Grigory said with a bitter smirk.

“You look worse than your last Interpol photo,” Bucky said, stepping closer.

Grigory stood slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky’s.

“Why do you get to keep going?” he growled. “Why do you get to live while I’m still haunted by my daughter every goddamn day?”

“If it were anyone else asking me that,” Bucky replied coldly, “I’d say I was sorry.”

He took another step forward.

“But not you.”

Grigory’s eyes darkened. His fists clenched. “You murdered my daughter.”

“No,” Bucky said, voice low. “Your weapons murdered millions. Your daughter was just unlucky enough to have a monster for a father.”

Grigory snapped.

“Suka blyad’!” he cursed in Russian, slamming his fist against the desk. Rage boiled over in his face.

“And you hurt my girlfriend and her niece,” Bucky continued, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. “That’s my line. You crossed it.”

“I lost everything!” Grigory roared. “You took her from me! You—!”

“You killed her the moment you turned your back on humanity,” Bucky cut him off, voice like ice. “You don’t get to play the victim.”

Grigory’s hand twitched toward the drawer.

Too late.

Bang!

The shot echoed through the study. A perfect center-mass hit.

Grigory staggered back, coughing blood, collapsing into his leather chair—eyes wide, frozen in disbelief.

Bucky stepped closer, looming over him.

“For someone like you, hell follows you wherever you go,” he whispered.

Grigory’s body went limp.

Bucky stood there in the silence, breathing steady, smoke rising from the muzzle of his pistol.

After 7 years, the mission is finally complete.

🏥🏥🏥🏥

Soft sunlight seeped through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the white bedsheets. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the quiet room, steady and calm.

You had just opened your eyes, groggy from the medication but alive — and that was enough.

Lori sat by your side, her small hand wrapped around yours. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw you awake.

“Auntie,” she whispered, teary-eyed. “You scared me.”

You gave her a tired smile, gently brushing your fingers across her cheek. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to.”

Just then, the door opened.

Bucky stepped inside, blood wiped clean, his clothes changed, but the weight of the night still clung to him. When he saw your eyes open, something in him shifted — relief, deep and real.

Behind him, Henry stood near the hallway, quietly speaking to your sister. His usually cold tone softened. Your sister immediately came here when she heard you got admitted to the hospital. 

“Don't let cancer decide how you live your life,” she told him, arms crossed but voice steady. “Just... enjoy the time you’ve got. That’s more than most people get.”

Inside the room, Lori noticed Bucky and grinned.

“Bucky!” she whispered loudly, running over to hug him. He knelt and caught her easily, holding her close.

“Hey, troublemaker,” he said softly. “You did good.”

After a few more minutes, everyone began to leave the room, giving you space to rest. Lori gave you one last hug and whispered, “I’ll be just outside.”

Now, it was just the two of you.

Silence lingered for a moment, comfortable but heavy with things unspoken.

Bucky pulled a chair beside your bed and sat down, resting his arms on his knees. He looked at you — not the way a soldier looks at a survivor, but the way a man looks at something he almost lost.

“I thought I’d lose you,” he said quietly, his voice raw.

You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his knuckles. “But you didn’t lose me.”

He looked down at your hand in his, holding it a little tighter. “No. But for a moment, I thought I had.”

You exhaled softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You’ve been through worse, haven’t you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. But this felt different. Watching that car chase, hearing your voice on the radio — it wasn’t just a mission. It was you.”

You let the silence hang between you for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe it’s time we stop living like we’re waiting for the next disaster.”

He met your eyes, tired but clear. “Maybe it’s time to figure out what comes next.”

You studied his face — the faint bruises along his jaw, the fatigue in his eyes, but also the calm. It was new. And it felt real.

“You think we’ve got a shot at this?” you asked, your voice low.

He gave a slight smile. “We’ve been through enough. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I’d rather face it with you than without you.”

You laughed gently, your ribs aching with the motion. “That’s the most un-Bucky romantic line I’ve ever heard.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the edge of your bed. “Don’t get used to it.”

You grinned. “No promises.”

There was a pause. The room felt still, peaceful — like the world had slowed down just enough to let you breathe again.

“So... what now?” you asked.

Bucky gave your hand a light squeeze. “Now we take it slow. One step at a time. No rushing. No running.”

You nodded, the weight on your chest a little lighter. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And there was no urgency for the first time in a long while. Just the quiet possibility of something new.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

4 Years Later

Lori sat cross-legged on the soft rug in the living room, her little finger trailing under the words of a worn fairytale book. Her voice was animated, each sentence full of wonder.

“And then the princess said, ‘I don’t need a prince to save me — I’ve got dragons to tame!’”

Two twin toddler boys sat across from her, each holding a stuffed toy — one a plush lion, the other a squished airplane with a bent wing. They weren’t talking much yet, just babbling nonsense and giggling at the sound of her voice. But they were listening, eyes wide, fully locked in on the story.

Lori looked up and smiled at them. “You two don’t even know what a dragon is, do you?”

One of the twins drooled onto his lion, the other clapped like she’d just finished a Broadway performance.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile widened. “Guess I’ll have to teach you everything.”

Just then, the front door opened with a soft click, and a familiar voice called out, “We’re home.”

Lori’s eyes lit up as she looked over her shoulder.

You stepped in, shrugging off your coat, Bucky right behind you, holding a paper bag of leftover popcorn and drinks from the cinema. His hair was slightly windblown from the ride home, and he looked as tired as he was amused.

“How’s the movie?” Lori asked, hopping up with more energy than grace.

Bucky scoffed, tossing the bag onto the table. “Tsk. Five out of ten. Who the hell played my character?”

You grinned as you started pulling off your shoes. “He said that after I mentioned the actor was handsome.”

Lori gasped. “You said that in front of Uncle Bucky?”

You winked. “I like to keep him humble.”

The twins toddled toward Bucky, one holding out the bent-wing airplane. Bucky scooped them up easily, one in each arm, like it was second nature. They squealed, delighted, calling him “Buck-buck” in their half-formed baby language.

Lori’s attention shifted to the entryway table, where you had placed a single white rose in a thin glass vase. She stepped closer, her eyes softening.

“That’s…”

You nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah… visited him.”

Before the movie, you and Bucky had stopped by the cemetery — Henry’s grave. The moment had been quiet, no need for words. Just the two of you, standing there with a white rose and a shared memory.

After finding out that Henry had cancer, it brought the three of you closer. You traveled, shared laughter, arguments, stories, and pain. And six months later, Henry passed, surrounded by the only people who had truly seen him for who he was.

On his deathbed, he said, “No regrets. Not anymore. Not when you’re here.”

At the funeral, Lori cried harder than anyone. Losing Henry brought back every memory of her own father. The grief hit her like a storm. But you never left her side.

And when you asked her to be your flower girl for the wedding, something shifted. The sparkle returned. The stories returned. So did her laughter.

And now, four years later, you and Bucky had built something real. It hadn’t been easy — nothing worth keeping ever is. But you weren’t stuck in the past anymore. You’d fought for this life, and somehow, against all odds, you’d made it yours.

You sat down beside Lori, brushing her hair behind her ear as the twins giggled in the background.

“You were right,” you said softly.

She blinked. “About what?”

You smiled. “Romance is alive.”

She grinned, her nose scrunching in that familiar way. “Told you.”

Bucky stepped behind you, resting a hand gently on your shoulder. The sunlight pouring through the window made the room feel like a moment suspended in time — warm, safe, and finally, yours.

My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

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Amazon.com: Dad, I Can't Let You Go eBook : Bing, Alina C.: Kindle Store

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His Favorite Part of You [Random TWST x Reader]

None of this is planned. Just writing whatever comes to mind.

Leona likes the heat of your body and the softness of your skin. The women of the Sunset Savana can be their own kind of soft but nothing compares to you. He gets the best, deepest sleep when he snuggles into your thighs. Your stomach is a close second but your thighs are literally magical to him and he will take every opportunity to touch them, squeeze them, and sleep on them.

---

Jack finds himself in awe of your hands and doesn't really know why. Consciously, at least. He likes that they're smaller than his and gets a kick out of those blunt little nails that could never compare to claws. The more he thinks about it, though, your hands are always reassuring and supportive. They've patted on him on the shoulder and tugged him at the elbow when you're begging for him to slow down so you can catch up on your little legs.

Warm and soft. Perfect for helping him reach spots he can't scratch or work knots out of his muscles.

They're perfect.

--

Lilia finds your expressions adorable and charming. He can't pick just one because you have so many! You've a very honest face and for some reason it just tugs at his heart. The way your eyes get steely and determined when you're facing someone down makes him proud. His favorite expression is the one you make when he swings down from the ceiling; you jump, seize, and look like you want to fall back before everything snaps back together and you try to set him ablaze with your eyes. After the fire in your eyes burns low, the tender amusement kindles (even if you snort dismissively).

---

Rook can only chalk it up to his penchant for hunting, for identifying the common weak points in prey, but he thinks your neck is especially lovely. No matter how you turn, you always look picturesque. The neck is delicate and intimate; he could trace his lips up the column of your throat and whisper in your ear or pepper kisses down the length of it until his chin finds its resting place in your shoulder.

When he gives you jewelry, you give him absolute trust at the back of it. You're so unguarded, soft, and vulnerable. He could wrap his hands around it or make you completely limp with a grab but he would never do so unless you desired.

---

Silver likes your lips. It's hard enough to pay attention when he's so sleepy but something about your lips just moving is captivating to him. He could watch you recite the alphabet or just read a grocery list and it's like he's hearing someone for the first time. The way your lips pull, plump, thin, but most importantly smile.

Ugh. Those lips are in his dreams. A lot of dreams. But he'll never tell you.

---

Vil has found himself falling in love with the most unusual thing. Something he would've never imagined, at least. You have the cutest scrunch to your nose and he lives for it. He first picked up on it when you wrinkled your nose in disgust at a pop quiz in Trein's class. When he notice it also scrunches in delight, like the time Deuce surprised you with a cupcake, he found himself very amused.

His favorite, however, is when you're sitting in front of him with your eyes closed. Vil never lets you see until he's done but promises perfection every time. He's got a myriad of different brushes and delights in brushing them over your face. Your nose scrunches as he tickles you with a fluffy brush and he can't help but steal a kiss.

---

Deuce didn't know he was a leg man until he was looking at yours. Ace found a way to dip on the yardwork Ramshackle so desperately needed but he wouldn't bail. Given the bramble, he was surprised you opted to come out in shorts but it was kind of hot.

And so were you.

Your legs just kept going and going! The way your muscles rippled as you squatted and tugged weeds was mesmerizing. He's clearing bundles of dried branches and you're right there with him, almost keeping step as you drag forward and he's impressed!

It was going good until he spent too much time looking at you instead of where he was going and face-planted in his branch pile. Nothing was hurt but his pride, thankfully.

[misaerabl]

Feeding The Fire

Academic Rival Abby X F!Reader SUMMARY: In the elite world of Ravenswood Preparatory Academy, your rivalry with Abby Anderson has always been a blaze of ambition and sharp words. Forced to work together on a high-stakes project, the fire between you begins to shift as late-night study sessions and unguarded moments reveal the vulnerabilities behind Abby’s perfectionism. When an argument at her house exposes the weight of her relentless drive, sparks ignite into something far more intimate. What starts as a battle for dominance becomes a journey of understanding—and something else as fiery as your rivalry. WARNINGS: Plot with smut, eating out (r & a receiving), a riding on r's face, swallowing come, fingering (r receiving)

Ravenswood Preparatory Academy wasn’t just a school—it was a battlefield. Not in the way of physical fights or dramatic standoffs in the cafeteria, but in the quiet, cutthroat war of academics. The halls buzzed with the chatter of straight-A students, all vying for valedictorian, internships, or that one golden-lettered acceptance from the Ivy League. You were no stranger to the competition. In fact, you thrived on it.

But then, there was Abby Anderson.

Where you clawed your way to the top with late-night study sessions and sheer determination, Abby seemed to coast through effortlessly. She was the Abby Anderson—student council president, captain of the debate team, and the top of every leaderboard. She didn’t just ace her exams; she annihilated the curve, leaving you—and everyone else—in her wake.

Your rivalry wasn’t personal, at least not at first. It was just a fact of life, like the sun rising in the east or Ms. Callahan assigning an absurd amount of reading. But over time, it evolved into something more. A sideways glance during test results. A clipped comment in class discussions. A subtle smirk when one of you outdid the other.

By senior year, the rivalry had become the stuff of legend. Teachers tried to keep their distance, afraid to spark a wildfire between you. The rest of the school watched with bated breath, waiting to see who would claim the top spot once and for all.

And then, Ms. Callahan dropped the bomb.

“Your final project will be done in pairs.” Her voice carried across the room, calm and steady, as if she didn’t just upend the lives of her most competitive students.

You barely had time to react before she added the kicker: “And the partners… have been assigned.”

The tension in the room was palpable. A few students groaned, others exchanged wary glances. You sat frozen, gripping your pen as Ms. Callahan began listing names.

When she got to yours, you heard it before you saw it: the sharp intake of breath, the audible pause.

“...Anderson.”

Your head whipped around, locking eyes with Abby, whose expression mirrored your own disbelief. It wasn’t anger or annoyance—not yet, anyway. Just pure, unfiltered dread.

Ms. Callahan’s voice pulled you back to reality. “I expect great things from the two of you.”

Of course, she did. Of course, she thought pairing the two fiercest rivals in the school was a brilliant idea.

You didn’t even hear the rest of the assignments. All you could think was: This is going to be a disaster.

The Aftermath

The bell’s shrill ring echoed through the room, but you remained seated, the words “Anderson” still ringing in your ears. Your classmates filed out, some throwing you sympathetic glances, others shooting amused smirks.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” Abby said, stopping at your desk. Her tone was light, but there was an unmistakable edge to her smirk—one that ignited the familiar spark of irritation deep in your chest.

You forced yourself to look up, meeting her gaze. “Don’t think for a second that I’m going to let you take over this project.”

Her smirk widened, like you’d just issued a challenge. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, I’m sure I’ll need someone to double-check your work.”

Her words hit like a match to kindling, and you felt the fire flare. You opened your mouth to respond, but she was already walking away, her ponytail swaying with each step.

This wasn’t just a project. It was war—or so you thought.

The First Meeting

Monday after school, you found yourself heading to the library with a mix of dread and determination. Abby was already there, seated at a table with her laptop open and a cup of coffee by her side.

“Right on time,” she said, not looking up.

“Let’s skip the small talk,” you said as you sat across from her. “What’s your grand plan for making this work?”

She leaned back in her chair, her arms crossing in a way that seemed both casual and calculated. “I’ve already outlined a few ideas. You can handle the visuals—I’ll take care of the research.”

You snorted. “Of course, you think you get to decide everything.”

Abby tilted her head, her smirk softening into something almost playful. “Do you ever stop arguing?”

“Do you ever stop being insufferable?” you shot back, but there was no real venom in your voice.

For a moment, the fire between you burned differently—still hot, but less about competition and more about the way her eyes lit up when she laughed softly under her breath.

Sparks Beneath the Flames

The first week of working together was a rollercoaster. Arguments about the direction of the project turned into hours-long brainstorming sessions, punctuated by Abby’s dry humor and your exasperated comebacks.

“You’re not bad at this,” she admitted one day, her tone grudging but honest.

“Wow, Abby Anderson complimented me,” you said, feigning shock. “Someone mark the date.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t hide her smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

As the days passed, the rivalry that had defined your relationship began to shift. It wasn’t just about outdoing each other anymore. Somewhere in the late nights at the library and the shared coffee runs, you started noticing things—like how she always brought an extra pen because you’d forgotten yours, or how her confident exterior cracked when she doubted an idea.

And then there was the way her hand brushed yours as you both reached for the same book. It was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you—like a spark catching on dry wood.

Feeding the Fire

By the second week, the lines between rivalry and something more had blurred. Your arguments had turned into playful banter, and your stolen glances lasted just a little too long.

One evening, as you sat across from Abby in the dimly lit library, you found yourself staring at her—not in frustration, but in curiosity. The way her brow furrowed when she was deep in thought, the way her lips pressed together as she scribbled notes... it was mesmerizing in a way you didn’t want to admit.

She looked up suddenly, catching your gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt heavy, charged with something new.

“What?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, looking away, but your cheeks burned like an open flame.

And that was the moment you realized the fire between you wasn’t just about rivalry anymore. It was something deeper—something you weren’t sure you were ready for but couldn’t stop feeding.

The Vulnerable Truth

You didn’t know what to expect when Abby invited you over to her house. The idea of crossing into her personal territory felt... strange, like stepping into the heart of the storm. Her place was just as polished as you’d imagined—pristine furniture, meticulously arranged decor, and an eerie quietness that seemed at odds with Abby's fiery energy.

“I’ll grab us something to drink,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Left alone, you wandered around the living room, your eyes scanning the shelves and walls. Tucked among pristine family portraits and school trophies was a photo of Abby as a little girl. She was holding a medal, grinning wide, her eyes sparkling with pride. Beside her stood a man—her father, judging by the striking resemblance. His hand rested stiffly on her shoulder, his expression as cold and composed as the room itself.

It all clicked.

“Find something interesting?” Abby’s voice broke the silence, sharp and cutting.

You turned to see her standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and a guarded look on her face.

“I wasn’t snooping,” you said quickly, though you couldn’t shake the weight of what you’d just realized. “I just… saw the photo.”

Her jaw tightened. “Congratulations. You’ve cracked the case.”

“Abby, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” she snapped, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to dig into things that aren’t your business? To play armchair psychologist?”

You hesitated, then spoke softly. “I just wondered if that’s why you push yourself so hard. Why you have to be the best.”

Her eyes flared, the fire in them unmistakable. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She turned on her heel and stormed down the hall, disappearing into what you assumed was her room.

For a moment, you stood frozen, unsure whether to follow. But then you heard the muffled thud of something hitting a wall, and your feet moved before your brain could catch up.

The Confrontation

You knocked once on her door, but when there was no response, you pushed it open. Abby was standing by her bed, her back to you, her fists clenched at her sides.

“Abby, I—”

“Why are you here?” she interrupted, her voice trembling—not with anger this time, but something far more vulnerable.

“I just wanted to help,” you said, stepping closer.

She spun around, her eyes blazing. “Help? You think you can help me? You don’t know what it’s like to have someone expect perfection from you every single second of every day.”

Her words hit like a punch, raw and unfiltered. You’d seen Abby angry before, but this was different. This was Abby exposed, stripped of the armor she always wore so effortlessly.

“You think I like this? Being the one everyone’s watching, waiting for me to slip up?” She laughed bitterly. “Well, guess what—it’s not about being the best. It’s about not being a disappointment.”

“Abby…”

Your voice was soft, almost pleading, but she was already pacing, her energy frantic. “Do you know what it’s like to see it in their eyes? The second you’re not good enough? I can’t—” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, her back to you again.

You didn’t think. You just moved, closing the space between you. “Abby, look at me.”

She turned slowly, her walls cracking further, and for the first time, you saw the weight she carried. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand brushing hers.

“I don’t care if you’re perfect,” you said, your voice steady. “I just care that you’re... you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the air between you felt electric. She looked at you, her guarded expression softening into something you couldn’t quite name.

And then she closed the distance, her lips crashing into yours.

A New Kind of Fire

The kiss was urgent, fueled by all the tension that had built between you—weeks, months, maybe even years of unspoken words and unresolved feelings. Her hands gripped your shirt, pulling you closer, as if afraid to let go.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. Abby’s forehead rested against yours, her eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, understanding, maybe both.

“I hate you,” she whispered, but there was no venom in her voice, only a shaky vulnerability that made your heart ache.

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No, you don’t.”

She huffed a laugh, the tension between you easing slightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are,” you murmured, your thumb grazing her cheek.

For the first time, the fire between you didn’t burn—it warmed.

The Fire Between You

The air in Abby's room felt heavier, charged with something that neither of you could deny anymore. The soft hum of the outside world seemed miles away, and all that mattered was the space between you and Abby, the heat that radiated from her touch as she pulled you back in.

Her hands gripped your waist with a desperation that matched the fierce hunger in her kiss, her lips pressing against yours with a sense of urgency, as though she was trying to make up for lost time. The tension from earlier—the unspoken words, the anger, the vulnerability—had all bled away, replaced by something far more consuming.

You melted into her, your hands finding their way to her shoulders, to her hair, tugging her closer. There was nothing delicate about this kiss. It was messy, raw, a clash of need and emotion. Abby’s body was warm against yours, her breath shallow as she deepened the kiss, pulling you closer, never letting go.

Her arms wrapped tighter around your waist, her fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt as if she was afraid to lose you in this moment. You could feel her heartbeat, fast and erratic, mirroring your own, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like a battle. The competition, the rivalry—it all faded, and what was left was just the two of you, tangled up in each other.

When she finally broke away, both of you were gasping for air, your lips swollen from the intensity of it. Abby's eyes were wild, her pupils blown wide, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath.

"God," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn’t think… I didn’t think it would be like this."

You could barely form words, your mind racing from everything that just happened. "Neither did I."

But there was no going back now. Not when the fire between you had been lit, not when everything that had once seemed like a fight now felt like something else entirely.

Abby ran her fingers through her hair, her breath shaky. "I—I don’t know how to do this," she admitted, her voice laced with hesitation. "I’ve never... with anyone... not like this."

You reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "You don’t have to have all the answers, Abby. I don’t either."

She met your gaze, the uncertainty still flickering in her eyes, but something else too. "Are we... are we really doing this?" she asked, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

You leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss across her forehead, a silent answer to her question. "Yeah. I think we are."

And as you held her, her body pressed against yours, you both realized that maybe the fire that had always burned between you wasn't meant to destroy—it was meant to light something new. Something neither of you had expected but both of you desperately needed.

The Fire Ignites 

Abby’s hands slipped underneath your shirt, her touch warm against your skin. A mischievous glint flashed in Abby's eye as her hand slid under your shirt, savoring the feel of your heated skin. She traced her fingertips teasingly along your stomach, feeling them tense under her touch.

Her hands reached around your back, finding the hook of your bra with expert ease. She unhooked it slowly, her eyes locked onto yours, daring you to pull away. As the bra fell open, she slid her hands around to your front, gently pushing the fabric aside to feel your bare skin.

As the bra slipped away, Abby's hands cupped your breasts, her thumbs lightly brushing over your nipples. A soft gasp escaped her lips, feeling them harden beneath her touch. Your body arched instinctively into her hands, craving more contact.

A few moments ago, you had uncovered a vulnerable side of Abby, the reason behind her fierce drive. Now, everything had shifted—she was kissing you with a desperate intensity, her hands pulling you closer, touching you in ways you would've never thought would happen between you two, as if she couldn’t get enough. The heat between you escalated, your bodies pressed together, skin meeting skin, the air thick with desire.

With deft fingers, Abby started unbuttoning your uniform blouse, her knuckles lightly grazing your skin with each button she undid. Your breath caught in your throat as she pushed the blouse off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

You stood before her in just your skirt and underwear, feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable. "You look so pretty in your uniform,”

You blushed deeply at the compliment, your heart racing in your chest. Abby reached out and gently traced a finger along the waistband of your skirt, her touch sending shivers down your spine. "I've always loved this uniform on you," she murmured, her voice low and husky. 

"You do?" Normally, you prided yourself on keeping your cool, always ready with a witty comeback—especially when it came to Abby. But right now, in this heated moment, your usual confidence slipped away. Your mind felt scrambled, and all you could focus on was the sensation of her close to you, leaving you dizzy and lost in the moment.

“You're so beautiful," she whispered, her words. Her voice was a breathy whisper, full of longing. She reached out and gently pulled the skirt aside, revealing your matching panties. Abby's eyes lingered on the delicate fabric before looking back up at your face. "So beautiful” 

Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, your eyes darting between Abby's face and her hands. You bit your lower lip, your breathing growing faster as she slowly began to trace patterns on your thighs, her touch light and teasing. You squirmed slightly, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

Abby's touch ventured higher, her fingertips brushing against the edge of your underwear. She looked up at you, her blue eyes filled with a fiery intensity. "Can I?" she asked, her voice barely audible. Her fingers hooked into the elastic band of your underwear, waiting for your response.

You nodded almost imperceptibly, your heart pounding in your chest. Abby slowly pulled your underwear down, letting them pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, feeling completely bare before her. She stood up and gently pushed you onto her bed, kneeling between your legs. "You're so perfect,”

Abby slowly leaned in, pressing her lips to your inner thigh. She kissed and nibbled her way up, her touch gentle yet firm. Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping the bed tightly as anticipation built up inside you. When she finally reached your center, she paused and looked up at you.

With a smoldering gaze fixed upon you, Abby leaned in slowly, her warm breath tickling your most sensitive spot before she finally made contact. A surge of electricity coursed through your body as her tongue found its mark, your hips instinctively lifting off the bed sheets.

Abby wrapped her arms around your thighs to keep you in place, her pace slow and deliberate. She looked up at you again, her eyes filled with desire as she continued to lavish attention on you. Your hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the silky strands as your breathing grew heavier.

You couldn't hold back a moan as Abby's tongue danced around your sensitive flesh, sending waves of pleasure through you. Your body shook, your legs trembling as she worked her magic. "Abby, oh god, Abby," you whimpered, your voice strained with pleasure. "I'm…”

Her arms tightened around your thighs as she felt you nearing the edge. She quickened her pace, her touch becoming more insistent. Your back arched off the couch, your fingers gripping her hair tightly as you shattered, your voice echoing through the room as you cried out her name. "Abby!”

Abby continued her attentions as you rode out your high, prolonging your pleasure until you collapsed back onto the bed, your chest heaving. She placed a final kiss on your sensitive flesh before crawling up your body, a satisfied smirk on her face. 

Still caught in the throes of ecstasy, you could only manage a breathless giggle, your body tingling all over. You reached up, cupping Abby's face in your hands and pulling her into a deep, passionate kiss.

As you kissed her, you gently pushed her back, breaking the kiss. You looked up at her, your eyes shining with desire. "Now it's my turn," you said softly, reaching out to grasp the hem of her shirt. "I want you to strip for me, Abby. Slowly.”

As you broke the kiss, you looked up at Abby and whispered, "Strip for me." Your voice was husky from pleasure, your eyes dark with desire. Abby's smirk grew wider as she stood up, slowly reaching for the hem of her shirt. "With pleasure,”

Abby pulled her shirt up and over her head, revealing her toned midsection and the  bra barely containing her beautiful breasts. She tossed the shirt aside, her eyes never leaving yours. Her hands moved to her pants, unbuttoning them teasingly slow.

Abby shimmied out of her jeans, kicking them away as they pooled around her ankles. She stood before you in just her bra and panties, a sultry smile playing on her lips. Reaching behind her back, she unhooked her bra, letting it fall away to reveal her breasts.

“You look so good Abby…” 

Abby's smile grew wider as she heard your praise, her chest rising and falling with each breath. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, slowly sliding them down her legs. As she stepped out of them, she kicked them aside, standing before you completely naked.

With a mischievous grin, you patted your chest and said, "Come here, I want a taste." Abby's eyes glinted with amusement as she climbed back onto the couch, straddling your chest.

Abby slowly positioned herself over your face, her thighs on either side of your head. She lowered herself until her most intimate area was hovering just above your mouth. Your hands instinctively went to her hips as she gazed down at you with a look of pure lust. "Go ahead”

You eagerly buried your face between her thighs, your arms wrapping around her thighs to pull her closer. Your tongue explored her soft, wet folds, tasting her sweet nectar. Abby let out a low moan, her head falling back as she grinded against your face. "That's it…” 

In that moment, all you wanted was to make her feel good—wanted to be the one to lift her up, even if only for a while. As Abby was on top of you, every thought, every worry, faded away. You weren’t thinking about rivalry or perfection anymore. It was just about her—about giving her something real, something she might not have allowed herself to feel in a long time.

Abby's hands gripped the sheets as you worked your magic with your tongue. Her hips undulated in a sensual rhythm, riding your face with increasing urgency. Soft gasps and moans spilled from her lips, her eyes fluttering closed in bliss. "Don't stop…” 

Your dedication to pleasing her was unwavering, and it showed in the way you devoured her pussy. You sucked and licked with reckless abandon, your fingers digging into her thighs as you held her in place. Abby's legs began to shake, her body tensing as she approached her climax.

With a loud cry, Abby's orgasm hit her like a tidal wave. Her back arched, and she ground her pussy against your face, fucking your mouth with wild abandon. Her juices poured into your mouth, and you drank it all in, not stopping until she collapsed forward, her chest heaving.

Abby turned around and reversed her position on you, She shifted, moving to kneel between your spread legs. Her fingers trailed teasingly up your inner thigh before she suddenly plunged two digits deep into your aching core without warning. "You want this?"

You gasped, your hips bucking forward as Abby's fingers filled you. The sudden, intense sensation was both welcome and overwhelming. Your hands gripped the couch cushions, knuckles turning white as you braced yourself. "Yes... please, Abby," you panted, your voice barely a whisper.

Abby grinned mischievously, her eyes locked onto yours as she slowly began to move her hand. Her fingers curved upward, expertly finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur. Your breathing quickened, becoming shallow pants as she steadily increased the pace. "Abby... it's…”

Your words were cut off by a sharp cry as Abby added a third finger, stretching you deliciously. She could feel your walls fluttering around her digits, knowing you were close. "That's it, baby," she cooed, her thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles.

You thrashed your head back and forth, your mouth open in a silent 'O' as Abby's fingers worked you into a fever pitch. Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling hard as your hips lifted off the couch, meeting her thrusts. "Abby... I'm... I'm…”

Abby's eyes darkened with triumph as she felt your body tense, your orgasm imminent. She leaned in close, her breath hot against your ear. "Let go. Come for me," she commanded, her fingers plundering your soaked depths with increased fervor.

Your back arched sharply as your climax hit you like a tidal wave. You cried out Abby's name, your voice echoing through the room as your inner muscles clenched rhythmically around her fingers. Abby held you through it, prolonging your pleasure until you collapsed back against the cushions, spent and trembling.

Abby's expression softened as she looked down at you, cuddled against her chest. She stroked your hair gently, her voice tender. "That was… You were-" she murmured.

Abby chuckled softly, her fingers trailing down your back. “Incredible. You're incredible.” She pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

Then, the air shifted—suddenly, she grew quiet, her expression turning serious. She held you close, but there was a tension in her grip now, as if she was reminding herself of everything she had tried to guard against. She remembered what had brought you both to this moment, and it hit her all over again—this couldn’t be a sign of weakness, of letting her walls down completely. She didn’t want you to see the side of her that she had fought so hard to keep hidden, especially now that you knew why her drive for perfection had always been so intense.

Her fingers tightened around you, but the tension in her grip was clear—she was holding on, but not entirely letting go. Abby’s gaze flickered to yours, then quickly darted away, like she was trying to avoid something she wasn’t ready to face.

“I don’t... do this,” she murmured, her voice unsteady, the words almost lost in the quiet. “I don’t let people in.”

There was a sharpness in her tone, something defensive, reminding you that this wasn’t the Abby you’d come to know—the confident, determined girl who had always kept a distance. This was someone else, someone raw, someone afraid of being vulnerable.

“I’m not asking you to change,” you said softly, your hand brushing her arm. “I’m not asking you to let your guard down completely.”

Abby looked away again, her breath catching slightly as she shifted, pulling back just enough to create space between you. "You should go," she said, her voice suddenly more distant, the walls rising again. "This... doesn't change anything. You were right about me—about everything. It doesn’t just vanish."

You could feel the shift, the sudden return to the distance she’d always kept. Her walls were back up, thick and impenetrable.

"You don’t have to keep pretending with me," you said, your words barely more than a whisper, but they seemed to hit her harder than you intended.

She stiffened, her jaw tightening. "I’m not pretending," she snapped, her voice sharp. "This is just... it’s not normal for me. I’m not... like you. I can’t just... I can’t just let go. There’s always something to prove. To everyone."

Her words cut deeper than you expected. You knew she was driven, had always been, but hearing her admit it so plainly—how much she’d built her life around that need for control—made you realize how much harder it was for her to let someone in.

"I’m not asking you to," you said quietly, your voice steady. "I’m just here. I’m not going anywhere."

She met your gaze again, but this time there was something different in her eyes—hesitation, doubt, maybe even a little fear. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the same guarded expression she always wore.

"Don’t say that," she said, almost pleading. "Don’t act like I’m some... I don’t need someone waiting around for me. I don’t need anyone thinking they can fix me."

The words stung, but you knew they weren’t meant to hurt. She was trying to push you away, but this time, it felt different. Her voice, though sharp, wasn’t as certain as it usually was. You could see the cracks, but she wasn’t ready to let them show yet.

"I’m not here to fix you," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "I’m just here. And if you want me to go, I’ll go. But I’m not going to pretend like this didn’t happen."

Her eyes softened for just a moment, but before you could say anything else, she turned away, pulling the blanket around her tightly. "Please. Just go."

You hesitated, but nodded, the weight of the unspoken things between you heavier than the room around you. Without another word, you left, knowing that whatever had happened wasn’t over—not yet. And whether she would admit it or not, neither of you were the same as you were before.

Quiet Before the Storm

The next day, the library felt heavier than usual. There was a thickness in the air that you couldn’t quite shake, as if everything from the night before had followed you here. You'd barely seen Abby throughout the day. When you did, she seemed like she was in a different world, not meeting your gaze, not acknowledging you like she usually did.

You both had agreed to meet in the library to finish up the project, which was nearly done, but somehow it felt impossible to focus now. You were both supposed to be competitive, to push each other to be the best, to always come out on top. That was the deal. But now, after everything that had happened, things were different—this wasn’t just about grades or outshining each other anymore. It was something deeper, something much worse. There were feelings tangled up in it now, things that neither of you knew how to navigate.

You arrived early, trying to settle your nerves as you stared at the empty table. The clock on the wall ticked in time with the erratic beat of your heart. When Abby finally entered, you felt her presence before you saw her. She was just as you remembered—indifferent, guarded—but this time, there was something else in her eyes. A flicker of something unspoken, something that made you pause.

She didn’t acknowledge you, not in the way she usually did. Instead, she just walked past, set her things on the table, and sat down, almost mechanically. The usual fire in her eyes was gone, replaced by a quiet, almost unsettling calm.

"Let’s just finish this," she said, her voice devoid of the usual sharpness, flat and cold.

You nodded, but as the minutes passed, you realized this wasn’t the same. You weren’t just competing to finish a project anymore. This felt like a competition of something deeper, darker—something that neither of you had signed up for. The connection, the tension, everything that had happened between you both, was still hanging there in the space between you. It was worse than before, because now it wasn’t just academic pride or the need to be the best at school. This was about something more fragile, more vulnerable.

The silence between you both grew, and with it, the understanding that something had irrevocably changed. You both could feel it, but neither of you dared to address it. Instead, you kept working, but every movement felt heavier, as if the weight of your own thoughts and the lingering tension between you was suffocating you both.

It wasn’t just about competing for grades anymore. It wasn’t about who could be the smartest, the most driven, or the best in class. This—this was something worse. It was about what happened when all those walls you built around your pride and your achievements crumbled, and what you were left with was something real, something raw, something neither of you were prepared for.

You didn’t know if this was the end or the beginning of something far more complicated. But you did know one thing: it wasn’t going to be easy.

Something Beneath The Surface

The day of the presentation arrived, and despite the lingering tension between you and Abby, you both found yourselves sitting next to each other in class, preparing for what was supposed to be the grand finale of weeks of hard work. The project that had brought you together was almost complete. Almost. The day felt like it was going to be just another day—until it wasn’t.

Before the bell rang, there had been a quiet unease between you two. Abby had barely looked at you since you both walked in, her eyes focused on the project folder in front of her as she nervously fidgeted with a pen. The usual competitive spark in her eyes had dimmed, and she seemed distant—like she was holding herself back. You couldn’t help but notice the way her fingers tightened around the edges of the paper as if trying to keep herself from unraveling.

You sat quietly, your mind running through the final details of the presentation, but no amount of preparation could silence the knot in your stomach. You knew you couldn’t hide what had happened between you both, but now, in front of the entire class, everything was different. You weren’t just presenting to finish a project anymore. You were presenting as something else—something uncertain, tangled between unspoken feelings and unfinished business.

When the class started, you were called to go up first, and the usual nervousness was replaced by a tension that had nothing to do with the project. Abby stood beside you, her expression unreadable. You started presenting your section, your voice steady, but each word felt like it carried more weight than it should have. The class was watching, but it wasn’t the eyes of your classmates that made you feel exposed—it was Abby’s. She stood there next to you, speaking in her usual calm, collected tone, but her gaze never once met yours. She was speaking as if she were still trying to maintain control, as if this whole thing was just another task to cross off her list.

When it was over, the class clapped politely, but you barely heard them. All you could focus on was the space between you and Abby, the silence that lingered like an elephant in the room. You turned to her, hoping for something—some acknowledgment that you hadn’t just been two strangers presenting a project, but two people who had shared something much deeper.

She nodded stiffly, her eyes still avoiding yours. “Good job,” she muttered, but the words felt distant, like they weren’t meant for you at all.'

The bell rang, signaling the end of the class, and Abby didn’t wait a second longer. She gathered her things quickly, her movements sharp, like she was trying to escape something. Before you could say anything, she was out the door, leaving you standing there, unsure of what had just happened.

The rest of the class seemed to blur as you walked out, your thoughts racing, not about the project or the presentation, but about Abby. It wasn’t just the project that mattered anymore—it was the looming presence of Ivy Week, just around the corner. Everyone was preparing, everyone was talking about it. It was more than just a week—it was the culmination of years of hard work, of everything that mattered to Abby. And you? You were caught between that and everything that had happened between you two.

You stood there, thinking of what to do next. Should you follow her? Talk to her? Or should you focus on Ivy Week like everyone else and just let everything go?

But even as the question lingered, the anticipation of Ivy Week hung heavy. You could almost hear the voices of your classmates, already strategizing, preparing for what would come—the pressure, the competition, the stakes. Abby, as driven as she was, wouldn’t let this chance slip away, and neither would you. But with everything that had happened between you two, it felt like the real challenge wasn’t the Ivy Week itself—it was figuring out how to move forward when you both seemed to be walking on different paths, yet so undeniably intertwined.

Tipping Point

Ivy Week had arrived in full force, and with it came the heavy anticipation that hung over every conversation, every glance. You could feel it in the air—the competition, the tension, the pressure that had been building for months. It was everything everyone had been working for, and now, it was all coming to a head.

You barely had a chance to catch your breath before the news broke. Abby was in the hallway, talking to a group of friends when you overheard her name—your stomach dropped as you realized what they were saying. Abby had been accepted into Harvard. Of course, she had. She had everything it took—the perfect grades, the relentless drive, the ambition. It was all there, like a sign that her efforts had paid off. You felt a small sense of relief; you'd heard about your own acceptance into the Ivy League, and even though you had been so focused on the future, part of you had been dreading what it would mean for your relationship with Abby. You knew it had to come sooner or later—the fact that you were both destined for the same future.

As the day dragged on, it was clear that the excitement surrounding Abby’s acceptance was only making everything more complicated. The halls buzzed with congratulations, but to you, it felt almost suffocating. You’d worked just as hard—maybe even harder—to get to this point. But something about Abby's success, the way she held herself with that quiet, smug pride, made you feel like there was more to it than just academic rivalry.

The day ended, but the weight of the news was still hanging between you two, pulling at your every interaction. You couldn’t avoid Abby for long, and as the evening wore on, she showed up at your dorm room, her face unreadable.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly, her voice softer than usual. She hadn’t come to celebrate, not like you’d expected. Instead, there was an emptiness in her words.

“Thanks. Same to you,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You didn’t know what to say. There was so much tension between you two that you couldn’t even look at her without feeling like you were both trying to hold onto something that was slipping through your fingers.

“I wasn’t expecting it,” she said, a small, almost sad smile flickering on her lips. “But I guess... I guess it was inevitable, huh?”

You could tell she was trying to joke, but the bitterness in her voice was hard to ignore. You stood up, not sure if you wanted to get closer or push her away. "It doesn't feel like a win. Not yet," you said, your voice quiet, unsure if you were talking about Harvard, or about everything between you and her. "You were always going to get in. You always do."

Abby tilted her head, studying you carefully. “And you?” she asked, her tone suddenly more serious. “You think I’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? That this is the end of it for me? Getting into Harvard? It’s all just part of the plan, right?”

You were taken aback by the question. You didn’t know what to say. “It’s not just about that, Abby. We’ve been… we’ve been competing for so long, it feels like this whole thing was a game.”

She laughed, a small, dry sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe it was. But I don’t know if I know how to stop. Even now, even after everything that’s happened between us.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick with meaning. You could feel the tension crackling. “You don’t have to keep proving anything to me, Abby,” you said, voice wavering slightly. “You’ve already done more than enough.”

Her expression softened, but only for a second, before she seemed to close off again. "I don't know how to not keep proving it," she said quietly. "I’ve spent my entire life doing this—focusing on my goals, on everything being perfect. It’s who I am. And maybe, in some twisted way, I wanted you to be a part of that too. But I’m afraid, if I stop now, I might lose everything."

You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “You won’t lose anything,” you whispered, reaching out to touch her arm. "Not if you let yourself live a little. Let yourself have something outside of all this. Something that isn’t about competing. Something real."

Abby met your gaze, her eyes flickering with a mixture of confusion and fear, but also something else—something deeper, something raw. She stepped back, shaking her head. "I don't know if I can," she murmured, voice shaky. "Not after all this time. Not after everything I’ve sacrificed.”

The words stung, but you knew she was still in the process of understanding everything that had happened between you two.

"I get it," you said softly, trying to mask the hurt. "But maybe it’s time to stop pretending everything’s about winning. Or maybe you just don’t want to let go of the fight we’ve been having. Either way, we’ve been running from this for too long."

Abby didn’t answer right away, but the way she avoided looking you in the eyes told you everything you needed to know.

And as the night fell silent, the weight of Ivy Week, the pressure of the competition, and the uncertainty of your future together loomed over both of you. The storm wasn’t over, but it felt like you were both too exhausted to fight it anymore.

In the silence, all you could hear was your own heart beating, wondering what would come next.

After the Storm

It had been a few days since the tension had shifted between you and Abby, and though things had slowly started to feel lighter between you both, there was still a quiet sort of distance. You hadn't heard from her much after your last conversation, and while you didn’t mind the space, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside her head.

That’s when the knock on your door came.

You weren’t expecting anyone, especially not Abby, so when you opened the door to find her standing there, looking slightly apprehensive, you blinked in surprise. She was dressed in her usual cool, effortless way—jeans, a hoodie, and her sneakers, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. But her eyes, the ones you had come to know so well, were different this time. Soft. Vulnerable, even.

"Hey," Abby said, her voice a little rough. "Can I come in?"

You stepped aside, heart pounding for reasons you couldn't quite explain. "Of course."

She hesitated for a moment before walking in, her steps slow as she looked around your living room like she was unsure of how to act. The quietness between you two was palpable, but there was something in her expression that told you she was here to say something important.

You offered her a seat on the couch, and she took it without a word. You sat down across from her, crossing your legs, unsure of how to begin.

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice casual. "What’s up? What brings you here?"

Abby ran a hand through her hair, a nervous habit you had come to recognize. She seemed almost distant for a second, like she was debating whether or not she should say what was on her mind. Finally, she sighed.

"I’ve been thinking a lot lately… about everything," she started, her eyes meeting yours with an intensity that caught you off guard. "About the competition, about how everything was always about being the best. About how much I pushed everyone away, including you."

You blinked, taken aback by her honesty. Abby had never been the type to open up about her feelings so easily, especially not with someone she had been so competitive with.

"I get it," you said softly. "You were just doing what you thought you had to do. It wasn’t about me or anyone else, it was about you trying to be perfect in your own way."

Her eyes softened at your words, and for a moment, you both just sat in silence. The weight of everything that had happened—the arguments, the distance, the unspoken feelings—seemed to hang in the air between you, but there was something different now. Something that felt like the storm had passed, even if the aftermath was still lingering.

"I don’t want to keep pretending like I have everything figured out," Abby admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "I don’t want to keep pushing you away. You… you mean more to me than I’ve let myself admit. I’m just scared. I don’t want to mess this up."

You could feel your heart flutter in your chest. She wasn’t the same Abby who had always been so focused on her grades, her goals, her need to win. This was a new Abby—a more open, vulnerable version of herself that she’d kept hidden for so long.

But then, there was the hesitation, the quiet fear that lingered behind her words. "And my parents..." she trailed off, looking away. "They’ve always had these expectations for me—about what I should do, who I should be. They push me so hard, and I always felt like I had to be perfect for them. I didn’t want them to see you as… a distraction. I didn’t want them to think you were just some mistake. I didn’t want to disappoint them."

You listened, your heart sinking as you understood what had been holding her back. The weight of her parents’ expectations had been another chain keeping her from fully embracing what she wanted—what she needed.

You gently reached out, placing a hand on hers, feeling the coolness of her skin as she glanced back at you. "Abby, you don’t have to be perfect for them. You’re allowed to make your own choices. You deserve to be happy, and you deserve to have someone who sees you, not just the version they want you to be."

Abby met your gaze, and you saw something shift in her eyes—something lighter, like a part of her was letting go of the weight she’d carried for so long. "I know," she whispered, her voice quiet but firm. "And for the first time, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care if they disapprove of me being with you. I’m tired of living my life for them. I want to live for me."

The relief in her voice was palpable, and you couldn’t help but smile, your chest swelling with affection for her. You had always seen Abby as someone strong, driven by the need to be the best, but now you saw her in a different light—vulnerable, human, real.

She leaned in then, her hands cupping your face as she kissed you softly, her lips warm and tender against yours. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, an unspoken vow between the two of you that no matter what happened, you were both going to be okay.

When she pulled away, her forehead rested against yours, and you could feel her breathing even out, the tension from before finally dissolving.

"I don’t want to be scared anymore," she said quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I want to see where this goes. I want us to figure it out together, no more fear, no more pressure."

You nodded, your heart full of hope. "We will," you said, voice soft and sure. "Together."

And in that moment, everything felt right. The storm had passed, and what was left in its wake was a new beginning—a chance for both of you to be yourselves, without the weight of the past, without the fear of judgment. You didn’t need to be perfect. You just needed each other.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

A Sparrow at Sea 1/?

MDNI

Whitebeard pirates/reader (fem)

Summary: Turned into a bird as part of a slave-smuggling operation, you get your revenge - and then your revenge gets you. Panicked and alone, you crash land on a very large, very famous ship full of very large and quite infamous men.

I promised myself I wouldn't post another incomplete one-shot, but here we are! Dealing with a bit of burnout and could use the interaction, buddies. Aiming for maybe two more 'chapters.'

Enjoy!

Master List

The bastards turned you into a bird.

So, you set their fucking warehouse on fire.

You sat – perched – several rooftops away, watching the little flames you’d gathered work into the prepared kindling.

Satisfaction glowed warm in hollow bones.

It hadn’t been easy. You’d labored for hours, too angry to rest after escaping the Devil Fruit user’s sweaty hands as he tried to shake your shrunken body out of your clothes and into a cage. You’d pecked his hands bloody and taken off through a broken shutter.

The kidnappers’ second Devil Fruit user, a Zoan type, slammed into the wood behind you, the owl too big to fit through the same crack a sparrow could. He’d hooted in rage, and you went scrambling over rooftiles and windowsills, trying to understand how to grab things with your feet.

Adrenaline fed into growing anger, and your little heart pumped hard with outsized emotions. Hiding was easy when you were so small. Plenty of merchants threw covers over their market stalls at night, and every building had nooks and crannies you could hop inside. Away from the men, their fingers, and their talons.

Once the owl’s shadow stopped circling and the night lost its edge to the blue hour, you set about your revenge.

Flying was more or less intuitive (a few painful experiments aside). Figuring out what you could and couldn’t lift took longer. You’d hoped to wrap some coals to drop on your target, but they were too heavy and dangerous to manage without hands. You took to setting twigs and scraps alight in torches and open lanterns. The flames caught you more than once, but only your poor little feet. If you lost your feathers, you’d have new problems, and you’d rather struggle to stand than fail to fly. At least in your current shape.

Which you’d have to do something about.

At some point.

If it didn’t wear off.

Which was a level of horror you weren’t ready to face yet. You’d contemplate your future as you took a dust bath in the ashes.

What would’ve taken less than an hour in your human body took until daybreak as a sparrow.

You panted as you watched the fruit of your labor ignite like a second sun. Straw and twigs fed the blaze until it clawed past the shingles and into the beams, growing fast and hungry down the walls and into the great room below. You hoped their smuggled goods would go up in smoke. You hoped the man who’d taken your hand to seal a deal for a few pounds of fenced sea stone would lose skin, limb, or life.

Damned slave trader.

It had all been too well-rehearsed to be their first attempt, and the cage was old and well-used. It wasn’t a bad plan, practically speaking. None of the Yonkos liked having people from their territories poached, even if they participated in the trade themselves, and sneaking a whole person out of a busy port was no easy task, let alone a profitable number of whole persons. A cage full of sparrows, though? No one would look twice.

If you were bigger, you’d lock the doors so they could all burn together.

But maybe they would anyway. The first shouts didn’t rise until the roof had collapsed, and you imagined a room full of sleeping men slapped awake with fire and falling beams.

The flesh on your feet cracked as you adjusted your grip on the roof’s edge, but you took the pain with pride. You’d done this. They thought they stripped your power from you with your sturdy bones and your opposable thumbs, but they were all wrong. Dead wrong. Fuckers.

The smoke hung low over the town, blending with the dense fog rolling in from the sea. Leaping flames illuminated the haze and cast writhing shadows on the streets below. Just as the neighborhood woke to the smell and distant screams, and the first calls for water and aid rang out, a winged shadow launched through the hole that used to be the warehouse’s roof.

The owl looked more like a demon from your diminished perspective, and you hunkered low on instinct, hoping he wouldn’t see you – the one animal lacking common sense – lingering within blocks of the mounting inferno.

But sharp, predatory eyes locked on you, and he dove with a shriek that promised murder. He could disembowel you in the public square and no one would even know they were witness to your execution. The owl was built to stab, and rip, and tear flimsy little things like you apart.

His wings spread wide, and his talons flashed gold as they came to bear.

You flung yourself from the roof, flapping wildly to catch the air as you fell away from danger. The blades on the monster’s feet scratched into the wood where you’d just been, and your heart stuttered.

He wanted you dead as much as you wanted him to burn.

As the owl gathered himself, peering into the dark for his target, you managed to find your balance in the air. Fluttering low and fast, you took the first corner. Your hunter’s wings were silent, and you only knew how close he came when an unnatural breeze cur over your back.

Too close.

No matter how small and quick you were, so long as he kept you in sight, he was always a breath from drawing blood. He knew his shape, and you did not. Sooner or later, you’d run out of corners, out of obstacles to keep between you.

And then you would die.

As a fucking bird.

Overhead, the fog thickened as you neared the water. The smoke wasn’t so heavy, but plenty of people lost themselves in weather like this. Maybe you could lose an owl.

You pushed into the damp, white cloud, serpentining to keep the owl from diving at you again. A discontented rumble of a hoot broke the silence in your wake, and you raced on, chasing the sound of waves and the densest cover.

As the sun rose, the water vapor glowed, catching and holding the light. You hoped it blinded the predator. At least convince him the chase wasn’t worth it.

But you couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t see him. So, you kept on flying like you were being hunted. Just because you were clever didn’t mean you were the smartest one in the room. You’d learned that lesson the hard way many times over, and it rubbed itself into your fresh wounds all over again with the salty sea spray.

There was always someone quicker, someone sharper, someone stronger. Someone with better connections and greater wealth. And no one had the decency to lay their traps in the open with a warning signs for casual passersby.

Over confidence wouldn’t get you this time. You’d fly forever if meant escaping the Zoan-user.

It felt like you did fly forever.

The sun rose, the fog thinned, and you started circling to look above, below, and behind for the shadow of another, larger bird. Besides a few seagulls, though, nothing appeared. Which was a relief until the fog cleared away and nothing but ocean spread below you.

You nearly fell out of the sky when you realized you couldn’t see land. Not even a lump on the horizon. You’d thought the fog would be gone by midmorning, but you realized the sun was too high and too low at the same time, like it had already crested and started heading down.

You were lost.

Worse, you were tired.

Sparrows weren’t seabirds. They couldn’t soar through empty skies to far-flung islands without many rest points in between.

You had flown far. And you saw no rest points. Not even a rock or a breaching chunk of coral.

Panic drained into a reserve, fueling a mindless fugue state that pulled you away from your growing distress. Your wings burned, but you shouldn’t have them at all. Dangerous thoughts. If felt like you were still carrying fire in your fragile claws, and you shuddered as your legs tucked too close to your body. Wrong feet, wrong legs, wrong body.

You shouldn’t be a bird at all, and you were going to die as one because you picked a fight with many someones much bigger than you without any kind of escape plan or preparation. An idiot in feathers with a small brain and burnt toes.

How much longer could you stay aloft? If not for the strong wind, you thought you might’ve already dropped low enough for the higher waves to catch your wings. And then you’d be doomed. Death by drowning or a hungry shark. Maybe even pecked to death by the gulls loitering in your periphery.

What a way to go.

And then you saw a shape in the distance. Tall and broad. That was all you could make out. It could’ve been a sea king for all you cared, so long as it stayed above the surface and let you rest.

The thing had a whale’s face, but not a whale’s shape. A whale island? No. No, you realized those square clouds were sails. Those holes were for cannons, not little caves in a cliff. Even as a human, you distantly understood, the ship – because it could only be that – was enormous. The whale at the head made sense. Good gods, it might as well be a floating island. Or an island whale.

People milled around the deck, so you fluttered up, calling on the last of your energy and determination to find a safe roost. The top of an empty crow’s nest was just what you needed. You crashed into the platform, rolling into the mast, where you sprawled – legs up – under the crushing weight of survival.

[moonsglare]

nightmare. || various x reader

Sometimes pasts have difficulty staying buried. You help her through it all the same.

cw. allusions to childhood trauma/abuse, descriptions of nightmares

notes. in a hurt comfort kinda mood. also look she's formatting

ARLECCHINO

She's back there again.

The walls are cast in shadows, and there is not a single candle to light the darkened halls, making it seem as if it stretched on endlessly. The curtains are drawn shut, thick velvet suffocating any sliver of light. All along the halls are closed doors. The air is thick and stagnant, resting heavy on her shoulders like a blanket. Arlecchino— no, Peruere, takes a step forward. Then another, and another. She passes door after door after door. They seem more like headstones than anything else, and the house almost seems like a corpse itself.

Almost.

Because for as much as the house is still, it is not silent. Behind each door she hears the cry of an agonized child; the clash of steel on steel; the crunch of a shovel on dry earth. The sound of blood dripping onto wooden floorboards echo in time with her beating heart. With each step, another door carves itself out of the smooth walls. Doors, doors, doors all the way down, endlessly. She feels the urge to burn rise inside her—oxygen and a spark, with only herself as kindling.

Red explodes the corners of her vision. Red, like blood. Pristine white walls turn black, and the wailing only grows louder, a cacophony of pain and misery and anguish. Smoke bleeds from beneath the door frames like dragon's breath. They remain shut. She claps her hands around her ears—it burns, it burns, it burns—and smoke settles in her lungs—it burns, it burns, it burns—and then the flames swallow Peruere whole—

Arlecchino wakes up.

Her back is uncomfortably damp, and she sits up slowly, the blankets falling from her chest down to her waist. Her heart rattles in her chest, and she has to blink several times to clear the redness from her vision. Her forearms feel painfully hot, as if she'd been standing far too close to a fire. She breathes in slowly—in, out, in, out. She tells herself she is not there anymore, that she is safe, that she is home.

Tonight, however, it doesn't seem to work. Arlecchino sighs, running a hand through her mussed hair. But then she regrets it immediately—because the sound causes you to stir, a slow yawn escaping you as you blink your eyes open, squinting up at her from where your cheek is pressed to your pillow. She can see the haze of drowsiness still covering your irises, and the way your hair is ruffled from moving in your sleep, and the tiny trail of dried drool from the corner of your mouth. You’re still waking up, but the haze clears the longer your gaze lingers on her.

"Bad dream?" you mumble groggily, not pushing up from the pillow but nonetheless lifting an arm to cup her jaw in your palm. Your touch is cool against her heated skin, and she leans into it almost instinctively. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, and the most she can manage is a wordless nod. You hum at that, your thumb stroking the arch of her cheekbones. "Guess you won't be going back to sleep, huh?"

She shakes her head. No.

"Well," you yawn again, "I won't be letting you do paperwork either at this hour."

She opens her mouth to protest—then closes it immediately following the very stern look you shoot her. You lie still for a moment, contemplating what to do with her, and Arlecchino takes the time to trace your features, noting the drowsy slope of your eyes and the relaxed lines of your face. Your chest rises and falls slowly with each breath, and before she knows it she’s breathing in time with you and calming her racing heart.

"You know, I could do with a cuddle buddy," you say eventually, rolling over and spreading your arms wide. "I’ve never done well with the cold."

Arlecchino rolls her eyes at your shameless wheedling, but she doesn't refuse. Instead, she shifts and gently lays on top of you, her arms looping around your back as she holds you to her chest. Her face finds the delicate slope where your shoulder meets your neck, and she breathes in deeply again. A cool night breeze slips through the slight opening of the window by the bed, tossing the curtains and letting a pale sliver of silver moonlight dance on the lines of your bodies, pressed close enough they may as well be one. You press a kiss to her temple as your hands splay over her broad back.

She still doesn't sleep that night, but she rests, and the fire in the back of her mind is now nothing more than a softly crackling hearth.

KUJOU SARA

Sara sighs as she sits on the engawa, one leg tucked beneath her and the other hanging off the edge. Her yukata is loosened and rather mussed from the way she’d been tossing and turning in her sleep, crumpled in a way that her father would’ve once disciplined her for. Sara squeezes her eyes shut at the thought, a strained, bitter laugh slipping from her lips. Even though he is long gone, rotting in some jail cell beneath Tenshukaku, she will never truly escape him.

In the end, she is Takayuki’s daughter, through and through.

The tense line of her shoulders falters, and her head drops. The water in the pond by the engawa ripples, distorting her reflection into unrecognisable waves. Without her consistent control, her wings slip open, unfurling slowly, the joints creaking from disuse. They ache, and her expression twists from the discomfort—intense enough that she doesn’t even notice the door sliding open until your gentle touch brushes her back.

She startles, jerking forward and spinning around only to meet your concerned eyes. When you note her surprise, you tilt your head and offer an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” you murmur, shifting forward slightly to kneel behind her, “I should’ve said something first.”

Sara breathes in deep, letting the air expand her lungs, then shakes her head. “No, no, it’s alright… I was just, ah— lost in thought.”

“Mhm,” you hum, clearly not convinced. Your hand drops, instead reaching for her own on the engawa. You intertwine your fingers with hers with a softness she never really felt before you, and Sara has to fight the urge to draw back like some frightened animal in response. Instead she swallows thickly as your thumb brushes ever so gently over her knuckles. “Nothing pleasant, I assume.”

There’s no accusation in your tone, only a quiet factuality. Sara’s wings twitch, involuntarily, before any resistance she might have had withers away. She squeezes her hand around yours, leaning forward ever so slightly to rest her head against yours. You don’t pull away, remaining right where you are and letting her seek the comfort of closeness from you. The frightened animal in her heart presses up against you, and you hold it tenderly, smoothing down those ruffled feathers.

“The usual,” she says, a little hoarsely. “About my father…”

Your expression darkens just a fraction at the mention of Takayuki. You’ve hated him ever since you found out what he’d done—and sometimes, Sara thinks you hate him on her behalf as well, since she can’t seem to be able to. Not yet, at least. Before he was a traitor, he was the man who took her in from the streets, the man who gave her direction and purpose and a name, and she would not be the person she is today without him. It is not love, most certainly not—but it clings to her all the same, and she has not yet learned how to shed this weight completely yet. But you kiss her temple all the same, and her heart feels a little lighter as well.

“You don’t have to continue,” you say softly, and Sara slumps against you further. Your free hand rises up to gently press along her spine, between her wings, massaging the tense muscle there. Sara breathes in shakily, and you pause. “Too much?”

“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head against you. “No, no, it’s— it’s good. Don’t stop. Please?”

You chuckle softly, then nod, resuming your touches. You continue until Sara feels the drowsiness start to return to her, creeping up her spine from the pads of your fingers to the back of her eyes. Her head slips down to your shoulder, and from there she can see the pond by the engawa. The water has calmed, and in the mirror-like reflection she sees herself again, but she also sees you.

In the end, she is still Takayuki’s daughter—but she is, learning, one night at a time, that she is also more than that. When she falls asleep, she dreams of a clear blue sky, and the wind in her feathers and in her hair sings a song of freedom in your voice.

[biolumien]

Saw some of your Hoshina Fics and it was stellar! Absolutely fucking amazing. You don’t know how damn happy I am to see Kaiju No.8 on my page. Your writing is phenomenal.

With that in mind, would it be possible to get another Hoshina request in? Preferably a Hurt/Comfort scenario. Maybe they’d have argued or something and they’re forced to actually confront each other’s insecurities. Because we like flawed adults going through their issues ✨together✨

If you’d like a more solidified vibe, try listening to Unsweetened Lemonade by Amélie Farren. It might give you some ideas!

I hope you have a wonderful day ahead of you!! :DD

notes: thank you so much for ur kind words ;-;; wahh... i love angst,... and functional relationships.... which is why i always write relationships on the verge of collapse... also thank you for the song rec!

hemming and hawing

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader theres a bit of drinking, but nothing extreme. word count: 1834

hoshina isn’t really good at communicating. for being the vice captain of a squadron of elite soldiers, where communication was often the difference between life and death–he’s really fucking bad at communication–or at least, the kind that requires you to be personal with other people.

he’s been ignoring you for days.

you’re not even sure why, at this point. you’d thought whatever relationship you were kindling was going fine, right? you weren’t exactly sure where the two of you stood, but you liked each other plenty, right? right? 

right?

so why was hoshina ignoring you? why did he sit so far away, make constant excuses to get up and leave? what the fuck was wrong with him? every time you’d grabbed him to talk–oftentimes having to physically hold him by the arm, because he’d often keep trying to walk away from you–he’d respond with one-word answers, not quite looking at you. you’d sit at your desk, so restless that your leg would bang against the underside of the table just wondering what the fuck was wrong with him. 

were his feelings a fluke?

hell, were yours?

what the fuck had you done wrong?

had you done something wrong? had you overstepped a boundary somewhere? but then again, how could you have? how could you have overstepped a boundary if he never made clear what his boundaries were? were you insane? what the fuck were you doing? or maybe the better question to ask is was soshiro hoshina worth this amount of hemming and hawing? was it worth it to lose your mind over his stupid face, when you saw him laugh at something okonogi said, or exchange quips with ashiro? was it worth it, when you knew he used to make the same faces towards you, used to look at you with something like measured affection behind his eyes–

you slam your head so hard against your desk that you can feel it starting to bruise.

no. no matter what, you were losing your mind over soshiro hoshina, damn him! damn him!

it keeps going on like this for a couple days–you try to talk to hoshina, he shrugs you off faster than any competent sentence you could possibly string together can form, and he leaves. the rest of the third division seems to notice, too–you’ve noticed twice in a row okonogi giving you a worried look. it wasn’t a hidden secret or anything that you and hoshina got along quite well, so if even okonogi was giving you a weird look…

you’d shrug, simply, give her a smile, and ignore the raging tire fire burning under your skin.

the next time you get a moment with hoshina is during a celebration party following a successful mission. you pour yourself a healthy glass of the strongest alcohol you can manage, and chug down the entire thing in one gulp, wiping your mouth inelegantly with your sleeve. and then out of the corner of your eye–

hoshina’s watching you with a half-interested look–a look more interested and engaged with you than any other time in the past few weeks–and you think the sight of that makes you angrier–so unbelievably angry, paired with new fire from alcohol underneath. 

you turn to grab hoshina by the collar, glaring up at him–

“hey, now,” hoshina says with a light laugh. “had a little too much to drink, darling?”

darling.

oh, this fucking jackass–you think you almost see red, your teeth grinding together, and you can almost feel your lips peeling back in the facsimile of a snarl. 

“you don’t get to call me that,” you whisper, voice shaking with anger, “not after you’ve fucking blown me off for weeks, soshiro.”

hoshina’s crimson eyes open a little more, staring down at you, right where your hand tightens against his shirt. you’re lucky that the hubbub of the party is keeping everyone from staring at you, which you’re furtively grateful for. you think, that maybe you see hurt reflected in his eyes, but that’s fucking ridiculous. why does he deserve to hurt? he’s the one who fucking blew you off, who didn’t talk to you for weeks despite the two of you clearly reciprocating feelings. what did he have to hurt over? 

“i’m sorry,” hoshina mutters, and he leans forward–

“don’t fucking TOUCH me!”

your voice is louder than you’d like, and that gets a couple eyes on you.

your face feels red, and you drop hoshina’s shirt. hoshina’s eyes are still watching you, his gaze unreadable for a moment before he turns to the eyes watching you, a warm smile–a clear facade, loud and clear to you, but imperceptible to most others. you know hoshina, now–you’d watched him, studied him with intensity. he couldn’t hide from you, even if he wanted to. which made the fact he’d spent weeks ignoring you more infuriating–which made this current facade, a pretending thing–so much more infuriating.

“sorry, everyone,” hoshina says. “seems like our lovely engineer here might’ve had a little too much to drink. come on, i’ll walk you back.” he looks back down at you.

his eyes have that same strange hurt still reflected in his eyes.

something about it tears your heart across unevenly. 

“okay,” you say stupidly, and you let hoshina handle your body, swing your arm over his shoulder as he pulls you up. 

the walk back sobers you up just enough–enough to realize that you’re absolutely fucking mortified–did you seriously grab him? but the better question was why didn’t he stop you? why had he just let you yell at him? why had he looked at you like that, with hurt and something like pity in his eyes? and you couldn’t even figure out what you were more mad at–

could he have done it because he thought he deserved it? 

hoshina opens up the door to your dormitory, letting you make your way to your bed. you slumped down, pressing your back against where your bed met the wall. 

“i’ll leave you alone,” hoshina murmurs. “get some rest.”

you’re angry again, upon hearing him say that. how could a guy like him push your buttons so easily? 

“so you’re just going to leave again?” you snap. “how the fuck is that fair? that’s all you’ve been fucking doing, leaving me even though all i want is to talk.  i thought you liked me!”

you hate how your voice cracks at the end, and you raise up your legs to hug them to your chest. “i thought you fucking liked me,” you whisper. “and you won’t let me talk to you, won’t let me get close–what the fuck was the point of saying you loved me if this is what you’re going to do? it’d be so much less cruel to break my heat, just say no…”

hoshina’s silent.

way too silent.

“i’m sorry,” hoshina says, and he leans down, drops on the bed next to you–the bed sags beneath his weight, and he raises a hand to touch where your hand hugs your knees to your chest–but you move away. you hate the way you almost relish in the way he seems hurt, but he places his hand between the two of you, a mediating bridge. “you can hit me, if you want.”

“what?”

you stare at him, your gaze incredulous. 

hoshina’s gaze is painfully soft, mixed with that strange pity. as if he deserves this.

“i’d deserve it,” hoshina murmurs. “i’m sorry.”

“i’m not going to hit you!” you say. “what would the point of that be? to prove yourself that you don’t deserve love? to prove to yourself you weren’t good enough? even though this is all your fault–”

hoshina’s gaze flickers at your words.

“that’s it, isn’t it? all part of your weird complex where you deny yourself things that you want!” you lean forward, reaching out to grasp him by the shirt. “so i was just fucking collateral damage to you?” you tumble for a moment, pushing him flat onto his back. he looks up at you, his lips parted for a moment. you feel your grip shaking for a moment, and your vision grows blurry– your eyes burn with tears as you shake. “i told you i knew what i wanted, you fucking idiot! i wanted you! i still want you!”

through blurred vision, you can see your tears dripping onto hoshina’s face–and hoshina just watches.

“i don’t care if you don’t think you’re not good enough,” you say through a choked sob. “you’ve always been more than good enough to me. do you get that? no, actually. you didn’t–because if you did you would have just talked to me like a normal fucking person!” you laugh desperately, crazily, almost–you feel fucking crazed. “and i’ve been driving myself mad! because of you!”

hoshina raises a hand to touch your cheek.

“take some fucking responsibility,” you rasp, tugging at his shirt. “take some responsibility for this! for what you’ve done to me!”

what a horrible thing love was.

your heart feels like it’s on fire, burned and scorched earth.

“i’m sorry,” hoshina repeats, simply. “you’re right.”

he leans up to press his forehead against yours, and you tremble.

“i was scared,” hoshina whispers. “that the things i’d said to kafka and the others–that you’d never know when you’d lose the people you love–that it’d come true. i was determined to shut myself out–make myself unknown again. i couldn’t–cross the boundary. to let myself have love. or anything like it. not from you.”

he sighs, gently nudging you to let him up. he leans close to you, presses his head against the wall to watch you. his gaze–this exact gaze, you’ve missed it. missed the way he watched you, with brimming fondness–and yet here you can see so clearly that there’s desperate pain in his eyes–bubbling and brimming just underneath the surface.

“i was struck by how much i wanted it. love. you. all of this. and i was scared because it could all just disappear so quickly,” hoshina continues. his hand touches your face, and you let that calloused touch, the familiar touch against your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose, your upper lip. “i didn’t–want to lose it. so i figured i could’ve just been happy with a little.”

“you fucking idiot,” you whisper in venomous response.

“yeah.” hoshina doesn’t deny it.

“i’ll give it to you,” you respond. “love. no matter how much you think you don’t deserve it. you don’t even have to ask.”

when hoshina looks at you again, he seems almost fractured at the possibility of it.

“i know,” he murmurs. 

“i love you,” you say, and your voice trembles for a moment. “you fucking awful piece of shit.”

hoshina laughs weakly.

“i deserve that,” he murmurs. “but i love you. i promise i do.”

you shake your head. 

“i know that,” you say. you reach out a hand to touch his face, and you can feel the smile forming on his face.

“okay,” he murmurs. “okay.”