#Elements of Sound Light and Heat

[uwmspeccoll]

Science Saturday

Here are some wood engravings and a chromolithograph from a new addition to our Historical Curriculum Collection, two titles bound in one volume: A Handbook of Natural Philosophy and Elements of Sound, Light, and Heat, both by American educators William James Rolfe (1827-1910) and Joseph Anthony Gillet (1837-1908), published in 1868 as part of the 6-volume Cambridge Course of Physics series by Boston educational publisher Woolworth, Ainsworth, & Co. with the second title also published in New York by A. S. Barnes & Co.

The chromolithograph of the spectrograph was printed by the Boston German-American lithographer Augustus Meisel (1824-1885). The wood engravings (probably metal plates produced from the original blocks) depict, from the top, a hydraulic press, a vacuum jar, a stationary steam engine, and a steam locomotive. The last image depicts the interaction of waves:

It represents the forms produced by the intersection of direct and reflected water-waves in a vessel. The point of disturbance is marked by the smallest circle in the figure, and is midway between the centre and the circumference. . . . In like manner a great variety of sound-waves may exist together in the air. . . . In this way thousands of waves may be transmitted through the air at the same time without losing their individual character. The same case holds good here as in the case of water-waves; namely, that every particle of air is affected by a motion which is the algebraic sum of all the single motions imparted to it.

View more Science Saturday posts.

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[julietsf1]

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

........................................................................

The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

[cloudtransprncy]

Just The Tip

AESPA Winter X Male Reader | 3700 words

"Just the tip," you whisper, knowing damn well that once she feels you stretching her open, there’s no turning back.

Tags: Choking, light restraint, dom/sub undertones, unprotected sex, creampie, forced quiet, risk of getting caught, slight dub-con elements

Your mouth is on hers, hungry, demanding, swallowing the soft gasp that escapes her lips. Your tongue pushes past her teeth, claiming her, tasting her, making her whimper into your mouth. Fuck, she tastes good—like the wine from dinner and something sweeter, something that's just her.

You don't know how it got to this.

But does it even matter at this point?

Winter is beneath you, wide-eyed, breath uneven, her body already betraying her. The cabin air is thick with the scent of pine and summer heat, but all you can focus on is her—how she's splayed out beneath you on the bed, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from your kisses, parted like she's about to say something but keeps swallowing the words before they can form. Her body is warm, soft where you hold her, a contrast to the sharp tension crackling between you both, something unspoken but undeniable.

Your sister is just down the hall.

Your parents are in the next room over, sleeping, completely unaware of what's happening—what's about to happen. The thought should stop you. It should make you hesitate, reconsider, anything.

It doesn't. It just makes your cock harder, the forbidden nature of it all making your blood run hotter.

Her messy bun is coming undone, strands of blonde slipping loose around her face, framing the flush creeping up her cheeks. Her pendant—the tiny, delicate one she never takes off—catches the moonlight from the window, rising and falling with every uneven breath. The long sleeves of her shirt are pushed up, bunched at her elbows, fabric soft and slightly wrinkled from where your hands have gripped at her.

You slide your hands up her sides, pushing her shirt up to reveal the taut skin of her abdomen. She shivers as the cool air hits her exposed flesh, muscles flexing beneath your touch. You can't tear your eyes away from how her stomach tightens with each ragged breath, the way her ribs show just slightly beneath soft skin. She flinches, a half-hearted attempt to cover herself, but you pin her wrists above her head with one hand.

"Let me look at you," you growl, and she bites her lip, torn between wanting to hide and wanting to be seen.

"We really shouldn't," she whispers, but her back arches subtly, her body contradicting her words. "What if someone hears?"

You push the shirt higher until her bra is exposed—simple, cotton, nothing fancy, but the way her tits strain against the fabric makes your mouth water. You can see her nipples hardening, pressing against the thin material. You lower your head, dragging your tongue across one peak through the fabric, feeling it tighten further. She arches into your mouth, a choked sound escaping her lips.

"Shhh," you warn, your free hand sliding down between her legs where she's completely bare and already dripping. "You gotta be quiet, baby."

"Oh god," she whimpers, trying to press her thighs together but failing against your strength. "You're so much bigger than I thought you'd be."

Your cock presses against her entrance, heavy, throbbing. Just the tip, nothing more—just enough to feel the way she's slick, hot, inviting. You can barely breathe from how much you want her, from how close you are to ruining this moment, this fragile hesitation that's keeping her from pushing you away.

She whispers, "We shouldn't." Her voice breaks on the second word, trembling with both desire and doubt. "We can't. It's wrong."

Her body doesn't pull back, but her eyes dart nervously toward the door. Her hips stay tilted just so, thighs trembling as if they're fighting to close but can't bring themselves to do it. If anyone wakes up, if someone hears, this doesn't just become a mistake—it becomes something you can't take back.

"You're so fucking wet," you murmur against her ear, your fingers sliding through her folds, gathering her slick before bringing it to your mouth. You suck your fingers clean, watching her eyes widen at the obscene display. "Taste so good I could eat you for hours."

"No, don't," she protests weakly, but her hips betray her, rocking against your hand. "That's so filthy." Yet her breath catches, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "But I need it."

Your voice drops lower, teasing, thick with a promise you both know you won't keep. "It's okay. Just the tip."

A flicker of hesitation. A sharp inhale. Her hands flutter against your grip, testing your hold. But she doesn't say no.

You press forward just a little, and the second your cock pushes past her entrance, her entire body tightens beneath you. She's so fucking tight, her cunt stretching around you in slow, pulsing resistance before yielding, letting you sink just that much deeper. You both gasp, sharp and shallow. Her nails dig into your arm, her fingers curling, but she doesn't push you away—doesn't tell you to stop.

"It's too big," she whines, her head thrashing slightly on the pillow. "I can't—you won't fit. Oh god, you're stretching me so much."

Her breath catches in her throat, a whimper that she tries to swallow down, but you hear it anyway. Feel it, in the way her thighs tremble beneath your hands—bare, smooth, but not completely.

She's shaved, but there's a faint prickle under your palm, the softest roughness just beginning to grow back. It's subtle, just enough to feel, just enough to remind you that this is real, that she's real, naked beneath you, trembling, wet.

"Your pussy's so tight," you whisper, and her eyes roll back slightly at your words. Her pendant shifts against her collarbone as she swallows hard. "Been thinking about fucking you for so long."

"We shouldn't," she says again, more desperate now. "We can't do this. We—" but her words dissolve into a soft moan as you push in another inch. "Oh fuck, you're going to ruin me."

You bring your fingers to her throat, thumb brushing against the delicate skin there. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just a warning. A reminder that she can stop this at any moment.

She doesn't.

"This is wrong," she whispers, but her body arches into your touch, contradicting her words. Her pussy clenches around your tip, like she's trying to pull you deeper. "But I need it so bad. Need you inside me."

Her thighs tense, muscles fluttering beneath your grip. But you keep her pinned down, spread open, locked in place beneath you. The pendant around her neck dangles slightly, catching the dim cabin light, shifting with every shallow breath she takes.

"Just the tip," you murmur again, voice thick, coaxing.

But you both know that's a lie.

She shifts—just a little, a reflex, a reaction—but it's enough. Enough for your cock to slide in another inch, enough for the tight heat of her to wrap around you just a little more, enough for both of you to feel the moment restraint snaps and neither of you can turn back.

She's dripping, soaking you, slick gathering at the base of your cock where you've barely even pushed in. Your length drags against her folds, spreading the warmth of her arousal, and fuck, she's so wet you can feel it running down your balls, making everything that much harder to control.

"Fuck…" she breathes, the word slipping out on a strangled gasp, barely audible. She bites down on her lip, hard, as if that will stop another sound from escaping. As if it will stop the truth from settling between you.

"Tell me to stop."

The words hang in the thick air, heavy, offering an out she won't take.

Silence. Then, almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head. "Don't stop," she whispers, the admission clearly costing her. Her fingers clutch at your arms, digging in, anchoring herself to you. "I need it. Need you to fill me up."

You exhale slowly, press her thighs down against her body, locking her in place, keeping her open for you. You can see where your cock is splitting her open, stretching her tight little pussy, and the sight almost makes you lose it right there.

But for a moment, everything slows down. You slide your hand up to cup her cheek instead. Her skin is flushed hot against your palm. You hold her there, making her look at you, forcing her to meet your gaze as you hover above her. Your eyes lock, and something passes between you—something raw and honest that strips away all pretense. Her pupils are blown wide, leaving just a thin ring of color, and you can see everything in them—the want, the fear, the surrender.

"Winter," you whisper, just her name, nothing more. Your thumb traces her bottom lip, still swollen from your kisses. She trembles beneath your touch, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with being naked.

"I shouldn't want this," she confesses, voice so quiet you almost don't hear it. "But I do. I want it so much. Want you inside me. Want you to cum in me."

Her lashes flutter, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. You move your hand back to her throat, just enough pressure to make her gasp, just enough to watch her lips part in something between a plea and surrender. Her pulse flutters against your palm, frantic, but she doesn't try to stop you. The pendant at her throat taps against your wrist with every thundering heartbeat.

The fabric of her long-sleeve shirt is bunched at her wrists now, twisted from where she's been gripping the sheets, knuckles white. Your hand leaves her throat to slide between your bodies, finding her clit with your thumb, circling the swollen bud.

"You knew this was gonna happen."

Her lips part again, and this time, she doesn't argue.

The moment you bottom out, it's over.

Winter's hands fly to your wrist, nails sinking deep into your skin, not to push you away but to hold on, to ground herself against the overwhelming stretch of you inside her. She's gasping, barely breathing, each ragged inhale broken by the weight of your grip around her throat. Her pulse thrums beneath your fingers, frantic, erratic, like a trapped bird.

"Oh god," she cries out, too loud in the quiet cabin. "You're too big. You're stretching me too much."

"You can take it," you murmur, voice thick with lust, pressing deeper, grinding your hips down until she whimpers. Her pussy stretches around you, tight and slick, gripping your cock like it was made for you. Her body trembles beneath you, chest rising unevenly, legs twitching where you've pinned them open. "Fuck, you're taking my cock so well."

"Please," she begs, though what she's begging for isn't clear even to her. Her hands push weakly against your chest, but her hips keep rocking, seeking more. "It hurts but don't stop, please don't stop."

Your free hand slides up her body, finding her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt. You can feel her nipple harden under your palm as you squeeze, rough enough to make her gasp. The cotton barrier is frustrating, but there's something filthy about having her half-dressed like this, completely bare from the waist down, cock buried deep while her shirt still clings to her upper body.

"Should've torn this off you," you growl, bunching the fabric of her shirt in your fist, tugging it up to expose more of her. "Wanna see these tits bounce while I fuck you."

"No, someone might see," she protests, even as she arches her back, pressing her breast more firmly into your hand. "Someone might hear us."

The bed creaks. You freeze.

Your sister is asleep just down the hall. Your parents are in the next room. If anyone hears—

But then Winter clenches around you, fluttering, pulsing, already too fucked out to care. Her walls squeeze so tight it's dizzying, the slick heat of her drawing you in, making it impossible to think about anything else. Her eyes are glazed over, lips parted, cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and pleasure she can't hide.

You loosen your grip on her throat, letting her take in a desperate gulp of air—only to tighten your fingers again the moment a sound escapes her lips. A muffled moan, cut off as her lashes flutter, as her body jolts beneath you. The sight of her struggling for breath, completely at your mercy, makes your cock throb inside her.

"Shhh." Your warning comes with a twist of your hips that makes her eyes roll back.

She nods frantically, eyes wet with unshed tears, body twitching in your grip, obedient even as she shakes. A whimper escapes her, too loud in the quiet room, and she slaps her own hand over her mouth, biting down on her fingers to keep quiet.

"I can't be quiet," she whispers desperately against her fingers. "It feels too good. You're too deep."

You pull her hand away, replacing it with two of your own fingers, pushing them between her lips. "Suck," you command in a harsh whisper. She obeys immediately, tongue swirling around your digits, eyes locked on yours as she hollows her cheeks. It's obscene, the way her mouth works around your fingers while her pussy grips your cock. You push them deeper, making her take them to the knuckle, watching her throat work as she struggles not to gag.

"Such a dirty girl," you whisper. "Acting all innocent then taking my cock like you were made for it."

You don't slow down. If anything, you make it worse for her—slow, deep thrusts, dragging every inch through the mess between her thighs, keeping her on edge, making sure she feels every second of it. You can feel your cock dragging against that spot inside her that makes her whole body jerk.

She reaches for you suddenly, hands clutching at your shoulders, nails digging in as she pulls you closer. Her legs wrap around your waist, changing the angle, taking you even deeper. The new position has you hitting something that makes her bite down hard on your fingers, her body shuddering beneath you.

You pull your fingers from her mouth, tracing the wet digits down her chin, her throat, between her breasts, leaving a glistening trail on her skin. "You like that?" you ask, adjusting your hips again, making sure to hit that same spot. "Right there?"

"Yes," she admits shamefully, her resistance crumbling. "Fuck me harder. Please. I need it deeper."

She nods frantically, eyes wide, desperate. Her hands move to your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you down until your foreheads touch. You're sharing breath now, mouths close enough to kiss but not quite touching. You can feel every gasp, every whimper.

"I shouldn't want this," she confesses in a broken whisper. "Shouldn't want your cum. Shouldn't want you to knock me up. But I do. I want it so fucking bad."

The intimacy of it almost breaks you. You pull back slightly, shifting your attention to where your bodies join. You hook one of her legs over your arm, opening her wider, changing the angle again. The sight of your cock disappearing into her, slick and glistening with her arousal, has you transfixed.

"Look at how well you take me," you say, voice strained, slowing your pace to make her feel every inch. "So fucking perfect."

"It's too much," she whines, even as her hips chase yours. "Too big. You're ruining me for anyone else."

She's too sensitive, too overwhelmed, but you don't stop. She's past the point of being able to resist, past the point of pulling away. Her pussy is making obscene wet sounds with every thrust, so fucking soaked that it's running down the curve of her ass, staining the sheets beneath you both.

Your thumb finds her clit, swollen and slippery, and the moment you touch it, her whole body jerks like she's been shocked. You circle it slowly, deliberately, feeling how it pulses under your touch.

"Please," she whispers, the word barely audible, her first real plea since this started. You're not sure if she's begging you to stop or continue, and you don't care. You press down harder on her clit, rubbing faster, matching the rhythm of your thrusts.

"God—" she breathes, barely able to form words, her mouth struggling to work. "It's so—so deep. Your cock is so big. I can feel you in my stomach." Her voice is like crushed velvet, hushed and broken. Her pendant swings with each thrust, catching the light in hypnotic flashes.

Her hands grip your arms now, holding on for stability as you pick up the pace. The rhythm changes from slow and deep to something more urgent, more primal. Her breathing quickens, shallow and ragged, little puffs of air against your face.

"I can't—" she gasps, her words cut off by a particularly deep thrust. "I'm getting close." The admission is almost shameful, whispered like a secret against your neck. "Please, I need to cum on your cock."

You press her thighs wider, holding them open with bruising force. The position lets you watch everything—the way her stomach tenses with each thrust, how her breasts bounce slightly beneath her shirt, the way your cock stretches her open, the slick mess of her arousal coating both of you.

"I said just the tip," you taunt, voice rough with exertion, with need. "Look at you now. Taking every fucking inch."

"I know," she whimpers, shame and arousal mixing in her voice. "I'm such a slut for you. Can't help it. Need your cock so bad."

Her whimpers turn into silent screams, mouth open, lips trembling, thighs quivering beneath your grip. She's too far gone, helpless to stop what's coming, unable to do anything but take it. Your fingers are soaked with her arousal as you work her clit, switching between gentle circles and firm pressure, watching how each touch makes her react differently.

She's so close. You can feel it in the way her pussy tightens around you, in the desperate, broken sounds she's trying not to make. Her breathing becomes erratic, shallow, her entire body tensing beneath you.

"I'm gonna cum," she whimpers, the words barely audible. "Please, please don't stop. Fill me up. Want your cum so bad. Want you to breed me." Her confession makes your cock throb, the desperation in her voice pushing you closer to your own edge.

She grabs your wrist where you're working her clit, not to stop you but to press your fingers harder against her. Her eyes are pleading, desperate, silently begging for release. You give her what she wants, increasing the pressure, circling faster, feeling her body wind tighter and tighter.

"Gonna fill this tight little pussy," you whisper against her ear, biting down on her earlobe. "Gonna pump you so full you'll feel me for days. Put a baby in you."

The words make her clench around you again, her pussy gripping your cock like she's trying to milk it. She's right on the edge, teetering, about to break. Her nails dig into your back, dragging down, marking you as thoroughly as you're marking her.

"Cum for me, right now." The order comes as a growl against her ear, rough, absolute. You punctuate the command by grinding against her clit, circling it with your thumb as you thrust deeper, harder.

"Shit! I'm cumming," she cries out, too loud, beyond caring who might hear. "You're making me cum on your big cock. Oh god, I'm cumming!"

Her body seizes, back arching off the bed, legs trembling violently, a choked gasp escaping as she shatters beneath you. Her orgasm takes her apart, raw and violent, the aftershocks making her sob. Her pussy clamps down on your cock like a vise, pulsing, milking you, pulling you deeper. Her pendant swings wildly against her throat, catching the light with each convulsion of her body.

But you don't stop.

You keep working her clit through it, relentless, forcing her higher even as she tries to twist away from the overwhelming sensation. Your fingers are merciless, pushing her past what she can handle, turning her orgasm into something that seems endless, wave after wave crashing through her.

"That's it," you encourage, watching her fall apart. "Take it. Fucking take it. Take my cum."

"Breed me," she begs, completely lost to the pleasure. "Fill me up. Make me yours. Please, please, please."

She's still cumming when you bury yourself deep, when you push so far inside it's almost painful, when you spill into her, hot and thick, filling her up, leaving her ruined beneath you. You can feel your cum pumping into her, your cock twitching with each pulse, her body taking everything you give her.

Your fingers finally ease off her clit, letting her come down from the intensity. You trace lazy circles on her inner thigh instead, feeling the way she twitches with aftershocks, sensitive and spent.

Neither of you move.

The only sound is the ragged pace of your breathing, the soft, wet tremble of her body as she twitches through the last waves of it. The weight of what just happened settling over both of you. The evidence of it already spilling between her legs, a mixture of her slick and your cum dripping onto the sheets.

It was reckless. Dangerous. The filthiest thing you've ever done—fucking her with your family just rooms away, the constant threat of discovery making every sensation sharper, every touch more electric. The memory of her body yielding to yours, taking you so deep, of her desperate attempts to stay quiet as you ruined her—it's all seared into your mind.

A floorboard creaks in the hallway.

You both freeze, eyes wide, bodies still joined, the reality of what you've done crashing over you like ice water.

And it's far from over.

[animamii]

Kiss Me Thru The Phone | Toji Fushiguro

Toji's been locked up for too long and misses his pretty girl deeply.

Was listening to Kiss Me Thru The Phone by Soulja Boy, which was always my go to song for my irl jailbird cougarrrr. But Toji is better so it's his song now c;

warnings; smut, duh. phone sex.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧

This is a collect call from Tokyo Correctional Facility from

"Toji Fushiguro," his voice raspy and nonchalant as always, a stark contrast to the excitement bubbling inside you.

If you accept the charges, please press 1.

Like second nature you instantly press one. 'This phone call will be recorded and subject to monitoring...' the autonomous voice instructs. The line clicks, a soft trill signaling the connection, and then a faint beeping tone echoes through your receiver. Your heart pounds in anticipation, your grip on the phone tightening as the line goes silent for just a beat too long. A beeping tone goes off, and your heart beats heavily.

"Hey princess," Toji's voice, low and gravelly, rolls through the phone. A smile instantaneously forms on your face, it's been a while since you had spoken to Toji on the phone. His ass was always getting thrown into ad seg for one reason or another.

"Hi baby," your voice is soft and sweet, and Toji feels his heart swelling as he finally hears your voice in what feels like forever. No matter how hardened life makes him, hearing your voice always makes him melt.

“Damn, it’s good to hear you,” he mutters, his tone a little softer now. "They threw my ass in the hole cause some fuckface wanted to try and take the box of Honeybuns from the package you sent me last week."

"Of course they did," you reply with a light laugh, shaking your head. "You can't go a month without stirring up trouble, can you?"

"It's not my fault," Toji defends, the familiar cockiness in his voice making your stomach flutter. "You send me the good shit, princess. You think I'm gonna let some punk get his hands on my Honeybuns?"

You bite your lip to suppress a giggle, imagining him in his element, standing tall and intimidating, defending your care package like his life depended on it. "Well, at least now I know how much you appreciate my efforts."

"Appreciate?" Toji scoffs playfully. "Baby, I worship the ground you walk on for those packages. You should see these guys. They're practically drooling over the stuff you send me. It’s like I’m a king in here."

"Aweee babyyyy," you coo, biting your lip as your cheeks heat up. Toji always knew just what to say to make you feel giddy like a young girl in love for the first time. "Just for that I'll send you something extra special next week."

Toji lets out a low chuckle, the sound deep and raspy, sending a warm shiver down your spine. "You’re too good to me, princess. You’ve got me spoiled," he says, and though his tone is teasing, there’s a genuine softness beneath his words.

"Someone’s gotta take care of you," you reply, your voice playful but full of affection. "You’re lucky I love you enough to deal with all this drama."

"Lucky doesn’t even cover it," Toji mutters, his voice dropping an octave. "I don’t deserve you, but I’m not letting you go. Ever."

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the weight of his sincerity making your chest tighten. "You don’t have to," you whisper. "I’m not going anywhere, Toji."

"Good," he says firmly, the possessiveness in his tone sending a rush of heat through you. "Cause when I get out of here, you’re mine. Completely. No one else gets a second of your time."

"You already have me," you say softly, the vulnerability in your voice making him pause.

"I know," he murmurs after a moment, his tone unusually tender. "And that’s the only thing keeping me sane in this place. Knowing I’ve got you waiting for me on the other side."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let the sadness take over. "I’ll always be here, baby. No matter how long it takes."

"Enough about me though," he tries to change the subject, hearing the vulnerability in your voice. He hates knowing you're missing him like that, especially when he can't do anything about it. "How’s my pretty girl?” he asks, his voice dropping to that lower, huskier tone that always makes your stomach flutter.

“I’m okay,” you reply, leaning back against the couch as you let yourself sink into his voice. “But I’d be better if you were here.”

A low chuckle rumbles through the phone. “Trust me, princess, I’d do anything to be there with you right now.” Toji looks around his surroundings, the dreary cement walls and identical cell doors that go on and on. He leans against the divider that separates all the phones, metal phone wire feeling cool against his arm. It's late at night, most of the prisoners already in their cells asleep. Toji was lucky enough to know someone on the inside, getting the privilege to have late night calls with you, getting as much privacy as he could get. A single guard supervises him haphazardly.

The thought of him—of his rough hands on your skin, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered all the things he wanted to do to you—makes heat pool low in your belly. The distance between you feels unbearable, but his voice keeps you grounded, tethered to the connection you share.

“What are you wearing?” he asks suddenly, his tone playful but suggestive.

“Toji,” you laugh, your cheeks flushing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he replies, his voice darkening with desire. “I need a little something to keep me going while I’m stuck in here.”

You glance down at your oversized t-shirt, wearing nothing but that and some panties. biting your lip as a grin creeps onto your face. “Nothing special,” you tease. “Just your t-shirt, the one I stole from you.”

"Just my shirt? Nothing else?" He clears his throat with a grunt, looking around to make sure nobody else could hear. Although let's face it, he wouldn't care regardless.

"Mmm that and some panties of course. Like I always wear to bed," you respond, playing with the hem of your shirt mindlessly. The shirt itself wafted of Toji's musky scent, piney with a dash of smoke and a hint of jasmine.

"What panties?" Toji tries to imagine you, all pretty and barefaced, ready for bed in one of his shirts that swallow your frame. No bra, the outline of your nipples showing through the soft fabric. The bottom of your ass poking out from under his shirt.

"The frilly lacy baby pink pair you got me from Victoria's Secret," pulling up your shirt just enough to see the panties you wear, Toji being oh so familiar with the pair. "You know, the ones I wore when we went to that fancy Brazilian steak house, and you made me keep them on as you fucked me in the bathroom?"

He groans softly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Damn, you know what that does to me, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” you reply, your voice light but filled with heat. Toji started this little game, but you could play it better.

"Fuck I miss you princess," his voice is gravelly, needy as he bites his lip.

"I miss you too baby," your lip curls into a sweet smile, words sounding like sugar.

"No, like I really miss you," Toji looks down at the scratchy sweatpants he's forced to wear, seeing the bulge he now adorns getting bigger and bigger as he paints an image of your pretty self.

"Oh?"

"Wanna help me out ma?" The raspiness of his sultry voice has you weak in the knees and you could almost perfectly picture the wolfish grin he was wearing.

"Toji I don't know..." Feeling bashful, your teeth tug at your lip as you contemplate. Sure you've mailed him pretty pictures with way to much cleavage, some in revealing outfits and "bathing suits", but never have you ever had phone sex with him while he's been locked up.

"C'mon mama, I really need you right now. Miss you so much. Miss your gorgeous face. Miss your cute smile. That pretty pussy of yours." At this point he was rock hard, erection now prominent even in those baggy sweatpants.

"Aren't you in public right now, love?" Raising an eyebrow, you try to imagine Toji as he's in a corner of the public area, standing next to one of the phones that's stuck to the wall.

"Relax princess, it's already past curfew. I got special phone privileges courtesy of Shiu. Pays to know people inside," he clicks his tongue proudly, his smirk almost audible.

"Mmm okay, if you say so baby," sinking down more into the couch, obliging with a tint of pink on your cheeks.

"That's my girl." There's a slight pause, then a rustling sound as Toji leans closer to the phone. "Now, put the phone on speaker so I can hear every little thing, okay princess?"

"Okay, Toji." Turning on speakerphone, you set the phone on the arm of the couch right next to where your head rests. So, what do you want me to do first, baby?" you ask, your voice tinged with playfulness and a hint of arousal.

Toji's chuckle is low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine. "Well, for starters... tell me exactly what you're wearing."

You bite your lip, glancing down at yourself before responding, "Like I said earlier, just your old shirt and that pair of baby pink lace panties. Nothing else."

His mind was so foggy with lust and need that he had forgot he asked you that, causing that hard predicament that sits in his pants. "Oh, right. That pretty pink pair that I like to slide to the side and fuck you in."

Your breathing hitches, the heat pooling in your core at his words. Toji’s voice, low and laden with want, is enough to make your body respond instantly. You shift slightly, your thighs squeezing together as the familiar ache begins to build.

“You remember everything, don’t you?” you tease, though your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“How could I forget?” he rasps, his tone sending a delicious shiver down your spine. “You looked so fucking good in them. Still do, I bet. Are they wet yet, princess?” Toji reels his memories, thinking of your legs spread open, showing that cute little damp patch of arousal that would soak through the frilly material.

Your cheeks flush crimson, his bluntness never failing to catch you off guard. “Maybe,” you admit shyly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs approvingly. “Touch yourself for me, baby. I wanna hear those sweet little sounds you make when you think of me.” A hand goes into his sweats, palming himself through his boxers. It didn't bother him in the slightest that anyone could see. His perfect girl was on the line, moaning and mewling just for him and he wanted—no needed—to get off to you.

“Toji,” you breathe out, the warmth spreading through your chest and settling low in your belly. You hesitate for just a moment before letting your hand slip beneath the hem of your shirt, your fingertips brushing against the lace of your panties. “I miss you,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly.

“Fuck, I miss you too,” he groans, the sound of his restraint evident in his tone. “Keep going, princess. Tell me what you’re doing.”

Your hand slips beneath the lace, your fingers dipping into the slick heat between your thighs. “I’m... I’m touching myself,” you confess, your voice trembling with a mixture of embarrassment and desire.

“Good girl,” Toji growls, his words like a low purr that rumbles through the receiver. “You know how much I love hearing you, baby. Don’t hold back. Let me hear those pretty little moans.”

Your free hand clutches at the couch cushion as your fingers begin to move in slow, deliberate circles. The sound of Toji’s breathing, heavy and uneven, fills your ear and fuels the fire building inside you. Closing your eyes, you imagine it's him hovering over you, fingers teasing your clit just how he always does.

“Toji,” you whimper, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“That’s it, princess,” he encourages, his voice thick with need. “Keep saying my name. Let me know how good it feels.”

You close your eyes, letting his voice guide you as your movements grow more insistent. “I wish you were here; my fingers can't do what yours do,” you whisper, your words shaky as the pleasure builds. “I need you so bad, Toji.”

“Fuck, baby, you’re killing me,” he groans, the sound of rustling fabric on his end letting you know he’s just as affected as you are. “I’d do anything to have you under me right now. To feel how tight you’d squeeze me when I’m deep inside you.” His hand finally snakes its way inside his boxers, his calloused finger soothing his aching red tip. Palm wrapped around the top, squeezing it in imitation of your tight walls.

"That's all I can think about, Toji," soft, needy whimpers leave your throat, "Having my legs on your shoulders as you break me off. Hitting that one spot deep inside me that always gets me creaming on your cock." Flashbacks of Toji's large hands holding you down, fucking into you as he forces you to watch, that frothy white ring around the base of his dick forming as juice splatter from his impact.

"Yeah, princess?" Toji groans, his voice dipping even lower, roughened by his own need. "You always know how to rile me up, don’t you? Keep talking, tell me exactly how you'd want me to fuck you."

You bite your lip, the weight of his words sending a fresh wave of heat through your core. "I’d want it slow at first," your fingers circle your clit agonizingly slow. Almost torturous like Toji does. "You’d tease me," you murmur, your voice catching as your fingers dip lower. "Make me beg for it, wouldn’t you? Make me tell you how much I need it, need you."

"Fuck," Toji growls, his breathing heavy in your ear. His hand strokes himself in sync with your words, his rough palm sliding over his length as he imagines you beneath him, squirming, needy, desperate. "I’d make you wait, baby. You know I love hearing you beg for me, hearing that pretty little voice say my name."

A shaky whimper escapes your lips, the sound almost too loud in the stillness of your living room. "I’d be so wet for you," you whisper, voice trembling as your fingers circle faster, dipping between your folds to gather more of your slickness. "You wouldn’t even have to ask, Toji. I’d be ready for you the second you touched me."

"Shit," he groans, gripping himself tighter as he pictures it. "You’d be dripping down your thighs, wouldn’t you? Making a fucking mess of yourself while you wait for me to fill you up."

"Yes," you gasp, your back arching against the couch as your body reacts to his words. Your free hand clutches at the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in his scent, his voice, the memory of his touch. "I need you so bad, Toji. I need to feel you stretching me out, filling me up until I can't take it anymore."

"Dip those pretty little fingers of yours inside your pussy, princess. Imagine it's me curling them and hitting that soft spot in ya," he grunts, trying to imagine the feeling of your tiny hole enveloping his large fingers.

You let out a soft moan, obeying his request, slipping two fingers into your warmth. The wet sound fills the quiet of the room, mixing with his heavy breathing on the line.

“I... I’m doing it, Toji,” you manage between hitched breaths. “It’s not the same... I can’t stretch myself like you do.”

“Fucking hell,” he growls, his hand pumping faster now, imagining the way your body clings to him when he’s buried inside you. “Tell me how it feels, princess. I need to hear everything.”

Your cheeks flush, the embarrassment drowned out by the heat curling in your belly. “It feels... good, but not enough. I can’t reach as deep as you, baby. I need you here. I need your fingers, your cock... all of you.”

“Shit, keep talking like that, and I’m gonna cum before you do,” he groans, his voice thick with frustration and longing. His strokes become erratic, the image of you—the sounds you're making—driving him closer to the edge. “I’d have you spread out under me right now, pretty legs shaking while I fuck you open. You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you?”

“Uh huh~,” you whimper, arching into your touch, fingers moving faster as you imagine him over you, his broad shoulders, the weight of his body pressing you down. “I’d take you so good... like I always do. I’d make such a mess for you.”

“You’d be dripping all over my cock, wouldn’t you? So tight, so perfect for me,” he rasps, his voice hitching slightly as his own hand works faster. You can hear the faint rustle of fabric, the wet sound of his strokes, and it sends a thrill through you, knowing he’s as close to the edge as you are.

“Toji, I’m so close,” you whine, your voice trembling with the mounting pleasure.

“Good girl,” he groans, his tone commanding but filled with adoration. “Let it go, princess. Cum for me. I wanna hear those pretty sounds when you fall apart for me.”

His words push you over the edge, a broken cry escaping your lips as your body tenses and then releases, waves of pleasure crashing through you. Toji’s name spills from your mouth in a litany, each moan sweeter than the last.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice a low growl as he follows you over the edge, his own release ripping through him. You can hear his breaths, heavy and uneven, as he murmurs your name like a prayer.

For a moment, the two of you are silent, the only sounds the soft hum of the line and your shared breaths as you come down from the high.

“I needed that,” Toji finally mutters, his voice lighter now, the teasing edge creeping back in. "Been so pent up, jerking off to those pretty pictures you mail me like I'm a horny teenager."

You laugh softly, trying to imagine a sexually frustrated Toji hunched over your selfies trying to get himself off. “You’re insatiable, Toji.”

“For you? Always,” he replies, the warmth in his voice making your chest tighten with affection. "I miss being able to bend you over and fuck you wherever and whenever I want."

"Mmmm, I miss that too, baby," you hum, walking to the sink to wash your arousal-stained fingers. "Miss having my man with me all the time. Gets so lonely without my lover."

"I fucking love you, you know that?" Toji murmurs after a beat, his voice softer now, filled with an almost boyish sincerity.

A smile tugs at your lips, your heart swelling at his words. "I love you too, Toji," you reply, your voice tender.

The automated voice interrupts the moment, announcing that the call will end in one minute. Your chest tightens at the reminder, and you clutch the phone, wishing you could hold onto him just a little longer.

“You better be ready for me when I get out,” he says, his tone turning serious, almost possessive. “I’m not wasting a single second. First thing I’m doing is coming straight to you, and you’re not leaving my bed for days.”

"I'll be counting down the days, baby," a honeyed mewl leaves your lips, feeling light and airy still from your orgasm. "Until then... Behave yourself Toji Fushiguro."

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, and you can practically hear the grin in his voice. "No promises, princess," he teases. "But I’ll try. For you. Now before it hangs up, kiss me through the phone, baby."

Your heart squeezes at his request, the playful yet sincere edge in his voice making your chest ache with longing. Pressing the phone closer to your lips, you whisper, "Mwah," letting it carry all the tenderness you can muster.

A low hum of approval comes through the line. "Mmm, that’s what I like to hear," he drawls, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "I’ll be dreaming about that one, princess."

The automated voice chimes in again, colder this time, signaling the end of the call in mere seconds. "I love you," you blurt out, the words rushing out like a lifeline.

"I love you more," he says firmly, the weight of his promise grounding you. "Be good for me, princess. I’ll be home before you know it."

The line clicks dead before you can respond, the abrupt silence leaving an ache in its wake. You lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen as if willing it to light up again with his name. His words replay in your head. You could hold it down for him, he'll be home before you know it.

[sosasturns]

gift wrappin - c. sturniolo

deciding to come over and hang with the boys—mostly chris-before they headed to boston for the holidays, you sat a few feet away behind the camera. nick, matt, and chris were on the couch in front of the coffee table, filming their upcoming friday video. it was their annual christmas gift exchange, and the three of them were in their usual chaotic element.

fifteen minutes in, the couch and floor were covered in ripped-up wrapping paper, random gifts, and empty boxes. matt reached for a medium-sized gift box, the grin on his face almost suspicious, and handed it to chris.

"what the hell's this?" chris asked, shaking the box and raising an eyebrow. "it sounds empty."

"just open it," matt said, licking his lips like he was holding back a laugh. he glanced at you for a moment, and you immediately felt the heat rise to your face. whatever this was, it was going to be good.

chris sighed and tore at the snowflake-printed wrapping paper, muttering under his breath about how much damn tape matt used. after a moment of struggle, he finally got the box open. his expression immediately froze, eyes glued to the now-revealed item in his hands.

nick let out a little "oh," before bursting into laughter. matt was already smirking like a proud idiot.

you glanced over, spotting the familiar trojan logo on the large 36-count box, and immediately slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the laugh threatening to escape. your body stiffened, the secondhand embarrassment hitting you hard as matt leaned back on the couch, looking way too pleased with himself.

"not tryna have any nieces or nephews runnin' around any time soon," matt said, grinning at chris, who was still sitting there, stunned. "i figure you needed 'em."

"are you serious?" chris finally muttered, glaring at his older brother.

"deadass." matt shrugged, motioning to the box. "you better be thanking me. do i hear a 'y'welcome' or what?"

chris rolled his eyes, muttering a sarcastic "thanks" under his breath before chucking the box of condoms toward the kitchen. matt dodged it easily, laughing as nick joined in on teasing their younger brother.

"gotta wrap it 'fore y'tap it, kid," matt said smugly.

"you're welcome for savin' your life."

later that night, you and chris were in his room, the lights off, the glow from the tv flickering across the walls. neither of you was paying attention to Whatever was on the screen-mostly because he was three fingers deep in you, his head buried between your thighs.

his messy, fluffy hair tickled the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as he licked and sucked at your dripping heat, practically eating you out like he hadn't had a meal in days. the soft grunts and huffs of breath he let out against your skin had you arching into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging just enough to earn a groan from him.

"mmh, oh m'god, y'taste so good, princess," he murmured against you, his hands sliding to the back of your knees to push your legs higher. it wasn't like he wasn't already smothering himself between your thighs, but he seemed determined to get closer.

your breathing came in shallow pants as your back arched off the mattress, thighs trembling as his tongue curled against your clit and his fingers worked inside you. with a soft gasp, you finally came, your body going slack as he worked you through your high.

he pulled back after a moment, his lips and chin glistening with your release as he looked down at you with a boyish grin. "if i were stranded on an island and i had to pick between an unlimited amount of pepsi or your pussy for the rest of my life, i'd pick phat ma real quick."

you blinked, staring at him in disbelief. "phat ma? what the hell is wrong with you?"

he just laughed, leaning down to kiss you, and you didn't even care about the taste of yourself on his lips.

after a heated makeout session, chris shifted to slide his pajama pants and boxers down, his cock springing free. he let out a stammered grunt as the cool air hit him, his need for you making him throb almost painfully. lining himself up, he leaned down to kiss you again, his hand gripping his length as he pressed it against your entrance.

"wait," you murmured, pulling back just enough to catch his attention.

"hm?" he asked, his lips brushing against yours. "get the condoms," you said, your hand pressing lightly against his chest.

he groaned softly, rolling his eyes in playful annoyance. "you really wanna use 'em?"

you nodded, and with a sigh, he climbed off the bed, pulling his pants up just enough to shuffle to the bathroom. he returned a moment later with a strip of condoms from the massive box matt gifted him, his erection still visibly straining against the fabric of his pants.

"happy now?" he muttered, tearing one open and rolling it on before settling back between your legs.

"extremely," you teased, smirking as he finally slid into you, both of you letting out a soft gasp at the feeling.

"fuck, y'feel so good, ma," he grunted, his pace starting slow before quickly building into something more desperate.

the following morning, as the boys were packing for their flight back home, matt stopped by chris's room. leaning against the doorframe, he watched chris throw clothes into a suitcase, making small talk. his eyes drifted to the trashcan in the corner, spotting the shiny blue wrappers mixed in with some crumpled kleenex.

"damn," matt said, smirking as chris looked up. "what'd you do, use the whole box already?"

chris groaned, chucking a t-shirt at matt's face.

"shut up."

matt just laughed, stepping out of the room. "welcome, little bro."

@ sosasturns

happy late christmas to all who celebrated. wishin each and every one of you the best of luck n vibes for the new year <3

[eraenaa]

Unexpected Affections

Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader Tag List

Synopsis: With just a smile, you had managed to bewitch and enthrall the stoic and cold prince. 

Warnings: Sunshine x Grumpy Trope, ¿Softer Aemond?, ¿Simp Aemond?, Jealousy, Mature, 18+, Fingering, P in V Sex, Oral Sex (f receiving), Overstimulation, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 7,287

A/N: Really milking softer Aemond bc I'm pretty sure I'm going to take a break from him once s2 is released.

He’s broken beyond repair. Too far gone to be saved. Aemond knew fully well that is how the others see him. The boy who had his eye taken was never the same. Darkness was his only solace, the walls too far up that no one dared to scale it and reach the true him— simply taking the dark and villainous scrap of his true self that he was willing to give. All seemed to give up on him— simply let him drown in his darkness, except you. 

Like all things good, you came unexpectedly. You were a mere visitor from Highgarden, a noble lady who came with your lord father as he tended to business in the capitol. Aemond could never understand how you looked at everything and everyone with rose-colored glasses, but he supposed he should be grateful because if that trusting naivety in you were lost, your light would never come close to his looming darkness. 

“Who is that?” Aemond asked his family’s most trusted knight, Ser Criston Cole. Your figure caught his attention; it was as if you were floating along the gardens of his home. A small smile on your face and flowers adorned in your hair. He stood near the balcony, discussing important business with the knight, when his train of thought was lost and captured by your mere presence. “Lady Tyrell, her father has business here with the crown,” the knight said absentmindedly. Aemond nodded and took one last glance at you before walking away. 

The thought of you was quickly forgotten by the prince. He saw your presence as just another to add to the list of nobles at court who cowered upon his stature. However, you lingered in the back of his mind as he often saw glimpses of you walking through the halls of his home. Aemond stood in the gardens once more, this time waiting for his sister and her children when he caught your eyes. He waited for fear and apprehension to present themself in your orbs, the same reactions he would elicit from everyone. However, the prince was taken aback as you smiled at him. A small, respectable smile before you stole your eyes and continued to your promenading.

Aemond blinked his eye rapidly, trying to discern if he saw correctly or if it was a cruel trick made by his impaired vision. Aemond pursed his lips as he felt himself walk towards where you had passed. There was this odd pull about you— more than your beauty; if it was just that, a comely face was never one to put the prince in a trance. It was an ethereal element that beguiled Aemond quickly. He had not even spoken to you, yet you had already managed to put such an effect on him. 

He watched from a distance as you bent down and assessed a flower, your fingers caressing the velvety petal and bringing it to your nose to discern the fragrance of it. Aemond felt that pull once more, his feet carrying him closer to you. When you stood straight, your brows raised in surprise as you had noticed you were no longer alone. “My prince,” You greeted with a curtsy, his silvery locks the warning sign that you spoke to royalty. Aemond was rendered silent, his mind already spinning at the sound of your voice. What was this? He could not explain what had overcome him. You bit your lip as no greeting left the prince’s lips, him only staring at you with an unreadable expression on his angular face. “Are… are you well, my prince?” You asked, daring to step closer and take hold of his arm to examine if he was truly well. 

You watched as his lips parted and closed, no sound leaving it. “Perhaps you should find some shade; the heat may be too unbearable,” You say quietly and never take your hold off his arm, guiding him towards the shade of a willow tree in concern. Aemond was screaming at himself on the inside, hating that he was making a fool of himself, that he couldn’t even speak, simply letting you guide him towards the shade and making him sit on a bench. Your concern for his well-being consumes your face and his being. “Do you wish for refreshment, perhaps w—“ Aemond shook his head as he finally regained his senses. 

You chewed on your cheek as the prince stood. “I am fine; I apologize for the— the intrusion, Lady Tyrell,” He said stoically, and you shook your head and smiled at him. “No need for apologies, my prince; no intrusion was made. But are you certain that you are well… you look a bit pale, my prince.” You say and quickly regret it as your mind reminds you that maybe that was just his true complexion. You swallowed thickly as you saw him pursed his lips, fearing that you had offended the prince. Aemond did not know how to take this concern— this kindness that he was never the receiver of. “I am quite well; good day, my lady.” He walked away in haste as he feared that if he stayed longer in your presence, he would make a further fool of himself. You stood there in confusion; your lips parted as the prince almost ran from you. 

The thought of you haunted Aemond until the night, his arm still tingling from where you had placed your touch. He replayed the scene in his mind over and over again, trying to convince himself that your concern was fictitious— that it was a ploy to be in the good graces of the prince. But as he recalled the way your eyes bore into his, nothing but sincerity was evident in your orbs. How are you this kind? To a stranger, no less. Aemond was restless as he lay in his bed; his mind kept conjuring your interaction in the gardens, refusing him any other thought than you. 

When morning came, Aemond had made great lengths to avoid you, silently embraced as he had made a fool of himself in the gardens. As his training ended, Aemond tried to find reprieve from the loud keep in the library. Aemond believed he was successful in his avoidance of you, but as he stood by the threshold of the silent room, he saw, as you were seated in one of the chairs, a book in your hand as you silently read. His presence was still not noticed. He could easily slip away and be successful in his avoidance of you, yet, just like the other days, his body could not help but be pulled towards you. 

When you noticed a presence standing before where you sat, you flickered your gaze upward and locked eyes with the prince once more. “Prince Aemond,” You acknowledge and move to stand to greet him, but he silently raises his hand and hinders your actions. You copied his silence as he took the seat across from you. You traveled your gaze through the library, uncertain what to say or do. “I hope you are feeling better,” You say quietly. Aemond licked his lips as he was subjected to your dazzling presence once more; even though he had willed himself to avoid it, it seemed you were inevitable. 

“I am; I was simply tired,” He said, making certain to place coldness in his tone, hoping it would deter you and no longer present him with your kindness he stubbornly took as deception. Aemond felt his breath catch as you gave him another smile. A relieved smile for his well-being that was so genuine that he could not stubbornly convince himself that it was not. 

You stayed silent as you felt that that was what the prince preferred. You tried to return to your reading, but his velvety voice sounded through the room. “What business did you have here?” He asked. Aemond was testing you, presenting you with his cold and calloused self to see if it would have any effect on you just like it did the other. He watched calculatingly as your lips parted, and he found trouble to remove his gaze from your plush lips. “If I am being honest, I am not quite certain, my prince.” You said truthfully. You watched him raise his brow at you to explain further. “My father has business he needed to tend to here, but he had not disclosed to me the reason for it or why I needed to join.” Aemond nodded and watched as your eyes were never removed from his gaze, surprised that you could hold onto his intensified stare. 

“So you have no purpose here?” He asked harshly. He expected a frown or a look of offense on your face, but he watched as you smiled as if you were amused and shrugged, “I suppose not.” Aemond stayed silent and continued to asses you as you returned to your reading. 

“Do you like philosophy, Prince Aemond?” You asked after a stretch of silence, unable to bear the eerie and suffocating quiet. Aemond took a moment before he answered your query that no one had been interested in asking him before. “I do,” Another small smile appeared on your lips as you nodded. “Then have you perhaps read this? I have been mulling over the proposition of the archmaester for days now, but I cannot seem to comprehend it fully,” You say and turn the book you read towards him. Your fingers brushed as the prince took the book from your hands, and you could not hinder the chill that ran down your spine as you felt his cold, calloused fingers against yours. 

You listened earnestly as the prince began to speak and explain the proposition you had trouble comprehending, going to great lengths to explain his thoughts on it, assisting and receiving any questions you had. Aemond paused in his explanation, feeling as if his mouth had gone dry by his prolonged speaking. He turned to the window and saw as the once high sun began to set; he returned his gaze to you, your chin resting on your palm as you had listened to his every word, clinging onto every syllable he had uttered. Aemond gulped as he realized his mistake. He had revealed too much of him; too much of his thinking was poured out in his explanation of philosophy. “I must take my leave,” he suddenly said, disregarding that he was in the middle of explaining another philosophical theory that was different from the first you had inquired about. 

“Oh,” You said and straightened in your seat. Aemond wanted to frown as he detected disappointment in your tone and eyes. That cannot be, can it? Why would anyone be disappointed in his departure? “Good day, my prince,” You curtsied as you stood, not wanting to take more of his time. Aemond began to walk away, cursing himself for his actions, but he halted by the door as you spoke. “Thank you for your explanations… they were quite enlightening,” You said, and Aemond turned to you; the smile returned to your lips as you looked at him gratefully. Were you truly thankful? Thankful for him? Was that even a possibility? Aemond gave a curt nod and willed himself to walk away from you. 

You were in the gardens once again. You were terribly homesick, and the gardens of the Red Keep were the only resemblance of your home that you could cling to. You were walking distractedly, a buzzing bee following you around as the flowers in your hair attracted the insect. You tried to squat it away, afraid to get stung when you accidentally missed a step, losing your balance, and were met with the cobbled floor of the gardens. Your jaw slacked in pain, and you tried to stand, your cheeks burning in embarrassment that someone may have seen your ungraceful fall. There was a stone by your side, and you tried to hoist yourself upon it, hissing as you accidentally placed pressure on your swollen ankle, but you were determined to stand and walk back to the keep to ask for assistance.   

Unbeknownst to you, Prince Aemond had been observing you from above the gardens, and the moment he saw the sight of you falling, he made hastened steps to reach you. “My lady,” He called, trying to hide his panting, and approached you as if he had only stumbled upon your presence. You sat before a rock, and he noticed you hiding your injured limb from his view, “My prince,” Aemond watched in slight awe as you still tried to stand and curtsied before him, still holding onto formalities even though you were clearly hurt. 

“Are you well?” This time, it was now Aemond to ask the question. You placed a tight smile on your lips, pretending that your injury was not at all bothering you. “I am fine, and you, my prince?” You asked, trying to speak of pleasantries. You shifted your weight on your uninjured leg and, for once, hoped that the prince would leave. “Are… are you certain?” Aemond inquired, wondering why you would pretend. “Y-yes,” You stuttered, and Aemond narrowed his eye. 

You sighed and placed your head on the ground. “I… I tripped, and I think my ankle is injured— but I do not wish to bother you, my prince. I can wait for the swelling to subside.” Aemond frowned at your words. How were you so concerned about his well-being but not your own? Aemond shook his head and stepped closer to you, silently scooping you in his arms. “Wh— My prince!” You said in shock as you were stiffly settled into the hold of Prince Aemond. Your arms circled around his neck to stabilize yourself. “You don’t— I could have just waited for a squire or maid to assist me,” You said in a slight panic and could not even bear to look at the prince in embarrassment. “You are clearly in pain,” Was all he said as he carried you back inside the castle walls, the both of you earning strange glances from the members of the court. 

Aemond returned you to your assigned chambers, trying to ignore the erratic beating of his still heart and the tingles on his skin from where he felt your touch. He placed you gently onto a settee, inhaling a whiff of your scent, and he felt intoxicated. He placed a respectable distance between you as the both of you waited for the maester he ordered a squire to fetch. Your gaze was still planted on the floor, and Aemond noticed the flush on your cheeks and the harsh bit you had on your lip, embarrassment clearly evident in you. 

“I did not wish to bother you, my prince.” You say quietly, your tone heavy with guilt. Aemond could only hum a response, clueless as to why you were apologizing. The maester finally arrived, and Aemond stood by the side as he oversaw the maester, tending your injury. You tried to keep your pained reactions to a minimum as you felt conscious of the prince’s presence, but you could not help but hiss in pain, and your face contorted in discomfort as the Maester tried to move your injury. Aemond swallowed thickly as he himself was overcome with a phantom pain by the mere observation of yours. 

“Will it heal, maester?” He asked in concern, stepping forward. “Yes, my prince, it is only a swollen ankle; it shall heal by the morrow,” The old man spoke and stood, placing a cold, damp towel upon your injury, and you reached forward to secure its place. Aemond gave a nod, and his eye followed the maester who exited your chambers, leaving the door open. Aemond returned his gaze to you, your eyes finally meeting his, and he once again felt his breath caught in his throat as you smiled at him. 

“Thank you for your assistance and kindness, my prince,” You say gratefully, and Aemond felt his knees weak. No one had ever called him kind before. As always, you were met with his silence, but you dared say you were getting used to it. After a few moments of Aemond trying to comprehend your words, he gave a curt nod. “I shall leave you to rest; good day, my lady.” He said and willed himself to walk away from your presence he did not wish to leave. 

Another day had passed, and Aemond had not seen a glimpse of your presence he had been trying to avoid just the day before. He had the urge to knock upon your door and to see how you were faring with your recovery, but he placed great restraint on himself as his mind deemed it inappropriate. So he waited another day. He stood by the gardens, his eye assessing every passerby as he waited for you. He had been stood by the balcony like a statue for the better part of the morning, but your presence had not been noted. 

Aemond decided to walk around the castle, passing along every corridor in search of you and ready to act surprised as you two would eventually encounter once more. It was nearing sundown, and he had not seen a glimpse of you. Perhaps she is still resting. His mind told him, but Aemond was not entirely sold by that reasoning. 

The prince attended his family’s supper in his mother’s chambers. He sat quietly in his seat and saw the aggravated and tired faces of his mother and grandsire as they came to the table late. “We apologize for our tardiness; the small council has been overburdened by a matter.” The queen explained as she took her seat. “What matter?” Aemond asked, always curious about the dealing made. “The crown cannot afford to pay the dues it owes to House Tyrell… it is too great a sum, and the lord has threatened to withhold back crops for the upcoming winter if we do not pay their price.” The hand spoke, and Aemond pursed his lips, knowing that the debt to your house had been since the time of the conqueror. 

“Surely they could be reasoned with— they would not want to offend the rulers of Westeros,” Aemond said quietly and heard his mother sighed deeply. “Perhaps, but no meetings and negotiations can be made at the moment, for they had already left late last night.” Aemond’s hold on his fork tightened as he heard the words. You had gone without even a goodbye.

“I just do not know what we can offer to match their hefty sum,” the lord hand said and downed his wine. Aemond traveled his gaze around the table, his sibling not at all listening to the matter. “Offer me,” Aemond spoke, and he felt all eyes shift toward him. He turned to his mother, the queen’s lips agape in shock at his words. “The crown does not have money to pay our debt— then is it not a custom to offer marriage instead?” He asked rhetorically; the practice was made for centuries, but the price was usually paid with a princess, not a prince. 

“Aemond, mere debts are not paid with a prince.” The queen said. “But it is not just a mere debt, now is it, mother? The Tyrells had as well placed a threat to the kingdom’s security over this winter— and the mere debt you speak of has been established since the age of the conqueror,” Aemond turned to his grandsire, who he knew would understand his proposition. The Hand pondered over his grandson’s words. “But you are set to marry the Baratheon girl,” Alicent countered, and Aemond scoffed. 

“We owe nothing to the Baratheons, and do you not think that this matter looms greater?” He asked, “Lord Tyrell only has a daughter, does he not? In time, the seat shall pass onto me as well, alike with the arrangements with Lord Borros. And with this, the crown will no longer be indebted to their house,” Aemond said, determined to see you once more. “That is a most favorable solution,” The hand commented, quite content by his grandson’s proposition. The queen sighed and took a moment to think of the proposal. “Very well then,” she sighed, and Aemond hindered the smirk threatening to slip his lips. 

“I shall draft the proposal tonight and send a messenger to Highgarden first thing tomorrow,” Otto said in finality. “No need, I shall offer the proposal myself in person,” Aemond said, and he saw apprehension in his mother’s eyes, disbelief by his decision, but none hindered him. 

It was afternoon the following day when he had reached High Garden, Aemond riding atop his dragon through the morning, eager to reach his destination, you. “My prince,” Lord Tyrell greeted him by the gates of their castle. “What business is so urgent that the prince of the realm had to fly his dragon all over here to the reach?” They had not even reached inside the castle walls when Lord Tyrell could no longer hinder his curiosity. 

“It is the matter of the crown’s debt,” Aemond replied, his eye scanning the halls in search of you. He heard your father reply with an ‘oh,’ clearly anticipating the conclusion of the matter. “Is the crown ready to pay us the price owed?” Aemond hummed as he passed a portrait of you hung on the wall of your home, his eye entranced by the picture. “In a way,” The prince danced upon the matter momentarily. “In lieu of a payment, the crown is prepared to offer a marriage,” Aemond stated and watched concussion flush over your father’s face. 

“With respect, my prince, but that is an insulting offer. The crown has owed my house a great sum accumulated since the age of conquest!” Lord Tyrell seethed, and Aemond gritted his jaw. “I believe you are too hasty with your outburst, my lord. The crown is offering a union between me and your daughter— an opportunity for your only child to be a princess… your grandchildren having the Targaryen name.” Lord Tyrell shook his head, “My daughter is already bound to marry another— titles are one thing, my prince, but there is still a debt to be paid.” Aemond felt the fire in his veins awaken at your father’s words. You are to be bound to another; that cannot be. You cannot be anyone else’s when you had consumed his entire being— when you had presented him with such hope and kindness that he was certain he would find in no one else. You could never be not his. 

Aemond licked his lips, certain that the words he would utter would be a gamble. “Very well then… a counteroffer, my lord. The crown cannot fully pay your price, so we offer a royal marriage and a fourth of the sum owed to you,” Aemond said, assessing the father's reaction as he mulled over the proposition. “I shall need time to reach a decision,” Lord Tyrell finally spoke after a long pause. “Of course,” Aemond agreed. “For the meantime, you are welcome to the halls of High Garden, Your Highness.” 

Aemond waited as your father disappeared from his view before he went on his search for you. He walked through the unfamiliar corridors and found himself being led outside towards the gardens where he wagered you would be. When he saw you seated by a fountain, a smirk curled on his lips. However, it was quick to fade as he had noticed you were not alone. Aemond made furious steps towards you to announce his presence. 

You were conversing with another when you felt your skin tingling and the familiarity of a cold gaze upon you. You turned to your side, and your eyes widened as you saw the prince approaching. You blinked slowly, trying to discern if your mind was playing a cruel trick. But when the prince stood an arm’s length away from you, where you could see him clearly, you knew that it was not a trick. “My prince,” You say almost breathlessly, curtsying lowly before the son of the king. 

“How… what brings you here, your highness?” You asked, disregarding the earlier presence you were with. “Business for the crown,” He replied, eyeing the man who stood beside you. You turned your eyes toward where the prince placed his gaze intensely. “Oh, my prince, this is Prince Martin Martell,” You introduced, and you felt Martin stepped forward and bowed. “Martell? Are you not a long way from Drone?” Aemond gritted as he let out his hand to shake the prince’s hand. He wanted to smirk as he saw the man’s tanned face twist into a wince before quickly masking it. “Yes, my prince, I come as a suitor for my lady,” He explained, and Aemond pursed his lips at his words. 

You licked your lips as you suddenly felt the fresh air become tense, “Would anyone like some tea?” You suddenly interrupted the intense gazes of the two princes, walking in between them as you made your way toward a nearby table that had the afternoon’s refreshments. Aemond tapped his finger on the table, his eye shifting between you and your intended whilst you poured tea into everyone’s cup. “If I may ask, what business warrants your presence here, Prince Aemond?” Prince Martin inquired, and Aemond reluctantly shifted his attention from you, who was licking sugar from your fingers. 

“A proposal for House Tyrell,” he said bluntly, swallowing thickly as your lips parted at the mention of your house. “What proposal, if I may ask,” Your turn to inquire. Aemond licked his lips and debated if he should give you the true manner of his visit. “A proposal for you, my lady, to be a princess of Westeros.” You feel dazed by his words, your body freezing in shock, and you seem to forget how to breathe. 

Aemond looked at you expectantly, trying to search for any reaction in your eyes other than the pronounced shock. You were saved from his expectation of a reply when you heard your father calling for you. “I— excuse me, my princes,” You say in a haste and hurriedly went to your father’s call. 

“What is happening— the prince just informed me of his proposal— in front of Prince Martell!” You panicked, recalling the scene to your father with wide eyes. You watched as your father paused his lips, an aggravated sigh leaving his nose. “Bold of him to inform you of such proposals when I had not even given him my reply.” You shook your head and warily turned to the gardens, where you saw two princes seated by a distance. 

“Where did this proposal come from? I… I do not understand,” You whispered, recalling your days in the Red Keep; the moments with the prince that you tried to sell to yourself were meaningless to him. However, you supposed you sold yourself with a lie because those moments were enough for him to ask for your hand. Hope was dangerously blooming in your heart, emotions, and festering feelings you tried hard not to succumb to for the past days, now inevitable. 

“The proposal comes because the crown cannot pay the debt due to us… instead, they are offering a marriage between you and the prince and a fourth of the sum owed,” The hope that was dangerously blooming and had rooted itself in your heart quickly wilted, willing yourself not to show disappointment on your face. “Oh,” Was all you could utter. “What is your decision then?” You asked quietly as your father guided you further into the walls of your home. 

“Your courtship with Prince Martell has been settled for three years since your sixteenth name day, but no formal betrothals are in place, and we are in no obligation to the Martells,” Your father stated as you two walked along the corridors. “But Sunspear is a long way from here,” Your father added, “And though Kingslanding is closer, and if I were being honest, I would prefer you to be a princess of the whole of the seven kingdoms rather than just Dorne,” You twirled with your hair as you listening into your father’s musing. “But this marriage is just a way out of their hefty debt,” You nodded along and waited for your father to decide. 

“So? Which one of them?” You asked as you needed an answer, your nerves growing unbearable. Your father took in a deep breath, “I shall leave that decision to you… it is you who shall marry one of them; the money is not truly that much of a concern— it was simply a bargaining tool for the crown to remember how indebted they were to us,” Your father explained, and your lips parted as you were given a daunting task. 

“Can I speak with Prince Aemond for a moment? I… it is— I need to speak with him,” you say, and your father gives the nod, “I shall have him meet you in the drawing room,” You waited nervously for the prince, your mind running as to what to say to him. You stood when the prince entered the room, your lips parting, ready to speak something you were uncertain of, but Prince Aemond spoke first. 

“I know this is quite abrupt,” Aemond spoke and dared to step close to you, trying not to grow distracted by your mere ethereal presence. “It is my prince,” You agreed. “Could I just ask why?” Aemond frowned at your words; it was quite a straightforward proposal. “The crown owes your house,” He said matter of factly, “I know, but we ask for coins or land but not a marriage,” Aemond licked his lips, “And I am aware that the marriage is a substitute. However, you would understand that no one would be that inclined to accept a proposal just because the one giving the proposal is in debt.” 

“Is this a rejection?” Aemond took another step, closing most of the gap between you. He was aware that he was scowling severely, scarily even, but you did not seem to be frightened, a first for anyone he had encountered. “More of a question,” Aemond’s brows raised at your words. “Well, it’s clear that this proposal is just an obligation for you, and if I am being honest… I prefer someone who would not see a mere business dealing.” 

“All marriages are business dealings,” You pursed your lips at the prince’s words. “I supposed they are… but not every marriage is just a business dealing.” Aemond licked his lips, and the both of you were enveloped in silence. “I guess what I’m saying is… I would not feel inclined to choose someone who proposes because it is their obligation,” You say slowly, surprised that you managed to come across your answer. If it were any other situation where the crown was not indebted to your house, you would accept the proposal eagerly, but your heart idealistic heart yearned for someone who wanted you truly and did not see you as a mere opportunity. 

“My lady, I think you have gotten the wrong idea here,” You furrowed your brows as all were clear to you. The proposal was just an obligation… isn’t it? “No one forced me into this proposal; the queen could not find a solution. This marriage had not even crossed her mind— I…” Aemond passed as you waited on bated breath for his explanation. “I have offered the marriage not because of duty or a way for the crown to escape their debt but because… I— I want you. I want you to be my wife.” 

You looked at him with clear apprehension, and Aemond actually believed that you would flash him your sweet smile— perhaps a blush on your cheeks as he had said words so unlike him. “You want me?” You asked incredulously, and Aemond nodded, boldly taking your hands into his. “But why? We barely know each other?” You asked. Frowning as your eyes go downwards toward your hands clasped with the prince’s cold ones. “Why?” Aemond asked in disbelief you would ask such a question? You nodded. 

“Because I just do,” Aemond licked his lips as it would appear that that was the wrong answer, watching as you stole away your hand and your lips turned into an adorable pout he was very much tempted to kiss. “I— Because you are pretty, overly pretty,” Aemond spoke and hoped that would sway your mind, but that seemed even to offend you. “And because you are knowledgeable, I have never met anyone who had the same philosophical interests as me,” Aemond quickly added, and he wanted to smile as that lessened your frown. 

“And most of all, because you are kind. You are… you are not one to judge— you came to Kingslanding without any criticism or fear of me. You actually saw me as an actual person and not…” Aemond trailed as he felt a sense of relief as he said the words he thought none could ever compel him to do so. “Not like a weapon?” You almost laughed as you often heard others allude to him as such. Aemond nodded and took your hands into his once more. 

“You want me because I was kind and took an interest in you?” You asked, making certain that was his reasoning. Aemond nodded and dared to tuck a stray hair that obstructed his view of your face. “If that is all that it took, what if then another comes along and presents you with such kindness and interest… am I simply to be set to the side?” Aemond sighed and cupped your cheek as he felt his stomach twist at your words and at the look of doubt in your enchanting eyes. “What if—“ You were ready to voice out another doubting scenario, but your lips were kissed shut. 

You feel heat bloom into your cheeks, and you are stunned as you feel the prince’s thin and cool lips upon yours. Your eyes were wide at the sudden contact, but they fluttered to a close as you savored the feel and taste of him. “I do not know what more to say to quench the doubts in you… but you must know, I have never felt such a way— I have never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want you.” Aemond whispered against your lips as you breathed heavily, your body feeling afloat and alight. 

“The situation is not the most favorable one; believe me, I understand your qualms— but it is the only opportunity I had to make you mine,” You feel liquid fill your stomach, and words cannot find you. The only thing you could do was go to the tip of your toes and kiss the prince’s lips once more, a chaste kiss than the first, but it was a kiss that gave the prince his answer. 

Three moons passed before your nuptials were settled. You stood by the door of the great hall, waiting for it to open and lead you to your soon-to-be husband. “Are you certain?” Your father asked as he clasped his arms with yours. You breathed out a laugh and nodded your head eagerly. “I am,” You said with a smile and took a deep breath as you heard the trumpets from the other side of the door. 

Aemond sighed longingly as he saw the smile on your lips again. The smile that he had never been the receiver of before. The sweet and kind smile that led to all of this. 

You beamed at your groom as he took your hand into yours, unable to remove your gaze from his unique lilac eye throughout the whole of the ceremony. “I am his, and he is mine,” You recited after the Maester, feeling Aemond lightly squeeze your hand as you said the words, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. When it was Aemond’s turn, you bit your lip as you felt your smile grow wider, your heart beating loudly in your chest, and delight taking hold of your whole body. “I am hers, and she is mine,” Aemond stated, eye filled with sincerity and promise. 

You breathed in a deep breath as your husband stepped forward to seal your marriage with a kiss, your cheeks burning as you heard the cheers of your guests. “My flower,” Aemond whispered against your lips as you parted, his finger brushing away the stubborn lock of your hair once more. You could only smile upon him, your heart in your eyes— just one act of kindness, a simple smile had been the catalyst for you to find your love. 

You chewed on your cheek in anticipation as you were being led down the halls by your husband, the bedding ceremony promptly taking place after the feast. 

Aemond spared no second before claiming your soft, sweet lips once more. Gently pushing you upon a pillar in his chambers to keep you steady and flush against his body. “Aemond,” You called as you clung to his neck, his lips trailing downwards and his fingers undoing the laces of your gown. “You’re all mine, my flower… forever bound to me, my kind little wife.” Aemond hummed as he tasted your skin, his lips kissing your bare shoulders, the sleeves of your dress draping off. “I’m yours, my prince,” You sighed, but you felt slight dread in your stomach as he clicked his tongue in disapproval and slowly shook his head. “I am your husband… you must learn to call me by my name; no more titles and formalities,” Aemond lowly said, wanting to hear his name be uttered from your lips. 

You nodded, “I’m all yours, Aemond,” You said and whimpered as your husband’s eye darkened, and he forcefully slammed your lips. You feel your dress pool to the floor as he successfully removes it; he takes hold of one of your thighs and makes you cling to him, leading you to your shared bed. Aemond gently laid you down and parted your lips to admire the view of you sprawled before him. The thin sheet of your shift reveals all to him. 

You gasped in utter shock as you felt him tear away the thin cover you had, fully exposing you to him. A strained moan left your throat as Aemond dipped down and took one of your tits into the hot cavern of his mouth, his tongue teasing the bud. You clung to his silvery locks; just that action alone made your core tighten painfully. Aemond smirked as he moved to pay attention to the neglected mound, your hips grinding upon his as you sought friction. 

“Aemond, I…” You called, uncertain of what you wanted, but all you knew was that you needed more. “Yes, wife?” He hummed and placed open-mouth kisses upon your stomach. “I… I—“ You stuttered, not knowing what to ask. Aemond sighed and moved his head to kiss your lips, “Do you want more… do you want to be pleasure, my flower?” He asked, as he could not be so cruel to leave you in such a state for much longer. You eagerly nodded your head. 

It did not take long for you to be a moaning mess, your eyes rolled back in your head, and your back arched as Aemond placed his mouth upon your cunny. Licking and teasing your folds, “Aemond! Oh, gods!” You called in utter pleasure as you felt his thin lips enclose your sensitive bud, sucking and licking it. You battled with your mind-numbing pleasure as you propped yourself on your elbows to watch his actions. He looked up at you, grinning as his fingers teased your undefiled whole. You bit your lip and breathed heavily, boldly taking hold of the leather strap of his eye patch. You saw as his eye darkened, and you hesitated, but Aemond gave a nod. 

As you removed his eye patch, Aemond pressed his finger into you, your eyes rolling back as you saw his sapphire eye. Aemond returned his lips to your cunt, sucking on the bud as his fingers pumped in and out. He felt your walls clench around the digits and your moans growing louder. Through your closed eyes, you feel him smirk against your skin and curl the digits inside your cunt— a loud moan leaving your lips as you come undone. Your hips violently move against his face, and the pearl of your cunt hitting gains his angular nose. 

“Oh gods,” You say breathlessly as you feel Aemond’s weight atop of you. You undid the laces of his vest as he removed his trousers. You looked downwards and saw the whole of your husband, his warm, pulsating length resting upon your thigh. The head of his cock weeping a clear liquid. “W… will it fit?” You say in disbelief, never having thought that something so phallic could be so… large and appealing. “Of course, you were made for me, my flower.” Aemond lowly said and kissed your lips as he aligned himself with your cunt. 

You dug your nails onto his shoulders as he slowly tore his way through you. Him hushing your cries of pain and kissing away your tears. “It hurts— Aemond, I… it’s too much,” You cried, your legs wrapping around his waist. Aemond reached downwards and drew circles upon your cunt to aid your pain. You waited for the pain to bleed into pleasure. Aemond tightly shit his eye as he felt the tip of his cock brush against a rough spot in your cunt, him fully sheathed inside you. He made cautious thrusts, watching as you would acclimatize to his length, and when he saw your eyes roll back, that was his sign to fasten his pace. 

Aemond’s found your lips once more, muffling your moans and whimpers as his cock was relentlessly hitting the spongy spot in your cunt that made your core come undone over and over again. You were on the verge of your fourth climax, each of them coming quickly after the other, and your thighs started to shiver at the pleasure that had enveloped you fully. “Aemond… It’s too much. I— husband, I cannot,” You cried as you felt a different sensation, an odd pressure in your core unalike the other times you came. Aemond clenched his jaw as his cock twitched inside your cunt, “Just… come for me one more time, my flower,” He gritted as he wanted to coax another peak from you. 

Aemond laid his thumb flat against your nubbin and rubbed circles once more, your voice already hoarse from your loud moans. “Oh… Aemond!” You cried as the quivering of your thighs grew, and you felt the pressure in your core come undone; a differing climax from the first three overcame you. Aemond groaned loudly and tilted his head back as he spilled his seed deep in your cunt. You breathed heavily as you tried to comprehend what had happened, wetness pooling between your thighs, and an embarrassed blush spread through your cheeks and neck. 

Aemond smirked and shook his head, trying to soothe the mortification in your eyes. “I knew you were capable of it,” He hummed and kissed your lips. He knew it was perhaps too much to test your limits in your first night together, but he could not help himself; he needed to have you in such a way. “My perfect wife,” he hummed against your skin, and your reply came through your tired smile. 

[artficlly]

close quarters [one-shot]

fantasy marvel au bucky x reader when you're assigned a brooding escort for your journey north, the last thing you expect is to be sharing a cramped sleeper car with him. 

Warnings: forced proximity, one bed (kinda), panic attacks, fear of dark, class difference, kissing, generous use of the petname princess, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, fluff, kinda sweet, protective bucky, mentions of steve, peggy, sam, dum dum dugan, fantasy elements, monsters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: hello, i don't expect this to do well, kinda lost motivation near the end as you'll probably be able to tell. I've been working on this one and off the past two weeks but i'm so over it i just need to post it and be done with it. i've been sick and busy with uni so it's kinda mid so apologies but enjoy my flu induced insanity with this one. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

Your brother’s insistence that you needed an escort was, without a doubt, the most infuriating part of your journey north. A close second—conveniently tied to your initial frustrations—was the escort himself.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t exactly what you’d expected to find waiting at the train station. You had arrived at 8 p.m. sharp, as per your brother’s meticulous instructions. Bucky had the typical rugged, unapproachable look you associated with Flamewardens. There was a certain brooding intensity about him, dashed by a stoic, almost indifferent air. He had spotted you easily, looked you up and down with the barest hint of acknowledgement, and let out a quiet grunt. 

That was the extent of your introduction. 

Yet, for all his glowering, women seemed to flitter around him. You had watched as a group of younger women, likely around your age, whispered and giggled as they cast lingering glances down the platform at your sullen escort. To his credit, he didn’t react or even lift his gaze from the train tracks ahead.

You let your own eyes waver on his profile, dark hair, strong bone structure, straight nose, and eyes like an oncoming storm. Handsome. That was undeniable. Startlingly so, if you were being honest. But you refused to let his looks—or the broad, muscled frame beneath his heavy coat—distract you. Especially not as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unmistakable flask.

You shot him a scathing look as he tipped back the silver flask, his throat working with each swallow. Whatever was inside had to be strong. The slight wince as he lowered it from his lips gave that much away.

“Is that wise?” Your voice carried a pointed edge, skirting somewhere between disapproval and disgust.

Bucky chuckled, though the sound lacked any true amusement. His breath lingered in the evening air, curling into a thin mist before being carried away by the brisk breeze that serpentined through the exposed railway tracks. “Only way to stay warm, Miss. Only gonna get worse the further north we go.”

He tucked the flask back into his coat. The worn leather of his gloves creaked as he dragged a hand across his stubbled jaw as if brushing away the chill. You hated to admit he had a point. Spring had come late this year—if it had come at all. Even here, in the city, ice still clung stubbornly to the streets, and heavy grey clouds loomed overhead. The snow hadn't yet relented up north, where your brother was waiting.

In the safety of the larger cities, warmth was never a concern. The luxury of fire and heat was abundant. With proper protections and Firewardens employed, there was no fear of the light it produced, or more specifically, there was no fear of what the light might attract. Civilised folk no longer had to shiver in the dark. They had cast aside the weight of thick furs, the obscuring hoods, the need for constant vigilance. But where you were headed, where your brother waited keenly for your arrival, it was different. There, Ignivorae were far more frightening than the cold.

“I just hope you’re not a drunkard,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the empty tracks, the frostbitten metal beginning to hum with the distant approach of the train. You hadn’t meant for him to hear, but his trained ears caught every word.

He scoffed, the sound half jest, half feigned offence. “Why? You gonna rat me out to your brother?”

“You are under his employ,” you reminded him coolly.

Another scoff. “He wouldn’t care, Miss. Hell, if he were here, I bet he’d be doin’ the same as me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, irritation flickering through your chest. You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. “You don’t know my brother well enough to make such a statement.”

Bucky inclined his head, unimpressed. “Two years is a long time, Princess. Feels even longer out North. I don’t think your brother is quite the same as when he left.”

You had little doubt he was right. Beyond the city limits, out in the rural farmlands, the world stretched isolated and desolate. This was the first time your brother had taken on such a venture alone, desperate to keep the family business alive even after the sudden loss of your parents. A part of you wondered if he had conducted the plan in a haze of grief, or if it was a means of proving himself to whatever invisible pressures he envisioned pressed upon his shoulders.

You sympathised with him, truly, even if he had abandoned you in his pursuit of imagined grandeur. A part of you had stopped expecting to see him again, had never anticipated his summons. But now, it seemed, he was finally ready to need you. Finally willing to accept your help.

The thought soured in your gut as you scowled at Bucky. 

“Don’t call me that.” You snapped, refusing to let your voice be swallowed by the growing roar of the train.

“Call you what?” 

“Princess.”

The train rushed past, a violent gust of wind pulling at your coat as the metal beast groaned to a stop, sparks flaring against the melting ice before flickering out.

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head as he adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “Where we’re goin’, you’ll prolly be the closest thing to a princess they’ve ever seen. You’re a proper-bred lady compared to the folk out there.”

“Does that distinction truly matter that much?”

You had never thought of yourself as well-bred. Privileged, maybe, but not delicate, not sheltered in the way Bucky seemed to imply. Your parents had been wealthy, yes, and you’d received an education few could afford. You had never gone hungry, never shivered through winter, never known true desperation. But your family’s fortune hadn’t come from lineage or titles. Your parents had carved it out themselves, built it from nothing with a mix of skill, relentless work, and a hell of a lot of luck.

It was a dangerous formula, one your brother was determined to replicate.

“To them, it will,” Bucky said, his tone carrying the weight of certainty. “Especially if you ain’t prepared to get your hands dirty.”

You gave a terse, humourless smile as you stepped toward the waiting train. “Well, good thing that is my brother’s job, not mine.”

Bucky huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, watching as you handed your ticket to the conductor. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he followed you aboard.

—

“This can’t be right. They’re expecting us to share a compartment—?”

By the time you reached your assigned sleeper car, the train was already rocking back into motion, the shrill whistle signalling your official departure north.

The train itself was plain but sturdy, built for endurance rather than luxury. The windows were fitted with metal shutters that could be pulled down from the inside—a feature you weren’t sure was meant for privacy or protection. You had passed through the lounge car, where Bucky had eyed the open bar with distinct interest and a dining car for breakfast, lunch and dinner service. However, your silent approval of your brother's transportation choice was promptly shattered when you caught sight of your assigned compartment. 

The compartment was tight, with only a small walkway that had another space for you to stand. If you were generous enough in your observations, you could lie to yourself and say that it allowed the room for you to walk two paces in either direction. One side held a stiff leather bench, its upholstery worn but well-maintained, bolted against dark wooden panelling. Above it, a metal luggage rack with frayed fabric straps provided limited storage. 

It was the other side that filled you with horror.

You wouldn’t have complained about the cramped space if it weren’t blatantly obvious you would have to share it with your hulking escort. Two bunks lined the opposite wall, the mattresses thin and stiff, large enough to accommodate one person each. A ladder at the end next to the window allowed easier access to the top bunk. You took one look at the lumpy pillows, dull green sheets and scratchy blanket that had been neatly folded by the feet end of the beds and turned around. You barely had time to process your own dismay before you were met with a wall of muscle as Bucky pressed in close, making way for other passengers filing through the narrow corridor. His chest was solid, his coat rough against your cheek, and you recoiled back.

Unfazed, he flicked his wrist, turning his ticket over to confirm the compartment number. “It’s what is on the tickets, Princess.”

You stepped back again, putting as much space between you as the cramped compartment would allow. “Don’t call me that, and this can’t be what my brother meant by ‘escort’—”

“His exact words,” Bucky interrupted, tucking his ticket back into his coat. “Keep my eyes on you. Keep you safe. Deliver you to Glenwyck.”

You exhaled sharply, glaring up at him. “So you’re going to watch over my every move? How am I supposed to get changed? Just rely on your gentlemanly instinct to turn a blind eye? Which might I mention, I have seen very little of—”

"There's a bathroom at the end of the train car." His tone was dry, as if he were already exhausted by this conversation. "You can use that for changin’. And whatever other business you think is necessary."

"How kind of you." You dropped your luggage onto the seat with a huff.

Bucky stepped further into the cramped compartment, either oblivious or determined to rile you up. The back of your knees pressed flush against the leather bench as he closed the distance, dipping his head so near that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost against your skin.

With effortless ease, he hoisted your luggage and swung it into the wire rack above. The movement and sway of the train forced your chests to brush. Just for a few seconds. Just enough to make you swallow hard and for a tinge of pink to dust your cheeks. But before you could shuffle away, he reached for his own bag, taking his sweet time as he secured it into place. 

You clenched your jaw, irritation bubbling hotter with every second you spent trapped between his broad chest and the wooden panelling behind you. If he noticed, he didn’t care. Or worse—he enjoyed it.

“Now, tell me, Princess. Are you going to be picky about your bunk too?” Bucky hadn’t moved, lingering far too close, his broad frame crowding the already-cramped space. He was looking down at you with a rather lazy grin on his face as if he was particularly amused with the sour expression you regarded him with. 

“No.”

“Wonderful.” He drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. You didn’t bite back, instead feeling your shoulders droop in relief as he finally backed up. With a grunt, he dropped onto the bottom bunk, stretching his legs out as if he’d already made himself at home. “I’ll take bottom, you take top.”

You stiffly nodded, trying not to linger on how ridiculous this arrangement was. Sharing a compartment was one thing, but a room barely large enough for the both of you, sleeping in bunks not even an arm’s length apart? You hesitated, debating whether to sit across from him and pretend he didn’t exist or escape to the relative privacy of your bed. 

The choice was easy.

Without another word, you clambered up the narrow ladder, the mattress shifting beneath you as you settled in. At least up here, out of his immediate line of sight, you could pretend for a moment that you weren’t stuck sharing close quarters with a complete stranger. A man, at that.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the cream-coloured curve of the train’s ceiling as the steady rumble of the tracks beneath you filled the silence.

God, you hoped your brother had put his trust in the right man.

—

"At least open the window if you’re going to smoke in here," you muttered, tugging your bootlaces tight with a firm yank. You were perched on the edge of the stiff leather seat, dressing for breakfast, while the faint hum of the train carried on beneath you.

You’d slept well—surprisingly well. The rhythmic sway of the train had lulled you into a deep, dreamless rest, a rare reprieve from the constant churn of thought that had plagued you for weeks. For those few blissful hours, you weren’t fretting over your reunion with your brother, or what exactly waited for you up north. You certainly hadn’t been thinking about your frustrating, tight-lipped escort.

Bucky was posted by the window, one shoulder propped lazily against the frame, cigarette between his fingers. He hadn’t said a word to you since the night before, and you weren’t sure if he’d slept at all. You’d awoken to find him already awake, elbows braced on his knees, methodically rolling tobacco like it was the only thing keeping his hands busy.

Beyond him, the world outside had vanished into white. Snow blanketed the earth, smoothing the rough land into a quiet, endless plain. No houses. No fences. Just the distant silhouette of mountains breaking up the pale sky.

"I can open the window if you want, Princess," he said without looking at you, voice low and gravel-edged. "But all you’ll get is a cabin full’a coal smoke."

You shot him a glare, then rolled your eyes and stood, brushing the creases from your coat with a sigh of forced patience. You’d learned, albeit reluctantly, that pushing him got you nowhere—at least, not without a headache in return.

“I’m going to breakfast,” you said crisply, sliding the compartment door open and casting one last look over your shoulder.

He pushed off the windowsill and followed without a word. Of course, he did.

For all his witty remarks and infuriatingly smug demeanour, Bucky took his job seriously. Wherever you went, he was just a step behind—silent, watchful, and always armed with that barely concealed impatience. He even waited outside the women’s lavatory, arms crossed, like a guard dog forced to sit through etiquette lessons.

You had no doubt that, given the choice, he’d rather have spent the journey holed up in the bar car or asleep in a quiet corner. But duty clearly came first.

The train was scheduled to stop in Hollowpass by evening, a final pitstop before you boarded the next line toward Norcross. From there, you had two more days of travel—by carriage, no less—until you reached Glenwyck. Your brother’s outpost.

No train lines reached that far north. Too remote, too wild. Just frostbitten roads and vast stretches of wilderness. And Bucky Barnes, your less-than-charming, maddeningly handsome escort, to lead the way.

Wonderful.

You stumbled, the floor pitching beneath your boots just as a blur of motion came barreling down the narrow walkway. A firm hand caught the back of your collar and yanked you sharply backwards into the compartment right as a trolley clattered past, steered by a flustered cleaning woman who offered a breathless apology as she vanished down the corridor.

Your back landed squarely against Bucky’s chest, the breath knocked out of you more from the closeness than the pull.  “Careful, Princess,” he murmured, voice low beside your ear before letting you go.

You gripped the doorframe to steady yourself, heart skipping for reasons you chose not to examine too closely.

“How are you gonna survive in Glenwyck,” he drawled, “if I can’t trust you not to get run over on a damn train?”

You twisted around with an irritated look, brushing your hands over your skirt to smooth it back into place. “You’re rather dramatic, you know that?”

He only shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just doing my job, Princess.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him into the corridor, leading the way.

The sleeper car stretched ahead of you, its narrow passage lined with compartments like the one you’d just vacated. The metal shutters had been slid open now it was morning, the orange glow of the sunrise casting a glow over the polished brass handles and dark wood panelling. You passed passengers still tucked into their compartments, some reading, others quietly sipping tea or peering out windows wrapped in thick scarves. You pressed on, following the distant tang of strong coffee.

When you finally reached the dining car, you were quick to find an empty table. The tables were arranged in neat rows along either side of the carriage, bolted securely to the floor with matching bench seats upholstered in deep green velvet. You slid into the booth nearest the window, the cushioning stiff beneath you. Bucky settled across from you with a grunt, his eyes swept the car.

You eyed your escort as you delicately draped one of the napkins across your lap. In the daylight, he looked younger than you had first assumed. The lines on his face seemed less carved by time and more etched by worry. His stubble had grown out further, darkening his jaw in a shadow.

“How long have you known my brother?” you asked, tone light, almost casual. However, your gaze didn’t waver from over the rim of your teacup.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, surprise flashing across his face like he hadn’t expected you to speak, let alone ask something personal. Until now, most of your time together had passed in silence. He kept to himself, either smoking, draining cup after cup of bitter black coffee, or nursing that damn flask of his. Always wound tight, like a viper coiled in wait. 

“‘round two years,” he said finally, guarded. “I was workin’ as a Firewarden in the city. Your brother came through and convinced a bunch of us to sign on with him.”

You tilted your head. “How did he manage that?”

Bucky gave a short scoff and leaned back against the booth, his arm slung along the top of the velvet seating.“Hell if I know. One week I’m lazin’ around the city guardhouse, the next I’m freezing my ass off patrollin’ the edge of some nowhere, nobody town I ain’t ever heard of. Your brother talked like the place was already rebuilt. Like it’s a done deal. Gets in your head like that.”

You smiled faintly. “He gets that from our father. He was like that too. Good at leading people. Better at convincing them they wanted to be led.”

Bucky raised a brow, studying you. “How’d your family even get into this line of work?”

You hesitated, then set your cup down and rested your hands on the table. “My father grew up in the city. But he met my mother at one of those old debutante balls—they used to invite girls from rural towns and farmsteads to give them a shot at something different. She caught his eye. When he travelled north to meet her family, to ask for her hand… he was horrified.”

“Horrified?” Bucky echoed.

You nodded. “They were barely surviving. No access to reliable fire, which meant no protection. No fuel, no heat. Elders froze to death in their sleep. Crops dead. Livestock gone. And the Ignivorae…”

You shuddered, though the memory didn’t belong to you. Your mother had repeated it countless times until it had practically become your own. “Towns would light pyres and pray their tenders could keep them burning through the night. Others would go dark completely. No light, no sound. Just hoping the Ignivorae would pass them by.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“So your father stepped in.”

You nodded again. “He saw the problem for what it was. Cities survived because they had infrastructure. They had fire. Steady, managed fire. But out in the rural zones, people were alone. Busy farming, raising children, barely getting by. Staying up all night with a torch and a pitchfork wasn’t sustainable. And most of them couldn’t afford to hire proper wardens.”

You looked down, fingers idly toying with the corner of your napkin. “So my father hired them himself and paid for the fuel to burn too. They’d build firelines on the outskirts, massive pyres like the ones in the city to burn hot and long enough to lure the Ignivorae away from homes. If the flames didn’t kill the things outright, the wardens would. ”

Bucky was quiet, eyes drifting toward the window. The snow had deepened outside, smooth hills like frozen waves rolling across the plain. The sun peeked over the horizon in slivers of pale gold and silver, bouncing off the frost-bitten world in blinding flashes. Mountains loomed ahead like jagged teeth, their peaks lost in cloud.

“With protection in place, people could sleep again. And once that foundation was stable, once the fireline was holding… then my father would start investing. Building industry. Bringing in trade, tourism, and shipping routes when the rivers allowed for it. Giving the town something to build on.”

The dining car had filled slightly while you talked. The clinking of cutlery and low murmurs of conversation filled the space. A few other passengers sat at the other tables, most dressed in heavy coats and wool scarves. One man read a newspaper folded neatly in front of him, while a young woman stirred sugar into her tea.

“Then my mother stepped in. I did too, once I was old enough,” you went on. “She’d open little schoolhouses, sometimes just in empty sheds or old barns at first. We taught the adults first. Reading, writing, and arithmetic so they could manage their own businesses when they came. And then we taught the children, so the next generation didn’t grow up at the mercy of someone else’s charity.”

Bucky turned toward you again, his expression unreadable. That same brooding stare, heavy-lidded and cryptic, like he was always walking the line between irritation and interest. 

“Didn’t peg you for the charitable type,” he said at last.

You gave him a dry look. “It’s not charity. It’s a foundation. If you want people to build something that lasts, you have to teach them how to keep it standing.”

He considered that, thumb tapping once against the edge of the table.

“And when the towns were strong enough to hire their own wardens and run their own schools?” he asked.

“We moved on,” you said simply. “All my father asked was one percent of their profits each year. Over time, it added up. He used that money to invest in the next place.”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just leaned back, eyes still on you. The sunrise spilt gold across his features, catching on the stubble along his jaw, casting shadows beneath his tired eyes.

“Sounds borderline predatory, Princess,” he said finally.

You gave a faint smile, one without warmth. “It’s business.”

A pause settled between you, brief but heavy.

“My brother trusts you enough to send you on this escort job, and you barely know anything about him?”

“Didn’t come up much in conversation, Princess,” he said, rolling a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Too busy not getting killed. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a sister until he handed me this job.”

You frowned, studying him. “You follow someone that blindly?”

“I follow people who get things done,” he said. “And if he says protectin’ you is part of the deal, then that’s what I’m doin’.”

—

The wind cut sharp through Hollowpass Station, knifing through coats and gloves, the chill carving you down to the bone. Beneath your boots, the platform creaked, salt to banish the ice crunching underfoot. The sun was long gone, leaving the world drained of colour, lit only by moonlight and fire.

Far beyond the edge of the town, a pyre roared like a heartbeat in the dark. Massive, constant and crackling. You watched it through the flurries of snow, that distant beacon where the Firewardens stood vigil. The Ignivorae circled in lazy, sweeping arcs above the flames, dark silhouettes, long-limbed and hungry. One would dive suddenly, vanishing into the fire with a hiss and a burst of embers. The swarm would follow, mindless, forever drawn to the searing light.

Bucky stood nearby, gloved hands jammed into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. A dusting of snow clung to his hair and the curve of his collar. He wasn’t watching the pyre, instead scanning the tracks as if willing the train into existence through sheer force of irritation.

You hesitated, teeth worrying your bottom lip, then stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to share the heat from his body.

He didn’t move. Just gave a small, knowing smirk without looking at you. “You cold, Princess?”

You huffed lightly, eyes still on the horizon. “A little.”

“Gonna get a lot worse where we’re headed,” he said casually. 

A low whistle echoed across the pass. You turned toward the sound, the relief unspoken. You would not be the only one on the platform anxious to be on board where it was warm and sheltered. Somewhere in the dark, gears shifted, and brakes hissed, metal groaning in protest as the train began to slow its approach.

“Do they ever break through?” you asked quietly, nodding toward the fire.

Bucky’s expression turned stony again. “Sometimes.”

“And if that happens while we are out here?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Then you better hope I’m as good as I say I am.”

The train emerged from the darkness like a beast of iron, the plume of smoke engulfing the falling snow. Around you, the waiting crowd stirred, boots shifting on the frost-glazed platform, murmured conversations fading into anticipation. A conductor stepped forward, shoulders hunkered against the cold and swung down the footstools with practised rhythm. Another man unlatched the station door, shouting over the chatter of passengers as mail and luggage were wheeled out.

You felt the press of people closing in, eager to board. A woman with a bundled baby stood just behind you, and further back, a pair of merchants argued softly over seating. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t even seem to notice the gathering heat of bodies around him. He kept his eyes on the tracks, one hand resting lightly on the strap of his pack.

You leaned slightly toward him. “You travel a lot, then? You seem very at ease with all this.”

“I get around.” He drawled, gaze still on the tracks. “You always this nosy?”

You caught his eye, refusing to let it go. The cold air curled around your cheeks, but the heat building in your chest was enough to thaw any frost.

“You’re a mystery to me,” you confessed, your voice barely above the noise around you. “Maybe I find that interesting.”

He turned to look at you then—really look at you. His pupils dilated, irises flicking across your face like he was mapping something he didn’t quite expect to find. Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, but you didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he murmured, just for you. “What exactly is it you’re hopin’ to figure out, Princess?”

“You haven’t told me anything about yourself,” you replied, letting the wind catch your words. “Other than that you used to be a Firewarden in the city and work for my brother now.”

He lifted his brows. “You never asked.”

“Well,” you said, leaning just a little closer as the platform shuddered with the weight of the train’s arrival, “I’m asking now.”

“Oh yeah?” He hummed, the shove of the crowd pulled him closer to you, his warm breath fanning across your chilled cheeks. “What do you want to know?”

You opened your mouth, but your words were lost as the train neared. The brakes shrieked against the frozen rails, a grinding howl that sent a cascade of bright sparks down the line. You flinched from the sound, blinking against the sudden burst of light.

For one breath, it was quiet as you blinked away the stars in your vision.

A scream rang out behind you. 

Then another. 

The platform erupted in chaos, boots scrambling, bags abandoned, a child crying as they were yanked backwards by the hand. Shouts rose, some in warning, others pure terror. 

The Ignivorae hit the platform with a sickening crunch, its claws punching through the wooden planks like it was paper. A monstrous silhouette of twisted anatomy, the creature loomed in the firelight, half-moth, half-man. Its gangly limbs bent at the wrong angles, ending in hooked talons slick with frost. Translucent wings stretched wide behind it, tattered and powdered, like those of a colossal night moth.

Its face—if you could call it that—was a hideous blend of bone-white mandibles and jagged teeth, stretching unnaturally wide. Two bulbous eyes blinked out of sync, scanning the crowd. 

You’d never seen an Ignivorae this close before, not mere paces away. You had seen them at a distance, grown up watching as they dived into the pyres at night. You’d heard descriptions. Your father or brother telling gruesome stories of the outskirts while your mother scolded and ushered you away—‘such stories are not appropriate for young ladies’. In all your years, you had wondered what you would do if faced with such a moment. What would you do if one broke free from the swarm, disregarded the Firewarden’s efforts, and came straight for you? Would you grab a weapon, fight, scream, run?

To your disappointment, all you found was that you froze, as if the ice from the platform had crept up your legs and locked you in place.

With one violent shudder, it threw its wings forward. A cloud of fine, shimmering dust exploded into the air, catching in the light like gold. The effect was anything but beautiful. Screams tore through the crowd as the dust landed on exposed skin, the powder causing instant stinging. Red welts rose in its wake like a poisonous plant’s touch. People scattered in a frenzy, tripping over luggage and each other to escape.

A shriek tore from its throat, shrill and distorted, like metal bending under strain.

You still stood rigid, breath caught in your throat.

Bucky shoved you back, hard enough that your shoulder slammed into a column. “Stay down!” he barked.

The Ignivorae’s milky eyes swung around and locked on Bucky.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp motion, he pulled a hunting knife from inside his coat and rushed the creature. You had no idea where your escort had produced it from nor how long he had been so easily armed on this trip of yours. But rather than worry, you were rather grateful for his cunning. The Ignivorae lunged, jaws unhinging to reveal a mouth full of jagged, needle-like teeth. Bucky ducked beneath them, rolled forward, and drove the blade deep into its abdomen. Thick, black blood sprayed across the frozen platform in thick, oily ropes.

The creature shrieked and thrashed, claws tearing through the air. One struck his shoulder, ripping the fabric clean and exposing the skin beneath. Its wings flared again, dust bursting across him in a glittering veil.

Bucky hissed as the powder kissed his neck and collarbone, shoulder jerking back.

He yanked the blade free and, in one clean movement, rammed it up beneath the creature’s jaw, right into the base of its skull. The Ignivorae gave one final, horrible twitch, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and curling wings.

You scrambled to your feet as Bucky staggered back, breath visible in the frigid air. The bloodied knife remained clenched in his grip. His chest heaved, and an angry rash had already bloomed across the bare skin of his throat and collarbone. 

Without a word, he shook himself off, using his gloved hands to swipe the lingering powder from his coat and pants. He moved carefully, methodically, ensuring no dust remained on the fabric before lowering the knife.

Behind him, the platform was chaos. Passengers sprinted for the station, some rolling and shrieking in pain as the dust settled, others throwing themselves aboard with panicked shouts.

Bucky’s eyes met yours. His jaw was tight, temple flecked with black blood.

“Come on,” he growled. He gave his gloves one final shake, checked the backs of his hands, and then reached for you. His fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you toward the waiting train.

You stumbled after him, breath hitching, heart racing. “Bucky, are you okay? Are you hurt?” You couldn’t stop looking at the rash blooming angry red across his throat, the skin raw where the powder had settled. “Your skin—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, dragging you onto the train as the doors hissed open. He didn’t let go of your wrist until you were inside, pushing past confused passengers and frantic attendants. “It’s just the dust. Burns like hell.”

You followed him down the narrow corridor, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have…God, you could’ve died—”

“I didn’t,” he said, leading you into your sleeper compartment and shutting the door behind you. The sounds of panic outside muffled instantly, replaced by the hum of the train and your uneven breath. “This is my job, Princess.”

The rash on his neck looked worse, creeping like vines toward his collarbone.

“You’re not fine,” you said, reaching for his shirt. “Let me see it—”

Bucky caught your wrist again, gentler this time. His eyes, still alert from the fight, softened just a little. “I’ll live.”

You were both breathing hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The cabin was just like the last train, with tight quarters and iron fixtures with the same thin, cream-coloured walls and dark wood panelling. Leather seating with overhead luggage storage lined one side, while two narrow bunks lined the other, the lower mattress already creaking under Bucky as he sat down heavily, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Let me help you.” You argued, holding his gaze with a determination that, deep down, even surprised you.

 He exhaled slowly, head tipping back against the wall. 

“Check my bag. There’s a jar.” His voice was quieter now but steady. “There's a woman in Glenwyck, a healer. She makes ‘em up for the Wardens. Helps with the rash. This ain’t the first time I’ve been covered in that dust. Won’t be the last.”

You turned to the leather satchel he’d tossed carelessly on the seat opposite. The zipper resisted at first, stiff with cold, but inside was a mess of folded shirts, a canteen, a few loose rolling papers, and the jar he’d mentioned. 

“How did the Ignivorae get past the Wardens? I thought we would’ve been safe so far away.” You muttered, mostly to yourself, as you fished the jar from his bag. 

“Sometimes they get past, probably saw the sparks from the breaks and saw an easy target.” Bucky replied through grit teeth. You tossed a look over at him, noting how sweat misted his brow, wincing in pain as the train began to rumble to life once more. You unscrewed the jar lid, and sure enough, a pungent pine scent hit your nose, sharp and earthy, undercut with something vaguely medicinal.

Outside the window, the night blurred by in streaks of white snow and distant firelight. You moved toward him carefully, the jar in one hand. 

“Collar,” you instructed, and he tugged the neck of his torn shirt loose without protest, baring the angry red rash that bloomed along his collarbone and crept up his throat.

When your fingers touched his skin, his eyes flicked up to yours.

You dipped your index finger into the salve and dragged it gently along the inflamed skin, spreading it in careful strokes, watching as it sank in with a faint sheen. The silence between you grew thicker with every slow motion. You tried not to notice how close you were now, standing between his knees, your breath shallow and uneven.

“How long does it take to kick in?” You questioned, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers smoothed up his neck, muscle and tendons shifting under your touch. You swept a thumb across his jugular, and he swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“The pain fades first,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “Rash’ll stick around for a day or two.”

You were the first to look away.

You screwed the lid back on with a quiet click and stepped toward the bag resting on the seat. The train lurched under your feet, and you reached for the bunk rail to steady yourself—only to find Bucky already there, his hands catching your waist, steadying you like it was second nature.

His bag slid off the seat behind you, spilling its contents across the cabin floor.

You hid the flush rising to your cheeks, brushing his hands away gently as you crouched to the floor. “I’ve got it.”

“Princess—” he muttered, shifting like he might kneel down too.

“Sit still,” you cut in, already scooping up his belongings. He let out a sound—half a sigh, half a grumble—but obeyed, leaning back against the wall as you stuffed shirts and supplies back into the leather pack.

It was only as you blindly grasped a stack of thick paper that you hesitated, eyes glancing up. In your hand, you held a bundle of letters wrapped in twine. At least a dozen, maybe more, none of them opened. The edges were worn, some water-stained, others wrinkled from being carried too long. A few still had wax seals, cracked from travel but untouched.

“Bucky…” you said, turning them over slowly. “What are these?”

He didn’t look at you. “Letters.”

“I can see that.” You cut back, exasperated, peeking up at him. “You haven’t opened any of them.”

“I know.” He responded, and for a moment, you thought that was all he would give you. But after what appeared to be a lengthy internal deliberation, he sighed through his nose and offered you a further explanation. “They’re from my friend. Steve.”

“And you haven’t read them?” Your thumb ran down the corner of the stack, the paper flicking against your nail. “These must go back months.”

He didn’t answer immediately, just leaned back against the wall with a straight face. He was watching you with that same vigilant calm, like he was already bracing for whatever reaction he was worried you might give.

“I can’t read,” he confessed finally.

You stilled. “You can’t… what?”

Your voice caught in surprise as you turned toward him fully. “But you’ve been reading the tickets, the signs—why would your friend keep sending letters if—?”

“I can read a bit,” he interrupted. 

“I know enough words to get by. Basics. Just not enough to keep up with letters like that.” His tone was slightly irritated as if he was unsure if your questions were mocking or genuine confusion. “The letters were for me and a friend, Sam. He could read. That’s why Steve would send ‘em.”

“Sam’s been dead about a year now, so…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the dark panelling opposite. “I had no way to tell Steve. So I just… held onto the letters. I figured I’d read them eventually. Once I learned.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

Your gaze dropped to the stack again, fingers gently brushing over one of the names penned in Steve’s neat, looping script. Sam must have died working in Glenwyck. You could blame your brother for drawing him to that place, but Glenwyck was no crueller than any other firepost. The Firewardens knew the risks. It didn’t make it any less tragic.

Bucky only grunted in response. From your place on the floor, you studied him quietly. Maybe you’d misread him. Maybe he wasn’t gruff for the sake of being difficult or to scare you. Maybe there really was a weight he carried, something heavy and damaged beneath the sharp edges. Had sorrow or bitterness carved itself into him after everything he’d seen?

And against your better judgment, you offered something small. “I could read them for you. Teach you how to read. If… if that’s something you’d want?”

His brows knit together, jaw tightening as he mulled over your words. Then it set hard. “I don’t want to be another one of your charity cases, Princess—”

You cut him off. “It’s not charity, remember? It’s foundation.”

He stared down at you, lips set in a fine line as he contemplated. 

“...Okay.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself up onto the mattress beside him. He blinked at your sudden movement, instinctively leaning back as you settled next to him, letters in hand. For a moment, his guarded expression cracked, just long enough for surprise to flicker in his eyes.

Reading mystery letters for your sullen escort would be the perfect temporary distraction, and the bonus was that maybe you’d learn something new about him. Something he wouldn’t explicitly tell you himself unless sufficiently prompted. 

You held up the bundle with a teasing smile. “Maybe, if you behave, I’ll even help you write back.”

He gave you a sidelong look, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smirk. “Now you’re pushin’ it.”

You laughed, light and genuine. “Worth a shot.”

—

A few hours had passed, marked only by the clack of wheels over frozen tracks and the steady glow of the oil lamp overhead. Letters were strewn across the bunk and spilt onto the floor like fallen leaves, pages soft and yellowing, ink curling in elegant loops. To your mild disappointment, you’d discovered that the mysterious ‘Steve’ wasn’t the author of those elegant words. It was his wife, Peggy, who had penned most of the letters in his stead while he worked the pyres. You were curled into the corner of the bottom bunk, your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s as you read another aloud.

“‘—and then Steve nearly broke his own nose trying to prove to Dugan that he could knock a pinecone off the fence post from thirty paces. It was like watching two puppies try to arm wrestle. I had to bribe the store clerk with liquorice just to get him to hand over an ice pack.’” You snorted a laugh, eyes dancing as you glanced up at Bucky.

He was grinning—really grinning—for the first time all day. “Dugan always gets him so wound up. It’s a miracle the two of them haven’t killed each other yet.”

“And Peggy bribed someone with liquorice for him?”

“Of course she did. They’ve been together for years, but she still acts like the exasperated schoolteacher, and he’s the scrappy kid with skinned knees and dirt on his chin.”

You smiled softly, letting the letter drift onto the growing pile between you.

“Why didn’t Steve and Peggy go with you and Sam to Glenwyck?” you asked, hesitantly glancing over at Bucky.

He shifted slightly, gaze distant. “He considered it. The pay was better, no doubt. But they’d just got married, and they were trying for a baby… didn’t want to raise a kid in that kind of place. It’s hard enough just surviving it.”

“I get it.” You hummed, selecting the next letter on the pile. You were about halfway through now, around six months deep. “Probably why my brother didn’t want me out there with him.”

“Did he write you much?” Bucky asked. “While he was out there?”

“No.” You replied, being careful not to meet his eye as you frowned. “I didn’t expect to hear from him ever again, to be honest.”

“You thought he abandoned you?” You could feel the heat of his gaze on your cheek as you refused to meet his eye.

“Kind of… I—” You were cut off as the door slid open with a rattling clang, and a uniformed attendant stepped into the frame. He peaked around the side, down to where you and Bucky sat on the bottom bunk, knees and shoulders touching. 

“We’re entering blackout protocol,” he said briskly. “There’s been a report of a swarm of Ignivorae sighted along the pass ahead. All windows must be shut, and metal shutters secured. No lights. All lamps and candles extinguished until morning.”

You sat up straighter, a chill slicing through your earlier comfort.

“How long until we reach them?” Bucky asked, already rising to his feet.

“Twenty minutes, maybe less. Best to be ready.” The attendant gave a curt nod, then slid the door shut with a decisive snap.

Before you could fully register what was happening, Bucky moved. He crossed the compartment in two strides and dragged the heavy metal shutter down over the window with a grinding creak, locking it in place. 

You remained on the bunk, gathering the scattered letters into your lap with slow, distracted movements. Your gaze drifted toward the sealed window, then the door. Already, your imagination filled in the silence, the scrape of claws against the glass, the dry whisper of wings brushing steel.

Bucky reached for the oil lamp mounted near the door.

“Wait—” you blurted, your voice small and unsure.

He hesitated, eyes finding yours. “It’s okay.”

And then, with a twist of his hand, the flame vanished.

Darkness swept in like a wave.

The only sound left was the soft rumble of the train, the occasional jostle of the carriage, and the muffled shuffle of other passengers beyond your door. You swallowed hard, trying not to let the fear sit too heavy in your chest.

The mattress shifted. You felt Bucky’s hand brush your arm gently, guiding, not pulling. 

“You wanna head up top to sleep?” he asked quietly. “Best to get some rest before we hit Norcross. Won’t be much shuteye once we’re in the carriage.”

You didn’t move. Your knees locked, rooted in place as something old and cold took hold of your limbs. Without thinking, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, nails catching in the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t… I—”

Bucky stilled. “You alright, Princess?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.” The words came out in a rush, and Bucky paused. You could feel him hovering above, silence stretched between you. “I’m afraid—”

“Hell, Princess. After what you just heard, I think anyone would be—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Not of the Ignivorae.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m scared of the dark.”

A pause.

“…What?”

“See?” you muttered, already curling in on yourself. “I knew you’d laugh—”

“You hear me laughing?” Bucky said flatly. You heard the soft rustle of his collar. He was shaking his head. “I’m just tryin’ to understand. You’ve done blackouts before, haven’t you?”

“Not true blackouts,” you whispered. “I’ve always lived where there are Wardens. Never fully dark. There would always be the glow from the fires, even at night. I just got used to it, I suppose.”

“I get it. I do.” Bucky replied, though it was accompanied by a long sigh. “We can’t have any light, though, you understand?”

“I know, I just…”

“C’mere.”

You blinked as his arm eased around you, gently pulling you back. In the dark, it was a clumsy tangle of elbows and whispered apologies as he shifted onto the mattress beside you, legs stretched out. He found the wall and leaned against it, adjusting you with him until your side pressed to his, and his arm was warm and firm around your shoulders, guiding you into the curve of his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You let yourself settle there, head resting against the soft thrum of his heartbeat, the faint scent of pine and smoke on his shirt. His thumb brushed against your upper arm in slow, grounding circles.

“If there’s one thing I can promise, Princess,” Bucky murmured, voice low near your ear, “it never gets properly dark in Glenwyck. Wardens keep the pyres lit all through the night. You’ll feel right at home.”

You smiled faintly against his chest. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting yourself drift, allowing the tingling sparks in your spine and the butterflies in your stomach to drown out the shadow that had gripped you moments before.

“Thank you—” you began to whisper, but the words died on your lips as a loud bang cracked through the carriage.

It echoed like a thunderclap against hollow steel. Somewhere further down the train, a woman cried out. A muffled yelp, cut off just as quickly. You jolted upright, heart slamming into your throat.

“What was that?” you gasped, voice trembling.

Bucky’s hand found your waist again, pulling you back against him. “The start of the swarm.”

Your body stiffened. “There’s nothing we can do?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he finally answered, his voice was calm but firm. “No. Safest thing is to ride it out. We’re sealed in tight. Metals thick, train’s fast. They won’t get in.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but your head whipped toward him in the dark. Even with your faces just inches apart, you couldn’t see him—couldn’t see anything.

“Then what was that noise?”

"One of ‘em. Hit the side of the train. Likely died on impact." His voice was clear and deliberate like he was trying to anchor you with the certainty of it. As if he knew that if you could just understand, truly believe the train was too fast, too strong, too sealed for them to breach, you might be able to quiet the fear clawing its way up your chest.

But, as if summoned by his words, another bang, closer this time, rang out. Then another. A few passengers gasped. Someone down the car stifled a scream. The train rocked slightly under the force of the impacts. You clung to Bucky’s shirt now, the fabric balled in your fists.

The air felt too thin, like this train of death was suddenly headed up a steep mountain where your lungs could never truly be full.

The next strike was louder like something bigger had collided with the carriage. You flinched hard, pressing your face into Bucky’s shoulder. His arm tightened around you, his other hand bracing against the wall behind.

Then, the real storm began.

Bang—bang—bang! 

A rapid succession of impacts, like hailstones the size of skulls, hammering against the train’s body. The metal groaned, wheels screeching beneath you as the train barreled forward, but the sounds of the Ignivorae overpowered everything else. The shrieks and shouts of other passengers mixed in, panicked, pleading, praying.

Something scraped along the roof.

You let out a choked sob, the noise strangled in your throat. You buried yourself deeper into Bucky’s chest, the darkness pressing in on all sides. You couldn’t see. You couldn’t breathe. Every bang sounded like the end.

The screams got louder.

The sound grew. Deafening. Hundreds of bodies, maybe more, slamming against the train, shrieking past the windows like banshees in flight. You were shaking violently now, your hands trembling as they clutched at him. A cry tore out of you, high-pitched and helpless, and you didn’t care anymore if anyone heard.

You were sobbing into his shirt, breath hitching uncontrollably as the sounds swelled into a relentless cacophony.

And still, Bucky held you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again and again, his voice the only thing not swallowed by the chaos. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Just hang on. Just hold onto me.”

And in the dark, with hell crashing against the walls around you, you did.

Your chest heaved in shallow bursts. The darkness felt thicker now—suffocating, alive. Each blow from outside rattled the walls and echoed through your bones like war drums. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts. Couldn’t think at all.

Your fingers clutched blindly at Bucky’s shirt, twisting the fabric so tight your knuckles ached, but it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t feel your hands. Couldn’t feel your face. The air wouldn’t stay in your lungs, too hot, too thin, too sharp.

“Hey…hey, Princess—”

His voice sounded far away like it was coming from underwater. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your whole body had turned to ice and fire at once. You shook your head wildly, gasping now, sobs hitching through clenched teeth.

“Princess.” Bucky’s hands framed your face now, gentle but firm, thumbs brushing just below your eyes. “You’re panickin’. I need you to listen to me, alright?”

Another bang rocked the train, louder than before. You flinched violently, trying to curl in on yourself, but Bucky didn’t let you. He held you steady, close.

“Look at me.” His voice was still soft, but it cut through the noise. “I’m right here. You’re safe. Just breathe. Just breathe with me.”

You were shaking so hard now your teeth chattered. You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t get enough air.

“In through your nose,” Bucky coached, his forehead pressing gently to yours, “out through your mouth. You don’t have to get it perfect. Just follow me.”

You tried.

Tried to match the rhythm of his voice, the slow inhale, the deliberate exhale. But your lungs wouldn’t cooperate. A strangled noise tore from your throat instead, a fresh wave of sobs threatening to overtake you.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again, voice unwavering even as the train screamed around you. “You’re right here with me. There’s nothin’ in this room ‘cept you and me. Hold onto that.”

You clung to his words, desperate.

And slowly, painfully, your breathing started to stutter into some kind of rhythm, still shaky, still uneven, but present. You could feel the heat of him against you, solid, real. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his breath brushing your temple.

“That’s it. There you go. Just keep doing that. With me.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your body jolted, instinct still screaming, but Bucky was already grounding you again. His hands rubbed slow circles down your back. One of them moved to rest over your chest, right above your racing heart, like he could steady it with his palm alone.

“You’re doin’ good. I’ve got you.”

The shrieking from outside started to change. The tempo of the blows against the train shifted, less frequent, less violent, like the worst of the swarm was beginning to pass. The wails of the passengers faded, tapering off into soft whimpers and whispered prayers.

It was still dark, but the sounds were thinning.

Your breath, still ragged, wasn’t choking you anymore.

You pressed your forehead to Bucky’s collarbone and let the tears come, quieter this time, not from panic but from sheer exhaustion. He didn’t say anything, just kept holding you, hand never stopping its soothing rhythm across your back.

Eventually, the last of the banging faded into the distance, swallowed by the speed of the train. A tense silence settled over the carriage, broken only by the muted sobs of a child somewhere and the faint clatter of wheels against rail.

And in the black stillness of that bunk, pressed close to Bucky’s chest, you finally breathed in fully and let it out in a slow, trembling sigh.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you until sleep finally took you. 

—

You stirred slowly. Your cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. His arm was heavy over your back, warm and protective, like it had stayed there all night. You breathed in, taking the scent of him.

You didn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

“Mornin’,” came his voice, rough with sleep. You felt the vibration of it beneath your ear.

You hummed back softly, not quite trusting your voice yet.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, still tucked into his side. “Yeah… I think so.”

Your voice was quiet but true. You shifted a little, your hand brushing across his ribs, and tilted your head just enough to glance up at him.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He gave a lazy smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up in that charming, crooked way of his.

“We’re close to Norcross now,” he said, brushing your hair back from your face. “Train’s slowin’ already. You slept right through the breakfast call.”

You blinked, surprised. “I did?”

“Like the dead.” He grinned. “Figured you needed it.”

“I must’ve…” You hesitated, glancing around the bunk before finally, reluctantly, beginning to peel yourself away from him. Your limbs were stiff with sleep and the lingering tension of last night, but the moment was already slipping from you. Duty waited beyond the window.

Still, you paused.

Hovering just above him.

He looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, unreadable as ever, though the corners had softened.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” you said again, with a faint smile this time.

He made a pleased sound, something deep and amused in his chest, and before you could shift away completely, his hand caught your waist.

“Not done,” he muttered.

And with that, he pulled you back in. His other hand came to the side of your face, and he kissed you—properly, this time. No hesitation. Just the soft crush of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his palm, the rough edge of stubble beneath your fingertips. You melted into it, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as the train swayed gently beneath you.

A knock at the door startled you both, you jerked back slightly as it slid open with a clatter.

“Passengers, we’re making our final approach to Norc—”

Bucky didn’t even look.

He reached out with one hand and slammed the door shut again.

A stunned silence followed outside the compartment, but Bucky was already turning back to you, eyes glinting with mischief as you giggled in disbelief.

“Now, where were we?” he murmured, hand sliding to the small of your back as he tugged you in again.

[em1i2a3]

For Sure

Pairing: Dad!Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Mom!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: After giving birth you and Bob are adapting to parenthood and all the challenges that come along with it (Sequel to ‘Some Kind Of Love’)

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mentions of Traumatic Childbirth (referenced and slightly described), Mentioning of Scars, Descriptions of Blood and Medical Jargon, Bob goes into a bit of a depressive episode, The Void and Sentry make appearances!, there are some supernatural elements tied into the super baby lol (I truly took the idea and RAN SO FAST with it, I loved the ideas I got!), THERE IS A TIME JUMP (but we explore the time that has passed!)

Author’s Note: I absolutely adored writing this, I loved exploring the dynamic of Bob/Sentry/The Void all playing a part of the kiddos life, and on top of that I truly loved writing all these scenes. It was so so fun. Dad trio for the win! Hope yall enjoy ❤️(ps…Might make this a series to be honest.)

Word Count: 6,176

The curtains had been pulled open hours ago, and the light had not stopped spilling in since.

It came through the wide-paned windows like a divine breath, covering everything in its path with slow, honey-thick warmth. The wooden floor glowed beneath it, each slant of light stretching long across the rug and up the edge of the crib, as if the sun itself had reached in to kiss the room. Particles of dust drifted lazily in the beams–soft, weightless–like the whole space was suspended in a dream it didn’t want to wake from.

The air smelled like home.

Not in any ordinary way–but in the unique, living scent that only existed here. It was the smell of sleep-warm skin and faint cotton, the sweet mineral of breastmilk and the softest hint of sunlit heat–like warm grass and wind-dried sheets. Your baby smelled like the world at its gentlest. Like summer and something ancient. Like the part of a late July afternoon that lingers against your skin even after you’ve stepped inside.

The bedroom around you was still.

A cotton blanket, rumpled and half-folded, hung over the side of the rocking chair where you’d spent more hours than you could count. One of Bob’s sweaters–thick, navy blue, and stretched slightly at the collar–was draped across the foot of the bed where he’d shrugged it off in a daze sometime around 4 a.m. The corners of the room were lit with low, syrupy gold, each object softened around the edges by the way the light bent through the window glass. There was a weightless quality to everything–like time itself had gone quiet to make space for this moment.

You were barefoot on the rug, its knit fringe brushed against the arches of your feet as you swayed gently in front of the crib. The weight of the baby in your arms was small, perfect, and curled right into your chest, right where she belonged.

Your voice was soft–barely louder than the hush of the lullaby playing from the nearby speaker–but it filled the whole room, overtaking the soothing noise.

”Can you hear Mommy’s heartbeat, my sweet girl?” You rocked slowly from one foot to the other, a rhythm that you always fell into when you held your child. Your cheek rested against the crown of her head, the fine, light brown hairs there were sun-warmed and silky from her last nap. One hand cradled the back of her tiny skull–fragile and perfect–while the other curled beneath her bottom, her legs folded frog-like against your sternum.

She stirred faintly at the sound of your voice, her little mouth twitching in her sleep as if she was about to form a word she had not yet learned. The warmth of her breath puffed softly against the hollow of your throat, and her ear was pressed over your heart, twitching slightly as your pulsed thudded beneath it.

You held her closer, breathing in the scent of her like it was something sacred, and technically it was.

She didn’t smell like lotion, or powder, or anything artificial. She smelled like the sun and heat after a long day outside. Like the wind when it rolls through tall grass and brushes the sweat at the back of your neck. She smelled like sweet milk and the warmth of something elemental, and it always made your eyes sting with tears.

Because she was real and breathing, and here.

And for a moment, you forgot anything else had ever existed.

You didn’t hear the shift of the floorboards, didn’t sense the air move. You were so completely wrapped in her that you didn’t notice the golden hum of power until it was already curling behind you–heat without fire, presence without sound.

Then came the voice, soft as breath, warm as light.

”Have I told you,” Sentry murmured behind you, so close you flinched, “That motherhood looks beautiful on you, my love?” A small smile appeared on your lips, as he stepped closer, one palm gliding beneath your arms and resting over the soft swell of your ribs, while the other wrapped gently around your middle until both arms cradled you from behind.

Your back pressed into his chest without hesitation–broad and impossibly warm, like his entire body radiated light just beneath the skin. You could feel it pulsing in slow waves, like sunlight made breath, and you leaned into it instinctively, as if the gravity of him was something you had always known how to obey. He curled around you protectively, like the moment might shatter if he touched too much too fast.

His chin lowered to the slope of your shoulder, coming to rest lightly there. The angle brought his face close to your neck–so close you could feel each word before he spoke it, the breath of him ghosting over your skin.

“Look at her…” Suntry whispered, his voice curling into the air like golden silk, “Our little Sunniva…” The name slipped from his lips with a kind of sacred weight, and your heart skipped in your chest. A perfect mix of you and Bob, with little pieces of him and the Void stitched beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. That was how he always said it. As if your daughter was the result of some ancient alchemy, the kind only gods could attempt and mortals could carry.

Sentry’s hand slid lower, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed beneath the soft hem of your cotton shirt, pausing when they found the edge of the scar that marked your C-section–still slightly raised, still tender in places. His palm came to rest there with care, not for pain, but for awe. He wasn’t touching a wound.

He was touching an origin point.

“…And all of it came from you,” He whispered, voice rich and breathless, as though he hadn’t stopped being amazed since the moment he felt her for the first time through your skin, “You made room in your body for something celestial.” His other hand lifted then, moving slowly until it came to rest over yours–the one cradling the back of Sunniva’s head. The sheer size of it dwarfed your fingers, but the way he held you both was tender, and soft. Protective without pressure.

When he praised you, it was always hard not to smile.

Even now, even in the soft ache of exhaustion and the still-lingering uncertainty that motherhood carried in its quiet hours, he had a way of cracking your chest open and filling it with light. You felt it blooming now beneath your ribs–pride, joy, and love so immense it bordered on ache.

Your lips curved softly as Sentry’s hand remained steady over the scar that marked where she had entered the world–your world, his world, their world now, forever changed. His warmth radiated through you like the sun itself had chosen to wrap around your spine and settle in your marrow.

And it wasn’t just comfort–it was care. The way he held you. The way he spoke. As if your body were still something holy long after the miracle had already arrived.

Your head tilted just enough to glance back at him, and your smile deepened as he caught your gaze with that golden-glow look–eyes bright and endless, brimming with something far too big for this world.

“You always say that,” You whispered, breath catching as his hand gently smoothed over your side again. “That she came from me. That it was me.”

“Because it was,” Sentry breathed, his voice like honey poured over warm stone. “It was you. You were the altar. You were the divine soil. The universe did not grow her by accident—it chose you to hold all that power in your bones and bear it forward into the light.”

The words settled around you like heat, making your throat tighten. He had a way of saying things that made them feel too big to fit inside your chest.

He leaned forward, the tip of his nose brushing gently behind your ear as he spoke again–low, lyrical, with that sacred hush that made it feel like time itself leaned in to listen.

“You grew stardust in the hollow of your belly,” He murmured, “And gave her breath. Gave her name. Gave her form. You made light inside the dark and called it daughter.”

Your eyes stung.

He had always spoken like that about her. From the first time he felt her flutter beneath your skin. From the first time your womb twisted with her kicking strength, and he dropped to his knees with tears on his cheeks and hands trembling in awe.

It was how he’d won you over in the end, when the name had first been whispered into your half-dreaming mind.

You and Bob had searched for weeks.

It had become a quiet ritual near the end of your third trimester–slumped side by side on the couch with swollen ankles and stacks of baby name books, Bob cross-legged on the floor beside your knees, thumbing through dog-eared pages like he was studying for an exam. The list on the fridge kept changing–written in black marker and scribbled over until the paper had softened with wear. Every name you tried felt like trying on the wrong coat. Too small. Too grand. Too familiar. Too forgettable.

Bob would rest both hands on your belly, fingers spread wide, and whisper to her softly with his forehead pressed against your bump

“Ca-can you use some of those powers,” He’d murmur with a grin, “To tell u-us what you want to be na-named?” You’d laugh every time, even when you were too tired to keep your eyes open. And always, always, she would move. A slow roll beneath your skin, or a little press of heel or hand right into his palm. She knew his voice. She knew your laughter. She responded like she was already part of every moment.

And then, one night, she gave her answer.

You were curled against your maternity pillow, one leg flung over it, hair mussed from restless sleep. The lull of the compound had settled around you–Bob asleep beside you, the soft hum of the fan, and your body sore and humming with the weight of anticipation of the baby’s arrival. You were on the verge of sleep when Sentry said it.

”How about…Sunniva?” Your brow furrowed, dazed, and you mumbled out the name like it was part of a dream you weren’t ready to let go of.

“Sunniva…?”

The silence that followed was full of breath, like the pause between sunlight and shadow.

Then Sentry’s voice returned, slow and reverent, gilded with awe.

“It means sun gift,” He murmured, “Because that’s what she is. A divine offering. A light birthed from your bones and fed by your breath. She grew inside the heat of you–your blood, your heartbeat, your starlight–“

You blinked into the dark, the curve of your belly heavy and warm beneath your hand.

“She will walk with the warmth of you wrapped around her soul, even when you’re not near. Because you gave her the sun–not in name alone, but in origin. You let it live inside you. You carried it. Endured it. Became it.” That night, you hadn’t said anything. You couldn’t. You just let the name echo in your ribs until it settled in like truth. Like it had been waiting to be spoken all along.

And in the morning, when Bob stirred with sleep-tousled hair and kissed your cheek, you’d told him.

“Sunniva.”

He blinked slowly, then smiled, eyes soft and glassy as he pressed his lips to your belly. “S-Sunniva,” He whispered against your skin. And right beneath his mouth, she moved.

Now, in the golden hush of the morning, with Sentry wrapped around you and the weight of her pressed gently into your chest, the name turned out to be the best thing you had chosen in a while.

Sentry’s lips brushed the slope of your shoulder, his voice warm and teasing, but still somehow reverent.

“How about you give her to me for a bit, and you can catch a shower…” You smirked without turning around, cheek still nestled against the crown of Sunniva’s head.

”Are you trying to tell me that I smell?” A laugh rumbled low in his chest, the vibration curling through your spine like sunlight rippling across water.

“No,” He chuckled, voice dipped in amusement and something heavier beneath, “Not at all. But…For the past two months you’ve been giving off these very, very strong pheromones and I–well–can’t be around too long without getting a little…” He paused, the smile in his voice deepening, “…Loopy.” You let out a laugh, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you shook your head, cradling Sunniva more snugly to your chest.

”Loopy, huh?”

“It’s disorienting,” He insisted, tone mock-serious as he gently began to loosen your hold so he could take her. “It scrambles my thoughts. Makes me want to do things that are very counterproductive to…Say… Peaceful morning bonding time.” You snorted, easing Sunniva into his arms, and immediately she settled against him like she belonged there too. Like she knew. His golden glow flickered gently along his skin, dimmed and hushed, wrapping her in something unseen but undeniably protective. You crossed your arms loosely and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re already wanting another one, hmm?” You teased. “She’s two months old, Sentry. At least wait until six months to start getting baby fever again.” He hummed thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the tiny bundle now resting against his chest.

“It’s not like I’m a god or anything…” He said, all faux-innocence and that impossible shimmer beneath his words. Then, with a grin: “It’s not like we don’t want to be fruitful and multiply.”

You burst into another laugh, your head tilting back just slightly as you gave him an exasperated look.

“Way to be subtle.” You joked. He grinned wider, the light in his eyes gleaming with playful mischief.

“You can’t blame me,” He whispered, glancing down at Sunniva and then back at you “You made her. How do you expect me to not want to see what else you can do?” You could feel your cheeks heat up.

“Okay,” You started, already turning toward the ensuite, throwing a glance over your shoulder. “I’m going to go shower now. Before you actually jump my bones.” Behind you, his laugh followed you like warmth trailing behind sunlight.

“You know I’d never do that…” He called softly, then after a beat: “…Unless invited of course.” You didn’t answer. Just laughed again as you disappeared into the bathroom, already feeling the echo of him pressed behind you–and the smile still blooming on your lips.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking into place with a quiet finality that made the silence feel fuller, heavier. The bathroom light flickered on with a soft hum, spilling pale illumination across the tiled floor and catching in the faint sheen of condensation still clinging to the mirror from earlier.

You peeled off your shirt, slowly, tugging the fabric up over your head and dropping it beside the sink. Then your sweatpants, loose and worn and comfortable–those too joined the growing pile on the floor. You stepped closer to the mirror, bracing your hands on either side of the sink, and stared.

So much had changed.

Your breasts were fuller now, skin softer, a little heavier. Your hips were rounder, waist thicker. The skin along your belly was stretched in places, faint silver lines catching the light where stretch had given way to grace. But the structure of yourself…Was still there. The silhouette of the woman you’d always been lingered beneath it all–altered, yes, but not lost. Rewritten, maybe. But never erased.

And there, just below your navel, lay the scar.

Jagged. Dark. A thin ridge of memory.

The techs in the med bay had called it a clean recovery. “Healing beautifully,” they said. “No complications. No sign of tissue strain. Just keep applying the salve.” They made it sound easy. Dismissable, even. But they hadn’t seen what came before the healing.

You had.

You remembered waking up drenched in blood–how it soaked the sheets beneath you, hot and metallic and immediate. How your breath had caught in your throat before the scream could escape. You remembered your hands, slick with red as you cupped your stomach, sobbing, no, no, no over and over like the words might somehow undo what had already begun.

Bob had been the one to find you.

He carried you, sobbing and soaked, to the med bay himself–his shirt already clinging with your blood by the time he kicked the door open with a shout. His face was pale, shattered, barely holding it together. He didn’t speak much in those moments–he just kept whispering, “Please. Please. Please.”

They performed the emergency C-section in under five minutes.

You weren’t awake for it.

But Bob had been.

Later–after the transfusion, after the fever broke, after you woke up to the white ceiling of the med bay and the soft cry of your daughter from across the room–Bob had told you everything. He sat beside you, hands trembling as he held yours, voice breaking on every other word.

“She…Sh-She came out screaming,” He said, tears tracking down his face. “Not–not weak either. It w-was loud. Like she was–like she was announcing herself.”

You remembered staring at the ceiling as the tears rolled down your temples, still too dazed to speak. Bob had kept going.

“She turned a sh-shade of black. N-Not all of her. Just… f-from her belly up. It faded after a few seconds. But it was there. V-Void black.”

You closed your eyes now, remembering that part–how even the med techs couldn’t explain it. Her vitals had been normal. Her cry was strong. But the dark stain that had bloomed across her newborn skin had left the entire room in silence.

“She’s healthy,” They’d said. “We ran every test. Everything came back normal. It was likely a stress response. Possibly tied to residual gene activation.”

But you knew better.

And so did Bob.

The Void had passed into her.

Not all of it. Not its full weight. But a sliver–an echo. Something black and ancient that had whispered its way through the umbilical tether and taken root in the very heart of your daughter. The med techs didn’t know what to make of it. They didn’t understand The Void. But you did. And Bob did.

And Bob never stopped blaming himself.

Even now, two months later, you could still hear the way he’d said it:

*“I-I shouldn’t have done th-this. I shouldn’t have c-come near you when I could f-feel him moving in the b-background. I was careless. I was selfish.

You had taken his face in your hands and reminded him, over and over, that there was no one else you wanted by your side. That there was no one else who could have carried you through it. That Sunniva–all of her, even the dark parts–was still yours. Was still light. Was still love.

That first week after you were released from the med bay was the hardest–for everyone, but especially for Bob.

He tried.

God, he tried.

But the fear lived in his blood now, just beneath the surface of every breath, every twitch of movement, every sound Sunniva made in the middle of the night. He barely slept. Barely spoke. The shame had settled in his bones and dragged his shoulders lower each time he walked into the room and saw her sleeping in your arms–small, perfect, untouched by him.

And it wasn’t for lack of love.

He loved her so much it wrecked him.

But that was the problem.

Love made room for fear. And in Bob’s mind, fear always meant failure.

For the first few days, he didn’t hold her. Not once. Not even when you tried to place her gently into his arms. He’d shake his head, kiss your temple, and murmur, “I-I’m ju-just tired, Y/N.” But it wasn’t tiredness. It was terror. And that terror opened a door.

The Void slipped through.

It started in small moments–quiet flickers in the corners of the room when the lights dimmed too low or when the cries in the middle of the night lasted too long for Bob to soothe. You could feel it before you saw him–the weight in the air, like the temperature had dropped by a single degree. Like a shadow had curled into the walls.

But he never scared you.

You and The Void had formed a kind of reluctant truce over the course of your pregnancy. He would emerge when Bob fell too deep into self-doubt, when the stutter gave way to silence, and his hands couldn’t stop shaking. He would never stay long. Never push. Just… appear.

And despite everything, he had always been careful with you.

Polite, even. Wry. Curious. And surprisingly…Attentive, as much as he could be at least, so there was never fear when he was around you and Sunniva for short periods of time, and when he inevitably took over Bob for that first week.

When The Void came fully, it was seamless. A silent succession. No shudder, no burst of power. Just a stillness. Like the last light had clicked off in a hallway, and something else had stepped forward to stand in the dark. The gold of Sentry dimmed. Bob’s stutter fell away. And in its place, The Void sat cross-legged at the edge of your bed, back impossibly straight, unmoving, as if carved from shadow.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t touch the baby. But he stayed.

And that mattered more than he knew.

Everyone at the compound helped where they could. Feeding bottles. Cleaning. Rocking Sunniva through the naps she fought hardest. Yelena and Ava kept a timer running for formula prep. Walker, surprisingly gentle, would pace the kitchen floor with her bundled against his chest while muttering about covert ops being easier than colic. Even Bucky tried to lull her to sleep with a variety of Russian lullabies when your eyes were too swollen with exhaustion to keep open.

But during the night, that was when you would take over the shift, and during that The Void would be beside you.

He never slept. Never turned his back. And you never let him think you didn’t notice how often he looked at her.

You’d lie on your side with Sunniva swaddled between you, her little fists curled beneath her chin, and you’d feel his gaze brush against you like the wind behind a closed window. Glances sharp and quick, like they cost him something each time. He’d look away just as fast, shoulders stiff and unreadable. But you knew.

You always knew.

He was afraid. Not of her. Of himself.

He thought his presence might unmake what your body had spent nine months building.

You’d tried to bridge the space in small ways. Soft commentary. “She looks more like Bob when she’s fussy.” Or, “She coos when she hears music–must be from Sentry.” But it was never enough to draw him closer.

Until the final night of his residency basically. The night that brought Bob back.

Sunniva had finished crying an hour before, but the after-sobs still hiccupped in her sleep. You stroked a finger down the bridge of her nose, whispering rhythmic shh’s as her little chest rose and fell. The Void sat beside you, hands on his thighs, posture perfect in a way no humans ever was. His gaze stayed forward, unmoving.

You cleared your throat, then spoke without preamble.

“Void…Will you hold her?”

He didn’t look at you. Not at first. Just inhaled slowly through his nose, the sound faint and dry. His shadow shifted where it met the bedsheets, too quiet to be a sigh.

“It is not a good idea.”

Your brows drew together.

“Void…She’s a part of you as well.”

A pause.

“When she cries too hard, and we can’t settle her…” You said gently, “Her skin turns that deep black. Just like you. And she gets those freckles–those little white ones that you have all over your body…” He blinked slowly. Then finally, finally turned his head.

His eyes–those eerie, glowing white pupils–landed on you first. Then drifted to her.

Quickly.

Then away again.

You leaned closer. “She’s not just mine and Bob’s…She’s yours and Sentry’s too.” He was silent. A beat passed. Then another.

“…Hold her, Void. Come on. Please.”

Another beat.

Then the faintest ripple of movement. His hands lifted slowly from his thighs. A quiet shift of mass as he adjusted his seated posture. His jaw flexed in thought, even though it was all mostly lost in the dark shape of him.

“…Okay,” He murmured. Almost to himself.

Your chest softened with hope. Your frown turned into a small, genuine smile. You reached for the pale knitted blanket folded at your side and opened it with slow, careful movements.

“Alright,” You whispered. “Hold out your arms.”

He did.

Wide, cautious, rigid. But compliant.

You draped the blanket over his forearms with care, tucking it in at the crook of his elbows. His eyes narrowed, confused.

“What are you doing?”

“You run super cold,” You commented, still smiling as you adjusted the wrap. “I’m just making sure she’ll stay warm with you.”

“…I see,” He murmured, his voice a strange echo of curiosity and something that might’ve been gratitude.

Then, carefully–so carefully–you placed Sunniva into his arms.

She stirred a little. Let out a quiet sigh. One tiny hand flopped free from her wrap and landed against his chest, right over his core, where no heartbeat lived.

The Void stiffened.

Every part of him froze for a second, like he was afraid the contact might unmake her.

But then…His arms shifted. One hand curled beneath her body, while the other adjusted her head. Not gracefully, not expertly, but carefully.

He stared at her for a long moment.

“…She’s quite big,” He said finally, voice low and almost puzzled.

You smirked, that familiar expression curling onto your face like sunrise. You shifted to face him fully, hands tucked beneath your chin as you leaned in.

“I know,” You replied gently, watching as his arm curved protectively around the bundle, “I carried her.”

And that was the moment it happened.

The change wasn’t sudden–it never was with Bob. It was slow, delicate, like dawn bleeding into a sky that had forgotten it could be anything other than night.

The Void blinked.

Once.

Then again, slower.

His jaw shifted, clenched once before loosening again, and his head tipped forward just a little as he looked down at the sleeping weight against his chest. The shadows across his skin began to ripple–soft at first, like the dark was being exhaled from his pores.

“I…” His voice faltered. Not with fear, not with resistance. Just…Astonishment.

“I think you may have cracked the code,” He whispered.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“I feel…” He started again, gaze flickering down to where Sunniva’s tiny fingers had curled loosely into the edge of the blanket. “I feel like…He’s coming back.”

Your heart lifted, slowly and achingly, like something weightless breaking the surface after being buried for far too long.

The black faded gradually–like ink dissolving in golden water. His shoulders softened, sloping downward instead of held in perfect stillness. His throat bobbed in a hard swallow. And beneath the slowly receding shadow…Pale skin began to show.

Bob’s skin.

Freckled and familiar.

You watched the shift, your lips parting slightly in awe, and your entire expression melted. The same way he did. There were no words for it–not really. Just a kind of knowing that passed between your bodies like a shared exhale.

He was coming back.

And not just from the shadows.

He was coming home.

Your hand reached out and gently touched his shoulder, your thumb brushing along the curve where Void’s silhouette had dissolved back into Bob’s arm. It was warm now. Real.

That night changed everything.

It was the end of one chapter and the beginning of something wholly new–not a return to normal, but a step into something deeper. More shared. More whole.

The Void didn’t vanish after that, not completely.

But he no longer had to take over.

Now, standing in the soft bathroom light, fingers tracing the faint scar across your belly, that moment felt light years away. The fear. The silence. The stillness that had once haunted every hallway of your heart. It had passed. Not erased, but lived with.

And most days, it felt like a relief.

The Void still came sometimes. Quietly. Just for a minute. He never stayed long–just long enough to check in. To see how she was doing. To see how you were doing. He would nod, speak a word or two in that soft, carved-glass tone of his, and then let Bob come forward again.

It was easy now.

It felt like…Balance.

You stepped into the shower and let the water run over your shoulders, quick and warm. You didn’t linger. Not with a baby in the next room and a partner who couldn’t stop making eyes at the smallest pair of footie pajamas like he was already dreaming of more.

When you stepped out, towel wrapped around you and hair damp against your neck, you padded barefoot back into the bedroom–and paused.

The sun had shifted since you’d gone in, casting a deeper warmth across the rug. Bob sat on the edge of the bed, one leg up, cradling Sunniva in the crook of his arm, feeding her from a bottle with practiced ease. His hair was messy, one hand supporting the bottle as he rocked her ever so slightly. Her fingers curled loosely against his wrist, content.

He looked up the moment he heard you–the soft shuffle of your bare feet on the rug pulling his gaze gently toward the ensuite door.

And there they were.

Those blue eyes. Pure, clear, unguarded.

No gold shimmer. No white pupils. No lingering trace of shadow curling at the edge of his lashes. Just Bob. Sleep-soft and a little disheveled, with a smudge of milk on his shirt and that unmistakable tenderness resting deep in the curve of his mouth.

His smile was crooked, shy, blooming in real time as he took you in.

“I-I went into the ov-overflow stash,” He said, voice warm with quiet apology, “Sh-she started to get really fussy, and I di-didn’t want the lights bursting like last time.” You smirked, pushing your damp hair off your cheeks, amusement flickering behind your eyes as you walked toward him.

“Well, that’s why it’s called a stash,” you teased, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek—gentle, warm, lingering just long enough for your lips to curve against the blush that immediately bloomed beneath his skin.

His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, soaking it in.

You stepped away then, reaching for a fresh set of clothes from the dresser–a clean pair of Bob’s old basketball shorts you’d unofficially claimed and a loose, zippered maternity top that made feeding easier. As you moved, you glanced back at him, voice light but laced with meaning.

“Sentry’s already planning for another one.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, his brows lifting in startled horror before he let out a low, suffering groan.

“Ho-how about we wait till she’s six months before we st-start even thinking about th-that,” He muttered, his tone laced with exasperated affection.

You laughed–a full, bubbling laugh that warmed the whole room.

“That’s exactly what I said to him,” You replied, pulling the shirt over your head and adjusting the zipper at the chest. “We don’t even know the extent of Sunny’s powers yet. From what we’ve seen, she’s literally almost as powerful as Sentry… And she’s just two months old.”

Bob blinked down at Sunniva, who had just finished her bottle and was now sucking gently on the silicone tip in her sleep, her tiny body completely relaxed against his chest. His voice was soft as he replied.

“It’s…It’s am-amazing to witness though… I won’t li-lie to you.”

You paused, your smile tugging a little deeper.

“…I agree with you there.”

Padding quietly across the floor, you moved to stand in front of him, brushing your fingers over the fine hair on Sunniva’s head before leaning down again–this time kissing Bob on the forehead. Right between his brows. Right where the weight and worry used to live.

His eyes closed again at the contact, lashes resting on his cheeks, and you let your lips linger there for an extra second, before pulling away.

“I’m glad I’ve got the most amazing men by my side to help me handle all of it though,” You murmured. Gently, you cupped his cheek with your hand–your thumb tracing the edge of the freckles there–before leaning in and kissing him once on the left cheek, then the right. Light, warm, reverent.

Then, with a smile still tugging at your lips, you leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just…Thankful. His lips parted slightly, breath catching in the way it always did when you kissed him like that—with no pretense, no warning, just a quiet overflow of everything you felt.

When you pulled back, his eyes were open again, glassy and full. A faint tremble moved across his mouth as he looked up at you, like he wasn’t sure how to hold everything inside his chest all at once.

“Y-You’re the one that I owe all of it to,” Bob whispered, voice cracking gently with the weight of it. You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch a little between you as your hand slid to his shoulder, your thumb brushing once more along the curve of his neck.

Then, from the little bundle cradled against his chest, came the softest coo.

Your head tipped slightly, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I’ll take her back now,” You said, voice warm and teasing, “I miss the warmth–and chances are she’s going to spit up soon, and you’ve never been lucky with that…” Bob groaned immediately, dropping his head back with the most exaggerated suffering sound you’d heard from him all week.

“D-Don’t remind me,” He muttered, shifting her a little in his arms as you reached for her. “Wh-When it went all do-down my back that last time I thought I was having a b-boiling hot sh-shower.” You laughed–bright and musical, your hand covering your mouth as the sound bubbled out of you.

“Oh god, the face you made,” You giggled, carefully gathering Sunniva back into your arms, “You looked so betrayed.”

“I was…” Bob muttered darkly, but there was a grin twitching at the corners of his lips as he watched you settle your daughter against your chest again. She let out a sleepy sigh, fingers twitching against your collarbone as her little head tucked beneath your chin.

Bob looked at you both like he was trying to memorize the shape of the moment. Like if he blinked too long, he might lose it.

His voice, when it came again, was soft. Barely above a breath.

“I-I love you,” He murmured, almost like he was afraid to break the stillness. “Both of you. So much it…Hu–Hurts.” You looked down at your daughter, her tiny cheek resting against your skin, then back at the man you had built everything with. The man who had walked through shadow and shame, through gods and grief, and still come home.

“I know,” you whispered, smiling down at him. “I love you too Bob.”

And the light that filled the room–golden and thick and unrelenting–only grew warmer.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Okay okay like brat tamer remmick x brat reader where she’s being all pouty wanting his attention and being all moody and he’s done with her attitude so he just plants her down on his dick and her brain just goes all mushy and her attitude completely disappears as she cockwarms him 🫠🫠 can u tell I’m ovulating?

Brat||Remmcik x Fem!reader

Summary— you had been acting like a brat all day long and remmick has had enough.

Warning—Power dynamics (brat x brat tamer) Light dom/sub dynamic Cockwarming Edging / orgasm denial Rough language Manhandling Possessive/controlling behavior Size kink elements Dirty talk / degradation (mild) Brain-melting overstimulation (non-penetrative) Vampire partner (implied supernatural strength)

@abriefnirvana @fuckoffbard

You were being impossible.

Remmick had given you space. Time. Every chance to settle that little attitude. But no—there you were again, sprawled on the couch in nothing but one of his shirts, huffing, whining, dragging your fingers slowly over your thighs just to see if he was watching.

Spoiler: he was. He always was.

“You’re being cruel,” you pouted, tossing your phone aside with dramatic flair. “I’m bored.”

He didn’t look up from his book. “You’re spoiled.”

“And neglected,” you added, voice syrupy and teasing. “My vampire boyfriend doesn’t even care that I’m sitting here soaking through my panties.”

He turned a page.

You shifted your hips on the cushion, letting out a breathy little moan as your hand trailed between your legs—again, loud enough for effect. “It’s honestly rude how wet I am and no one’s doing anything about it.”

Still, silence.

That pushed you a step too far.

You stood, stomped over to him, and climbed right into his lap, straddling him like a challenge. “Hello? Earth to Daddy Dracula,” you smirked. “Are you broken, or just boring now?”

His jaw ticked. He set the book down.

“Say that again,” he said quietly.

You grinned. “Boring.”

In one smooth movement, Remmick grabbed your waist and stood up, carrying you through the apartment like a ragdoll. You squeaked and kicked a little, but you didn’t resist—not really. Not when you knew what was coming.

He dropped into the armchair with a grunt and yanked your panties aside. You barely had time to gasp before he lined you up and slammed you down onto his cock with a force that knocked every bratty sound from your lungs.

“Remm—!” Your voice broke off into a moan, long and needy.

He filled you too fast, too deep. The stretch made your head spin. Your mouth fell open, your body locked up, and all that fire in your belly short-circuited into static.

And then… nothing.

He didn’t move.

Remmick leaned back in the chair, arms hooked lazily over the armrests while you sat stuffed full of him, trembling, your pussy fluttering around his cock as your hips instinctively tried to grind.

“No,” he warned, voice calm but with an edge sharp enough to cut glass. “You don’t get to move. Not yet.”

You whined in protest, fists balled in his shirt. “But I—”

“I said no.”

He tilted his head. “You act like a brat to get my attention, but when you finally get it, you think you’re the one who decides what happens next?”

You let out a frustrated noise, squirming just slightly. “I was just—”

“Just edging yourself,” he cut in, fingers curling around your ass to still you. “Every sigh, every touch, hoping I’d break. Now you have my cock, and I’m gonna let you sit here—dumb and dripping—until you forget how to act like a little fucking princess.”

Your breath hitched. Heat pulsed between your legs. He was so deep, so still, and you were throbbing around him—desperate for him to just do something.

“Remmick, please…”

He smiled, cruel and quiet.

“Maybe. If you ask sweet enough.”

Your lips parted—but the moment your hips twitched, he gripped your jaw.

“Say something bratty again,” he murmured darkly, “and I’ll pull out and leave you empty until morning.”

You whimpered.

That shut you up real quick.

And so you sat there, cockwarming him—your mind turned to syrup, your body twitching with every pulse of need, every denied orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Mouthy no more. All pout gone.

Just a warm, wet, obedient little toy sitting perfectly still until Remmick decided you’d learned your lesson.

[simplygojo]

Gettin' A Full Service

author's note ⸺ Y'all I'm so sorry im nothin but a nasty dog bc no way this is 4.3k 💀. ANYWHO this smutty fic idea came to me when seeing the art used as the cover for this by @actuallyvalerie (original art is linked here), I just couldn't help myself from writing this...heh. Hope you enjoy!

pairing ⸺ Mechanic!Toji Fushiguro x reader

word count ⸺ 4.3k (im a nasty dog y'all...)

content ⸺ 18+ content, SMUT!, oral (reader receiving), intercourse, dirty sex, choking, pet names (pretty girl), fingering, slight overstimulation, mndi, reader has a vagina, reader uses female pronouns

materlist || request guidelines || commissions || discord channel

^^ art by @actuallyvalerie

The low rumble of engines filled the air as you stepped into the garage, the familiar scents of motor oil and gasoline swirling around you. Your heartbeat quickened the moment you caught sight of him—Toji Fushiguro. 

He was bent over the hood of his car, focused on something behind the propped-up hood.

The muscles in his broad back flexed as he worked, his white tank top clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. His strong arms glistened with a light sheen of sweat, smudged with streaks of oil that only added to the raw masculinity he exuded. 

A dark smear ran along his sharp jawline, the grease contrasting with his striking, rugged features. The late afternoon sun filters through the wide windows of Toji’s garage, casting long shadows across the floor as you lean against the doorframe, watching him work. 

His muscles flexed as he tightened a bolt with practiced ease. His black hair falls into his eyes, and he grunts, annoyed, pushing it back with his forearm before continuing.

You can’t help but smile at the sight. Toji, focused and in his element, and it was really turning you on…

The way he concentrated on the task at hand, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted as he grunted with effort, was enough to send heat coursing through you. Each twist of the wrench, every subtle shift of his frame, seemed to radiate raw masculinity, igniting a spark of desire deep within you.

Your pulse quickened, and you felt a warmth pooling in your core, drawn in by the mix of confidence and sheer masculinity he exuded.

Toji, sensing your gaze, glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna stand there all day or actually say something?” His voice is teasing, rough around the edges, but there’s that familiar smirk tugging at his lips, the one that makes your heart skip a beat.

You push off the doorframe and walk over, hands in your pockets, pretending to study the car (like you gave a damn) as if you understand half of what he’s doing. 

“Just admiring the view,” you reply with a grin, leaning against the workbench. “You sure know how to make fixing a car look… good.”

Toji snorts, wiping the grease from his hands onto a rag before tossing it aside. “Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. Not many people get a free show.”

You roll your eyes at his usual bravado but can’t deny that there’s something captivating about him. He straightens up, towering over you with that smug grin still firmly in place. “What, you just came here to stare?”

You shrug, deciding to play along. “Maybe. Can’t blame me, right? You’re good at what you do.”

His smirk widens, and he steps closer, towering over you now. There’s an intensity in his gaze, but it’s softened by the playful glint in his eyes. “You saying I should charge for it?”

You laugh, lightly shoving him. “Please, you’d drive everyone away with that attitude.”

He chuckles, leaning back against the car, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Probably. But you’re still here, so I must be doing something right.”

You look up at him, biting back a smile. “Guess I’m the lucky one, huh?”

Toji’s eyes narrow playfully, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Damn right.”

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the garage filling the space once again. 

After a moment, you speak again, your voice softer. “Need any help?”

Toji glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You offering?”

You shrug, moving closer to inspect the tools scattered on the workbench. “Maybe. I’m not exactly a mechanic, but I can hold a wrench.”

He snorts, amused, and hands you a tool.

“Don’t hurt yourself. That’s my job.”

You take it, rolling your eyes at his comment. But as you stand next to him, following his instructions and working together on the car, there’s a quiet contentment in the air. 

You grip the wrench, watching Toji’s hands as he guides yours to the right bolt. His touch is firm, steady, sparking a heat between your thighs. His body is so close to yours that you felt the warmth radiating off him. 

You try to focus on the task at hand, but with Toji standing over you, the subtle scent of engine oil mixed with his cologne makes your heart race, and it's hard to concentrate.

"Like this?" You ask, adjusting the wrench in your hand, trying to distract yourself from your dirty thoughts.

Toji’s lips twitch into a smirk as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"Tighten it, don’t baby it, baby." 

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. You give the wrench another turn, putting more effort into it this time.

"There. Happy?" You ask, looking up at him.

Toji’s gaze flickers down to meet yours, and for a moment, the air between you seems to thicken. 

His eyes darken, a hint of something playful yet dangerous lurking in them.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in even closer, so close you can feel the brush of his arm against yours.

"Not bad," he murmurs, his voice low. His big arms reached over you and tightened the bolt even more, just showing off his strength. "Maybe you’re not as useless around here as I thought."

You narrow your eyes at him, though there’s no real annoyance in your expression. "Oh, please. I’m the best help you’ve ever had."

Toji’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Big words for someone who didn’t even know where the wrench was five minutes ago."

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, he reaches past you to grab another tool, his arm brushing against your side. 

He doesn’t move away, staying so close that your shoulders are practically touching. It’s deliberate—you can tell by the smug look on his face.

Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t back down. Instead, you let your own smile grow, deciding to meet his teasing head-on.

"Maybe I don’t know cars, but I know you like showing off. How long did it take you to fix that last engine again? Two hours?"

Toji lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying your banter. "Two hours, and it was perfect. Don’t forget that part."

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. "Perfect, huh? Or just barely passable?"

He narrows his eyes at you, though there’s a playful edge in his gaze.

"Careful. You’re gonna talk yourself out of a favour if you keep that up."

"Oh? What favour?" you ask, leaning against the car now, your arms crossed, fully enjoying the back-and-forth.

Toji leans down, bringing his face closer to yours, his grin shifting into something more dangerous, more tempting. "The one where I let you stick around here. Don’t think I’ll keep you around for free."

Your breath hitches slightly, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you match his energy, pushing back without missing a beat.

"Oh, so you’re saying I have to work to earn my keep? What’s the price, then? More wrench-holding?"

He chuckles again, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through the air between you. 

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the teasing fades into something heavier, something that lingers in the charged space between your bodies. 

He’s close enough now that you can see the flecks of green in his eyes, close enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off him.

"Nah," Toji says, his voice dropping an octave, turning more serious but still holding that playful tone.

"I’ve got enough wrenches. I’m thinkin’ of something a little more… personal."

You can feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t look away. "Oh? Like what?"

He leans in, just barely brushing his lips against your ear.

"Guess you’ll just have to stick around to find out."

For a second, the world seems to slow down, your senses overwhelmed by the proximity of him, the way his voice sends shivers down your spine. 

But before you can say anything, Toji pulls back, the smirk returning to his face as he casually grabs another tool and turns back to the car, as if nothing just happened.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest.

Toji always knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to get under your skin in a way that leaves you wanting more.

“Tease,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head with a smile.

Toji glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“I’m not teasing this time, I’m just busy. Like I said, stick around...”

His voice was low, almost serious, but that playful gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. 

He gives you a wink, and something about the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.

You open your mouth to reply, but words seem to get stuck in your throat. The way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to—makes your pulse quicken. 

The air between you feels heavy, charged with an energy you can’t quite name.

Toji watches your reaction closely, his grin fading into something softer, more intense. He drops the tool he was holding onto the workbench and turns fully toward you, wiping his hands on the rag before tossing it aside.

“You really think I’m just messin’ with you?”

Your breath catches as he steps closer, closing the already small distance between you. His presence is overwhelming—tall, broad, and carrying that rough, irresistible confidence he always seems to have. 

But this time, there’s something else in the way he looks at you, something different. His teasing smirk is gone, replaced by a look that makes your heart race.

“Toji…” you start, but you’re not even sure what you want to say.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin, tilting your face up so that you’re forced to meet his eyes. The touch is surprisingly gentle, almost tender.

“I’m serious,” he says quietly, his voice low and rough around the edges. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you look at me, the way you linger around here like you’re waitin’ for something to happen.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, and you’re not sure if it’s from embarrassment or anticipation.

Maybe both.

But before you can respond, Toji’s hand slips from your chin, moving to rest against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, like he’s been keeping this confession locked away for too long.

The dark, dangerous edge in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. His grip on you tightens slightly, a subtle indication of just how much control he’s been forcing himself to maintain.

You’re painfully aware of how close he is now—his broad frame nearly eclipsing yours, his body radiating a heat that makes it harder to breathe. The faint scents of oil and metal lingers in the air, mixing with something distinctly him. It’s intoxicating.

“M’didn’t wanna push too far, but... maybe I’ve been waitin' for you to give me the green light.” His words hang in the air, a challenge wrapped in velvet. It’s like a line drawn in the sand, daring you to cross it.

Your heart pounds, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Every inch of you is hyper-aware of Toji—the way his hand lingers on your neck, the way his gaze seems to devour you. You want this. God, you want this.

“What if I gave you that green light right now?” The words leave your lips before you can fully process them, but there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing.

For a fleeting moment, Toji’s pupils dilate, his eyes narrowing with something primal, something dangerous. The smirk that spreads across his face is no longer playful—it’s predatory.

“Then I wouldn’t waste any more time.”

Before you can draw another breath, his mouth crashes down on yours, and it’s like a dam breaking—everything he’s been holding back unleashed in one searing, possessive kiss.

His hands move from your throat to your waist, pulling you against him so fiercely that your feet nearly leave the ground.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he kisses you. His lips are demanding, rough, as if he’s staking a claim.

You can feel the pent-up tension in every movement—the way his teeth graze your lower lip, the way his hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

Your hands move instinctively to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him even closer.

You match his intensity, giving in to the heat that’s been simmering between you both for far too long. Every brush of his lips, every press of his body against yours ignites a fire low in your belly, making you ache for more.

Toji pulls back for just a moment, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours as he catches his breath. His eyes, hooded and dark, search yours as if looking for any trace of hesitation. But there is none.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” His voice is low, rumbling with barely restrained need.

Your answer comes not in words but in the way you tug him back to you, pressing your lips to his once more, harder this time, as if you’re trying to tell him with your body what your words can’t quite express.

Toji groans softly, the sound vibrating against your mouth as his hands begin to explore, sliding under the hem of your shirt.

His touch is scorching, sending jolts of electricity through your skin. 

There’s an urgency now, a desperation in the way his hands roam your body, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. 

Your back hits the cold metal of his car behind you, the chill momentarily cutting through the heat between you, but it only seems to heighten the tension. 

Toji’s hands are firm on your waist, holding you in place against the cool surface, his body pressed against yours in a way that has your pulse racing.

He breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes smouldering with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. The darkness in his gaze has only grown deeper, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, husky, full of raw need.

“I’ve been patient,” he mutters, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans. “But you don’t want me to hold back anymore, do you?”

The way he says it, the low growl in his voice, sends a wave of heat straight to your throbbing pussy. 

You can only manage a small shake of your head, your throat too tight to form any words.

His lips twist into a smirk, something predatory glinting in his eyes as he steps back just enough to grab you by the waist and hoist you effortlessly onto the hood of the car behind you. 

He quickly unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them off your legs, letting his hands roam your skin.

The cold metal beneath you contrasts sharply with the warmth of his body as he steps between your legs, spreading them open with a firm grip on your thighs.

“You’ve been teasing me, y’know that?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous as his hands trace the outline of your hips, fingers brushing the edge of your panties.

“You comin’ in here wearing these tight jeans, given’ me those looks.”

Before you can respond, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and, with one sharp tug, the fabric tears apart in his hands. 

The sound of it—quick and final—echoes in the small garage, and the cool air hits your skin, making you gasp.

Toji’s eyes darken as he looks down at you, his gaze hungry and unrestrained. He licks his lips, the smirk from earlier gone, replaced with something far more serious.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up your inner thighs, rough fingers brushing the sensitive skin as he leans down, bringing his face closer to your dripping cunt. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Such a pretty sight.”

He pauses for a second, his thumb brushing dangerously close to your center, teasing, but not yet giving you the touch you desperately need. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back with pleasure.  

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lets his thumb slide over your slick folds, testing your reaction, watching the way your body responds under his touch. The anticipation, the raw hunger in his gaze, it’s all too much, and you let out a desperate moan. 

Your breath hitches as Toji's thumb slides teasingly through your folds, his touch both rough and deliberate.

You try to bite back the groan threatening to escape your lips, but the way his eyes flicker up to meet yours tells you he notices everything.

“Don’t hold back now,” he rasps, his voice gravelly, sending shivers down your spine.

“I wanna hear every pretty sound you make.”

Before you can react, he dips his head between your thighs, and the warmth of his breath against your sensitive skin makes your body tremble. His hands grip your thighs firmly, keeping you in place, as his tongue traces a slow, agonizing path over your slick heat.

Your gasp echoes through the garage, head falling back against the hood of his car as pleasure surges through you. 

You feel Toji’s lips curl into a smirk against you, clearly enjoying the way your body reacts to his touch. 

He doesn’t hold back—his tongue flicks, swirls, and sucks, each movement precise and calculated, as though he’s savouring every moment of this.

“Fuck, Toji—” you gasp, your hands instinctively flying to his hair, tugging at the dark strands as the heat builds inside you.

Toji growls in response, the vibrations of his voice against your pussy sending waves of pleasure through you, making your thighs shake. 

He dives in deeper, his mouth working relentlessly, tasting every inch of you, each flick of his tongue pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

The sensation is overwhelming—his lips, his tongue, the way his fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open for him, like you’re his to devour. 

It’s too much and not enough all at once. Every brush of his mouth over your clit sends electricity shooting through your body, and leaves you whining for more.

Your hips buck instinctively, seeking more, needing more of the pleasure he’s giving you.

Toji chuckles, dark and amused, his voice muffled as he continues to work you with his mouth. “So needy,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet against your heated skin. “I like that.”

It’s like he knows exactly how to unravel you, like he’s been waiting for this moment, studying you, learning your body, just so he could do this—just so he could make you fall apart beneath him.

“Toji—m' gonna cum,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper, but he knows what you need. 

He speeds up, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, the relentless pace driving you higher and higher, until the world falls away and all that’s left is him, his touch, and the pleasure that crashes over you in waves.

You cry out as your orgasm rips through you, your thighs clamping around his head as your body shakes with the intensity of it. 

But Toji doesn't let up, continuing to lap at you, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling from the aftershocks.

Finally, he pulls back, his lips and chin glistening as he looks up at you with a satisfied grin, eyes dark with lust. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, standing back up, towering over you once again.

“Come here, pretty girl,” he rasps, his voice a low growl that sends another wave of heat through your body.

Before you can catch your breath, his large hand slides behind your neck, gripping it firmly, but not harshly. 

He lifts you from your position on the car, pulling you up until you’re sitting in front of him, your legs dangling off the edge of the hood. His hand lingers at your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse, feeling the rapid beat of your heart.

Your body is still humming with the afterglow of your orgasm, but when you glance down and see Toji’s other hand move to the waistband of his pants, your breath hitches again. 

He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he unbuttons them slowly, deliberately, the tension between you thickening once more.

Toji's eyes gleamed with that dark hunger as his grip on your neck tightened just a fraction, enough to remind you who was in control. His free hand moved to the back of your thigh, pulling you forward on the car until you could feel the heat of him between your legs.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice low and rough as his hand caressed the curve of your hip, dragging you closer to him.

“So pretty, all spread out for me.”

Your breath caught as you felt the tip of him brush against your entrance, your entire body already aching for him, needing more. You leaned into his grip on your neck, your pulse racing beneath his fingers as you whispered,

“Please, Toji…”

He chuckled darkly at the desperation in your voice, his grin widening as he pressed himself just a little harder against you, teasing you.

“Please what, baby? You gotta use your words.”

You squirmed under his grip, your body screaming for more contact, for him to stop teasing.

“God Toji—I want y’to fuck me,” you said in frustration, your voice barely audible as your body begged for him.

“Good girl.” His voice was a low, approving growl as he finally lined himself up with you, his voice sent another wave of heat to your aching pussy. Without another word, he pulled you forward, thrusting into you in one swift motion.

The sudden stretch had you gasping, eyes wide as your walls adjusted to his size, the feeling of him filling you completely was overwhelming.

Toji groaned, his grip on your neck tightening as he stilled inside you, savouring the feeling for just a moment. You grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on yours as each thrust sent a shockwave of pleasure through your body.

Your hands instinctively reached for him, fingers tangling in his dark hair as you clung to him, every nerve in your body on fire. Toji’s lips curled into a smug grin at the way you responded to him, the way your body seemed to melt under his touch.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in closer while maintaining his rough pace. His grip on your neck shifted to pull your head back slightly. 

“Tell me how good it feels.”

“It’s so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling as he began to pick up the pace, the force of his thrusts making the car creak beneath you. 

Every movement pushed you higher, the pressure building inside you all over again as Toji took you apart piece by piece.

Toji’s pace became relentless, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, and your body was a live wire, every nerve tingling under his touch. The pressure inside you built impossibly fast, the pleasure coiling tight in your core, threatening to snap.

“Toji—" you whimpered, barely able to form words as he drove into you, your body quivering beneath him. 

Hot tears pricked at your eyes from the overstimulation you felt—never ever had anyone fucked you like this.

He groaned at the sound of your voice, his lips brushing against your ear.

"That’s it, pretty girl. Cum f’me," he rasped, his hand tightening around your neck just enough to send a thrill through you.

The roughness of his voice, the commanding way he held you—it pushed you over the edge. 

Your body tensed, the world spinning as your orgasm ripped through you with a force that left you gasping, your walls clenching tightly around him as wave after wave of pleasure coursing through your veins.

You cried out his name followed by a pornographic moan, legs trembling, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode the intensity of it, your whole body shaking as the pleasure overtook you. 

Toji’s hand slipped from your neck, sliding down to your waist as he kept moving, working you through the aftershocks as your body convulsed beneath him.

“There you go,” he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction, his hips slowing as he watched the way you writhed under him, completely lost in the ecstasy he’d given you.

Panting and spent, your body collapsed back against the car, your chest heaving as the last waves of your orgasm rolled through you.

Toji’s eyes gleamed with pride as he pulled out, his hands still possessively resting on your hips.

"You look so damn pretty when you cum," he murmured, leaning down to press a rough kiss against your lips, your body still tingling from the intensity of it all.

You were utterly spent, trembling in the aftermath, but as Toji’s lips curled into that familiar smirk, you knew...

He wasn’t done with you yet.

[writers-potion]

Could you give any advice for "descriptive" writing of any scene or action scenes or mapping out the scenery (Mountains, forests, streets etc) - i believe this is a struggle for Non-English speaking writers due to lack of vast vocabulary.

Common Scenery Description Tips

Vocabulary is clearly an important part of description, but it doesn’t have to be a limit. The most important thing about description in fiction is picking the right details to mention:

How does the details add to the mood of the story? A mountain ridge will be dark, gray and foggy if the overall mood is meant to be mysterious/brooding. In contrast, a mountain can be brilliantly snow-capped, lush green and “smiling down” upon the character if they’re out for a light stroll.

How are the contrasts/complementary aspects being brought out?

Are you using the five senses? You can even combine the senses, ie. blue ringing of the church bells

(If you have the POV character) what 

Some other tips for setting description:

Use similes and metaphors. Creative figures of speech always get my attention as a reader. 

Mention story-specific elements. For example, “The sky was the shade of Zoes’ eyes” or “the mountains looked like a group of trolls sleeping on one another” 

Be concise. Today’s readers don’t want to read paragraphs and paragraphs about one landscape. Outline the larger elements in the scene, their location and general mood. Add some details, then move on. 

If the same location appears multiple times, differentiate the description little by little as you write, instead of trying to lay out one scene in too much detail at once. 

That said, here are some helpful words/phrases:

Forests/Mountains

Color: bone-white, phantom-white, hazy gray

Sound: rumbling, booming grumbling, bellowing clapping, trundling, growling, thundering

Shape: crinkled, crumpled, knotted, grizzled, rumpled, wrinkled, craggy, jagged, gnarled, rugose  

Action: sky-punching/stabbing/piercing/spearing, heaven-touching/kissing, snow-cloaked/hooded/wreathed/festooned

Sloping sides, sharp/rounded ridges, high point/peak/summit

Majestic, gargantuan humbling, vast, massive, titanic, towering, monumental, mighty, vast, humbling

Mountains having faces, etc. 

Seas

Color: blue-green, crystal-clear crystalline, emerald, frothy, hazy, glistening, pristine, turquoise

Size: boundless, abyssal, fathomless, unconquerable, vast, wondrous

Sound: billowing, blustering, bombastic

Action: boisterous, agitated, angry, biting, breaking, brazen. Churning, bubbling, changing, brooding, calm, convulsing, enticing erratic, fierce, tempestuous, turbulent, undulating

Alluring, blissful, betwitching, breezy, captivating, chaotic, chilly, elemental, disorienting

Deserts

Sight: A landscape of sand, flat, harsh sunlight, cacti, tumbleweeds, dust devils, cracked land, crumbing rock, sandstone, canyons, wind-worn rock formations, tracks, dead grasses, vibrant desert blooms (after rainfall), flash flooding, dry creek

Sounds: Wind (whistling, howling, piping, tearing, weaving, winding, gusting), birds cawing, flapping, squawking, the fluttering shift of feasting birds, screeching eagles, the sound of one’s own steps, heavy silence, baying wild dogs

Smell: Arid air, dust, one’s own sweat and body odor, dry baked earth, carrion

Touch: Torrid heat, sweat, cutting wind, cracked lips, freezing cold (night) hard packed ground, rocks, gritty sand, shivering, swiping away dirt and sweat, pain from split lips and dehydration, numbness in legs, heat/pain from sun stroke, clothes…

Taste: Grit, dust, dry mouth & tongue, warm flat canteen water, copper taste in mouth, bitter taste of insects for eating, stringy wild game (hares, rats) the tough saltiness of hardtack, biscuits or jerky, an insatiable thirst or hunger

Streets

Dusty, fume-filled, foul, sumptuous, broad, bucolic, decayed, mournful, seemingly endless, empty, unpaved, lifeless, dreadfully genteel, muddy, nondescript, residential/retail

Bleach, flimsy, silent, narrow, crooked, furrowed, smoggy, commonplace, tumbledown, treeless, shady

The blacktop streets absorb the spring sunshine as if intent upon sending heaven's warmth back through my soles.

The streets absorbed the emotions in the air, the city as the steady and reassuring mother.

The streets were a marriage of sounds, from bicycle wheels to chattering.

In the refreshing light of early daytime, the streets had the hues of artistic dreamtime, soft yet bold pastels.

Cobbled streets flowed as happy rivers in sunlight.

Parties

Some extra tips for locations like parties, where lots of action is going around practically everywhere:

Focus on the important characters - where they are, who they’re with. 

Provide some overall description of the structure of the party scene (a pool, a two-storey house with yard?), then move on to details. 

Don’t try to describe everything. 

whirlwind of laughter and music, a symphony of joyous chaos.

It was a gathering that shimmered with the glow of twinkling lights and echoed with the rhythm of dancing feet.

The air was alive with excitement, buzzing with conversations and the clink of glasses.

Every corner held a story waiting to unfold, a moment waiting to be captured in memory.

It was a tapestry of colors, a mosaic of faces, each adding their own brushstroke to the vibrant canvas of the night.

Laughter cascaded like a waterfall, infectious and unstoppable, filling the room with warmth.

The night was a carnival of senses, with aromas of delicious food mingling with the melodies that filled the air.

Time seemed to slip away in the whirl of the party, moments blending into each other like colors on a palette.

The energy of the crowd was electric, pulsing through the room like a heartbeat, binding everyone in a shared moment of celebration.

It was a celebration of life, where worries faded into the background, and the present moment was all that mattered.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

What if Sebastian and MC are fighting some Ashwinders. Sebastian finishes the last one off and turns to MC with a huge grin on his face only for it to drop when he sees her crumpled on the ground, not moving. He realises she's dying and just starts sobbing and babbling because he can't do anything else. It doesn't have to end with MC dying but just reading a distraught Sebastian in love with MC holding them bleeding out in his arms in your phenomenal writing would be gut wrenching and beautiful and I need it.

Between Life and Death | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Words: ~6,200

Tags: Violence, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

Sebastian had always been good in a fight.

It was the one thing he could rely on, the one skill that had carried him through every reckless decision, every brush with death. And tonight, he was in his element—moving like a shadow through the barn, his wand a blur of motion, spells tearing through the air as he cut down Ashwinders one by one.

It was almost fun—if he ignored the fact that he’d nearly died about a hundred times in the past ten minutes.

He ducked low, rolling behind an overturned cart as a jet of green light shattered the wooden beams where his head had been a second ago. He barely had time to breathe before he was up again, wand snapping forward, Expulso sending a wave of concussive force into an advancing foe, throwing the man back so hard he crumpled into the splintered remains of a stall door.

Sebastian grinned, breathless, a sharp rush of adrenaline thrumming through his veins. The barn reeked of damp hay, smoke, and blood, the air shimmering with heat from the relentless spellfire. He pivoted just in time to deflect a Bombarda, the impact knocking him back a step, but he recovered fast—too fast for the poor bastard who had thrown it. With a flick of his wrist, he wrenched the Ashwinder’s wand from his grip, then sent a Diffindo slicing through the air. The man hit the ground with a strangled cry, unmoving.

That was the last of them.

Sebastian exhaled hard, wiping a line of blood from his brow where a near miss had grazed him. He should have felt triumphant. He should have felt relieved.

But instead, he felt uneasy.

It had been a bad idea to split up.

The two of you never did that—never needed to. You had fought and bled together for years, perfecting a rhythm that didn’t require words. It wasn’t just trust, it was instinct. And yet, when you insisted, all stubborn confidence and reckless certainty, he had let you go.

He shouldn’t have.

Because the barn was clear, and you weren’t back yet.

Sebastian turned on his heel, bolting through the side door and into the open field beyond. The night air was thick with the scent of burning ozone, the grass scorched where spells had landed. In the distance, flashes of magic still clashed, illuminating the darkened farm in jagged bursts. Red, green, white, blue.

And then your voice. Strained. Furious. Tired.

Sebastian sprinted toward the sound, heart slamming against his ribs. He caught sight of you just beyond the treeline, tangled in a final skirmish against one last Ashwinder. You were still on your feet, still fighting, but something was wrong.

You were hurt.

Your stance was off—your left side sluggish, your dodges not as sharp as they should have been. Blood darkened your robes where a wound had already torn through fabric, your wand arm trembling under the effort of holding your defense.

Sebastian ran toward you, wand already snapping up as he fired off a volley of Basic Casts. The spells shot through the air in quick succession, streaks of gold against the dark. But the Ashwinder barely reacted—his wand flicked lazily, deflecting each attack with a casual ease that made Sebastian’s stomach twist.

"Ah, there you are," the Ashwinder drawled, sidestepping a stray blast that sent dirt flying. His lips curled into a smirk as his gaze flicked between you and Sebastian. "You Aurors always come in pairs, don’t you? Like a matched set."

Sebastian barely heard him. He was too focused on you. The fight had gone on too long, and you were exhausted.

Sebastian held the Ashwinder off with a flurry of casts, slipping seamlessly to your side. He kept his wand raised, breath coming quick and shallow, sweat dampening his collar as he positioned himself between you and the threat. His body thrummed with adrenaline, his mind racing through every possible outcome, every spell that could end this now.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said breathlessly.

You huffed a breath—almost a laugh, but too ragged, too weak. "You took your time."

"Had to make a dramatic entrance."

The Ashwinder tilted his head, unconcerned, his wand still held lazily at his side. There was something about the way he stood—casual, relaxed, too comfortable for a man facing two Aurors in a fight to the death. He was unbothered. Amused. Like he had already won.

"This isn’t going to end the way you want it to, you know." His voice was calm. Certain.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

He’s stalling.

The realization cut through the haze of adrenaline, sending warning bells shrieking through his mind. He had seen this before, too many times, too many fights that had turned just before the final blow landed.

And then he saw it.

The flick of the man’s wrist. A subtle, practiced movement, too smooth to be anything but deliberate, his fingers curling around his wand as an incantation left his mouth.

Sebastian knew dark magic when he saw it. He had spent a lifetime running from it, pretending his hands weren’t just as stained. He had seen spells most would never dare utter, watched them take root in the bones of men who had deserved far worse. And in that instant, he knew.

This wasn’t just any curse. This was meant to kill.

The spell tore from the Ashwinder’s wand in a flash of crimson, slicing through the air like a blade. It was too quick, too vicious, aimed straight for Sebastian's chest, but before he could react—before he could cast, or dodge, or breathe—

You were already moving. There was no hesitation. No pause. No second-guessing. Just you shoving him aside.

Sebastian stumbled, the force of you knocking the air from his lungs. His boots skidded against the scorched earth, hands grasping at nothing as he lost balance for half a heartbeat.

The night exploded in red light, a sickening crack tearing through the air. It was the sound of flesh meeting force, of limbs jerking in ways they weren’t meant to, your body snapping like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then you hit the ground with a horrible, lifeless thud.

Sebastian’s breath locked in his throat. It was like time had collapsed in on itself, like the world had narrowed down to the unbearable stillness of your body sprawled in the dirt.

“No—NO.”

Sebastian turned sharply, wand raised, ready to kill. Ready to rip the Ashwinder apart, to end him with whatever unforgivable curse came to mind first—

But there was nothing. The Ashwinder was gone. Vanished.

With the danger gone, he fell to his knees beside you, hands reaching, grasping, shaking as he hovered over you.

Your body twitched. Shaking like an exposed wire, snapping with electricity, the aftershocks of magic still crackling through your limbs.

Sebastian reached for your face. “Hey—hey, look at me, you’re fine, it’s fine—”

Blood dripped from your lips. Thick and dark, slipping down your chin, staining your skin.

You weren’t fine.

You weren’t fine, and Sebastian—he should have been faster. He should have seen that spell coming, should have moved in time. In fact, he should have ripped that bastard apart before he had the chance to even cast it.

Sebastian’s breath was a harsh, ragged thing in the back of his throat. His pulse thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else. He was shaking, rage burning through his blood so violently it felt like it might split him apart. But he had bigger problems.

Like the way blood was dripping from your mouth and your nose and your ears. The way you clawed weakly at his robes, desperate for something—for him—as your chest heaved in shallow, gurgling breaths. The way your lips trembled, trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

Sebastian could feel panic rising. He could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, curling around his ribs, clawing at his throat like a vice—but he couldn’t let it take hold. He had to stay calm. He had to fix this.

He was already moving, tugging at the front of your coat, ripping through buttons and fabric as he yanked it open. His fingers fumbled at your shirt, hands tearing at the fabric, desperate to find the wound.

Sebastian's hands slid over your chest, your sternum, your stomach, pressing desperately, trying to stop the bleeding that had no source, his fingers slick with your blood.

“Where—” His voice broke. “Where is it?”

There was nothing.

No. That didn’t make sense. The spell had hit you dead center. It should have burned through you, should have split skin and shattered ribs, and yet—

No gaping hole, no shattered ribs, no jagged tear of flesh where the spell should have struck. No injury to bandage, no visible wound to close.

Only evidence.

Scarring, curling across your skin in intricate, fractal-like patterns branching out from where the curse had struck, winding across your chest and shoulders like the roots of something hungry. And blood. Not from a single source—not pooling from a wound he could heal—but everywhere. Your nose. Your ears. Your mouth. Your eyes.

Your chest rose in shallow, desperate breaths, each one a ragged, gurgling effort that sent fresh rivulets of blood spilling down your chin. Your fingers twitched against his wrist, gripping at him like he was the only thing tethering you here.

Sebastian’s stomach lurched. You were drowning in your own blood.

You were dying.

This was a curse. Not a wound. Not something he could stitch up or set right with a simple spell. This was something deeper. Something worse.

No. No, no, no.

“Stay with me.” Sebastian wiped your mouth with frantic, shaking fingers as he tried to keep his focus, tried to think. He knew dark magic, had studied it in ways he wasn’t proud of, had seen the aftermath of curses that twisted people apart from the inside out. This wasn’t just an attack—this was designed to ruin. To erase.

He needed to counter it.

Sebastian forced magic into his wand, too much, too fast, the raw surge of it crackling along his arm as he pressed the tip to your chest.

The spell nearly shattered on impact, the sheer force of his desperation threatening to unravel it before it could even take shape. But he didn’t care, he couldn’t care., he just had to fix this.

He ran through every healing charm he knew by heart, ones he had practiced for years, ones he had murmured over you a hundred times before, through broken bones and deep gashes, through the bruises and burns of battles past.

"Vulnera Sanentur." His voice trembled, his grip so tight on his wand that his knuckles turned white.

Nothing.

"Episkey." Another pulse of magic, another useless attempt.

"Ferula—"

"Brackium Emendo—"

Every spell bounced off you, the energy dispersing into the air, wasted, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers.

Sebastian’s breaths came sharp and ragged, frustration clawing at his ribs as he tried again. And again. And again.

"Reparifors."

Nothing.

"Anapneo—" His voice cracked. He could hear the blood clear momentarily from your throat, your breath rattling as you sucked in a breath, your chest struggling beneath his hands, but it only took a moment before blood still bubbled from your lips again, your body still shaking, still deteriorating.

"No, no, no—come on—" Sebastian pressed harder, forcing magic into you, trying to make it work, trying to force the spell to take, but the harder he pushed, the worse it got. His own magic sparked, burning too hot, too wild, and it wasn’t fixing you—it wasn’t doing anything. t was like throwing a lifeline into the abyss and feeling it slip through empty air. Like trying to hold back the tide with bare hands.

This wasn’t something he could heal. This wasn't something Sebastian could fix, not by himself.

The realization sent a sickening, leaden weight crashing into his chest, something so final, so wrong, that for a moment, he thought it might break him.

Sebastian had spent years clawing his way out of the darkness, had fought tooth and nail against the temptations of the past, against the reckless desperation that had once led him down paths he couldn’t take back. But right now, with you dying, he would have burned the entire world to ash if it meant saving you.

"Fuck—" His voice broke as he moved, hands desperate as he gathered you against him, pulling you up and into his lap with an urgency that bordered on frantic. His arms locked around you, his body curling protectively around yours like he could somehow shield you from what was happening.

You were feverish. Your skin was slick with sweat and blood, burning against him despite how violently you were shivering. Every breath you took was a ragged, struggling thing, each one sounding more painful than the last.

Sebastian’s hand fumbled for his wand again, clumsy with panic. He cast Anapneo without thinking, without pausing, forcing the magic through even as his voice trembled on the incantation.

A brief moment of relief.

The blood in your throat cleared just enough for you to suck in another gasping, rattling breath. But it wasn’t enough. The moment the magic faded, the blood pooled again, slipping past your lips in sluggish, crimson trails, soaking into your collar, your torn shirt, his hands.

Sebastian cursed under his breath, tugging at his sleeve, using the fabric to wipe at your face, brushing away the fresh blood streaking your chin, catching the slow dribble from your nose, but the blood kept coming, staining the fabric, staining his fingers, staining you.

Another cast. Anapneo. eEnough for another breath, another heartbeat, another second of you still here.

"Hey," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "You're okay. You're—you're gonna be okay."

But he could see it in your eyes.

Fear.

It was deep and wide, unmistakable even as you fought to keep your expression steady. You had faced death a hundred times before, had stood beside him in battle without hesitation, had bled for your duty, for him. And never—not once—had he seen you afraid. But now, your eyes were wide, darting, searching, looking to him for something he couldn’t give you.

You knew you were dying.

Sebastian clenched his jaw. His pulse pounded, his vision tunneling to nothing but you—you, shaking, struggling, fading.

Sebastian had seen bodies before. Had watched people die a thousand times in battle, in back alleys, in the ruins of homes left burning, in the aftermath of violence and choices made too late. He had seen blood soak the earth, had heard the final, rattling gasps of those who didn’t make it, had felt the cold, empty weight of knowing that nothing could be done.

But it was never supposed to be you.

His breath hitched—sharp, broken—panic eclipsing instinct, smothering logic, drowning out the training drilled into him over years of war. He was losing you. The realization hollowed him out, left something splintering and raw in its wake.

And then—

Then he was crying.

Not the restrained, bitter tears of grief he had learned to swallow down, but helpless, frantic sobs, shaking him from the inside out, tearing through his chest with every word, every desperate, useless attempt to keep you here.

"No, no, no—" His voice cracked, hoarse and broken, as his hands pressed against your face, as if he could hold you here, as if his grip alone could keep youalive.

Sebastian sobbed, rocking slightly with you cradled against his chest, his forehead pressed against yours. His free hand tangled in your hair, brushing it back from your damp forehead, his thumb skimming across your temple in a helpless, desperate attempt to soothe, to comfort.

"I should have never left you." The words spilled from him before he could stop them, breaking apart at the edges, raw and unfiltered. "I should have—I never should have let you go off alone, I should have stayed, I—fuck, I should have been faster—”

Another tremor wracked your body, and Sebastian choked on his own breath, panic clawing at his ribs, making it impossible to think.

"No, no, no, stay with me—" He cast Anapneo again, frantic. His vision blurred with hot, stinging tears as you sucked in another shuddering breath, but he knew—he knew—this wasn’t going to last. Eventually, you would lose too much blood. Eventually, no spell would be enough to keep your lungs working.

Sebastian let out a strangled noise, something desperate and untamed, something that sounded more like an animal in pain than a person.

His hand smoothed over your hair again, trembling fingers carding through it as he pressed his lips to your forehead, his tears slipping into your hair.

"You shouldn’t have had to take that curse for me." His voice broke completely, all the air knocked out of him as the weight of it crushed him. "Why did you do that? Why the fuck did you do that? That should have been me—I would have taken it, I would have—" He sucked in a sharp, gasping breath. "I should have protected you. I should have—" His jaw clenched so hard it ached, another sob forcing its way up his throat.

You made a sound—weak, barely there. Your fingers twitched at his sleeve, trying to grasp at him, trying to tell him something.

His arms curled tighter around you, his fingers gripping the back of your neck, pressing you closer.

"I love you."

The words tumbled out before Sebastian could think better of it, before he could stop them.

Because they were true. So fucking true.

"I love you—I should have said it, I should have said it sooner, I—I thought—" A shuddering breath, a ragged sob. "I thought I had more time."

His hands pressed to your cheeks, his thumbs smoothing over bloodied skin, his lips ghosting over your forehead, over your hair, over everywhere as if he could somehow kiss you back to life.

"I love you—" Another whisper, another broken, wrecked admission, his heart tearing itself to shreds in his chest. "Please, you have to stay with me, please—don’t leave me."

His voice cracked. His whole body cracked.

Sebastian Sallow, who had spent his entire life fighting, clawing, surviving, was begging. Praying to every fucking god there was, every single god he didn’t believe in, that something—anything would hear him. That some force greater than himself, greater than the world would take pity on him, on you, and undo this.

Because this was losing you. This was your fingers twitching weakly at his robes before going still. This was your lips parting as if to speak only to fall silent. This was your breath—ragged, struggling, fading.

"You are not dying, you hear me?" His voice was wrecked, shaking as he crushed you against him. "You are not fucking dying, I won’t let you—"

Footsteps. Distant. Faint. Like echoes through water, like a sound trying to reach him from a place that didn’t exist anymore. Then shouting. Urgent, frantic voices cutting through the thick, suffocating haze of his grief, his panic, his desperation.

"Sebastian!"

He knew that voice.

Ominis.

Another followed. "Where is she?"

Anne.

There were others too—more voices he should have recognized, voices calling his name, voices filled with alarm and urgency—but none of them mattered. None of them fucking mattered.

Sebastian’s fingers dug into you, his arms curling impossibly tighter around you as his forehead pressed against yours, his whole body trembling with the force of his sobs. Your skin was so warm, too warm, feverish and slick with sweat, but your chest—

Your chest wasn’t rising.

Your lips had parted just slightly, as if you had meant to speak, to answer him, to tell him something, but there was nothing. No sound. No breath. No pulse beneath his fingertips.

A strangled noise ripped its way from his throat.

"NO—NO, PLEASE—"

Then hands. Hands on him. Grabbing, tugging, trying to pull him away from you, to separate you, and something deep inside of him snapped.

Sebastian screamed.

It was raw, violent, a gut-wrenching, hollowed-out kind of sound that could tear the heavens apart if the gods fucking cared enough to listen. His whole body locked up, every muscle tensing as he fought, thrashing against the hands pulling at him, his grip on you turning bruising, his fingers refusing to let go.

"Don’t fucking touch me—DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME—"

"Sebastian, let go!" Someone was pleading with him, voice trembling, but he couldn’t.

"She’s not breathing!" His voice cracked, his chest heaving with the force of his sobs, his body shaking so violently it felt like he was falling apart. "She’s—she’s not breathing, I—" He gasped, curling over you, shielding you, clutching you so tight it hurt, but he couldn’t let go. "I can’t—I can’t—I can’t let her go—"

"Sebastian, listen to me—*"

"DO SOMETHING!" His head snapped up, his tear-streaked, blood-smeared face twisting with something wild, something feral, something beyond words. "FUCKING DO SOMETHING!"

Anne lunged forward. Her hands clamped around Sebastian’s wrists, firm and unyielding, forcing them away, forcing him away from you. But Sebastian fought.

"Garreth, grab his arm!" A voice snapped, urgency threading through her voice.

Sebastian barely had time to react before strong, freckled hands locked around his bicep, yanking him back. "Sebastian, stop!" Garreth gritted out, struggling against the sheer wildness of him, the way he thrashed like a caged animal, desperate to get back to you.

"I’ve got him—" The other voice came again and an arm hooked around his other side, her grip like iron, "pull him back!"

Sebastian screamed.

"NO—NO—LET ME GO—LET ME GO—"

His voice shattered the air around them, a wrecked, raw agony that vibrated down to his fucking bones, that twisted through his ribs like something that would never heal.

"Sebastian, you have to let them help her!" The woman shouted, struggling to keep hold of him.

"She’s not breathing!" Sebastian roared, his face streaked with tears and blood, his body writhing, his feet digging into the dirt.

"Anne’s got her—" Garreth gritted out, his own voice tight, "Sebastian, stop! You need to come with Natty and I—"

But he couldn’t stop because you were dead. You were fucking dead.

Sebastian's body snapped forward, another frenzied attempt to break loose, and Natty cursed under her breath, her fingers slipping from his arm.

"Garreth, hold on to him—" she ordered before letting go.

Sebastian lurched forward, nearly wrenching free, but Garreth held, struggling to keep him back.

Natsai came into view, her expression grim, her jaw tight. "I’m sorry, Sebastian."

He barely processed the way she raised her wand, the flick of her wrist, the sorrow laced through her voice as she spoke the words—

"Incarcerous."

Ropes lashed around him before he could react. Thick, unyielding ropes snapped tight around his arms, his chest, his legs, dragging him down, binding him, trapping him.

Garreth stumbled slightly as he let go, quickly joining Natsai, Ominis, and Anne at your side.

Sebastian could only watch.

Bound, restrained, helples, his body shaking, his breath coming in sharp, ragged sobs as he knelt in the dirt, completely and utterly fucking useless while the others moved.

Somewhere, buried beneath the all-consuming panic, he knew there was nobody else he could trust with this.

Garreth and Natty—the other top duo in the Auror department, second only to you and him. They had saved more lives than he could count, had fought beside the both of you in battle after battle, had survived things that should have killed them.

Anne—his sister, a professional Healer, with hands steady enough to stitch together miracles.

Ominis—the best fucking Cursebreaker that Sebastian had ever known, with magic deeper than most could ever comprehend.

They were the best of the best.

And still—

Even as Anne worked desperately to force life into you, pressing her wand to your chest, even as Garreth and Natty wiped the blood from your face, their hands trembling as they tried to cool your fevered body, even as they did everything possible to bring you back to life, it wouldn't matter. Because in the end, it came down to breaking the curse, and your life was in Ominis' hands.

All because of Sebastian. Because he had failed. Because he had let you go alone.

Sebastian's vision tunneled in on Ominis, on the precise way he moved, the slow, deliberate motion of his wand over your skin, over the fractal-like curse marks that pulsed against your fevered flesh.

It was taking too long. It was all taking too fucking long.

Sebastian clenched his jaw, his breath coming in sharp, shaking gasps as he yanked at the ropes. “Ominis,” he ground out, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Hurry the fuck up.”

Ominis didn’t respond. His brow was furrowed, his expression drawn in tight, sharp lines as he carefully guided his wand, as if even breathing too hard might unravel everything.

Sebastian struggled against the binds again, his voice rising. “Hurry up! She doesn’t have time for this—”

Ominis snapped.

“If you want her to survive this, then shut the fuck up.”

Sebastian’s breath stalled, the sheer force of Ominis’ voice slamming into him like a hex to the gut.

He had never heard him like this before. Never.

Ominis was always composed, always measured. But now—

Sebastian stared, chest heaving, watching as his best friend hovered over you, his wand moving with painstaking precision, his shoulders tense, his jaw locked so tightly it looked painful.

“If I make one wrong move—if I slip, if I miscalculate, if I rush—” Ominis exhaled sharply, his fingers trembling just slightly as he adjusted his grip. “There will be nothing left to save.”

Sebastian felt like the world had tilted beneath him. A cold sweat broke out over his skin, his pulse thundering so violently he thought he might vomit.

Ominis didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge the way the air had gone deathly silent, didn’t ease the unbearable weight of those words. He just kept moving, slow and meticulous, his wand following the curse marks like he was tracing something delicate, something on the verge of breaking.

Another moment passed. Another eternity.

Sebastian’s breath came sharp and shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs as he lifted his head, watching, waiting, pleading, and then—

A sound. A sharp, gasping breath. A choking, wet inhale.

Sebastian barely had time to process it before Anne gasped, her hands flying to your chest as your body convulsed, your limbs twitching violently, blood dribbling from the corner of your lips as you breathed.

The sound was awful. Rattling, broken, strangled. But it was breathing.

Sebastian’s whole body went taut, his throat constricting with something wild and aching as Anne let out a huff of pure relief.

“She’s— she’s breathing—"

Anne didn’t waste another second.

"Garreth, diagnostics, now!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of fear still choking the air. "Natty, I need a Blood-Replenishing Potion—check my bag, it’s in the side pocket. Ominis, keep the counter-curse steady. If it falters for even a second—"

“I know,” Ominis snapped, his fingers white-knuckled around his wand.

Sebastian barely heard them. because you were breathing again.

His whole body went weak, his vision blurring as another sob tore from his throat. His head dropped forward, his shoulders shaking violently, every inch of him trembling with the unbearable weight of relief and grief and fucking everything.

Sebastian didn't even notice when ropes binding him disappeared. Didn’t feel the shift of magic as it loosened, didn’t realize his hands were free, didn’t register anything beyond the raw, gasping breaths rattling in his chest.

Because you were breathing.

His whole body trembled, his lungs struggling to keep up with the weight pressing against them—grief and relief colliding so violently inside him that he wasn’t sure how to handle it besides weep.

Then a warm hand landed on his shoulder.

Garreth.

"You're alright, mate," he murmured, voice low. "She's alright. Just breathe, yeah?"

Sebastian didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. But when his shoulders gave out and his body slumped forward, Garreth caught him without a word. His arm wrapped solidly around Sebastian's back, his other hand firm against his shoulder.

Time blurred. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t fucking matter.

All Sebastian knew was that at some point, Anne inhaled sharply and leaned over you, her expression flickering with something urgent, something new.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely reached him—

“She’s asking for Sebastian.”

Everything else fell away. The noise. The movement. The air itself.

Sebastian moved. He didn’t even know how he moved given his exhaustion, didn’t remember breaking free from Garreth’s steadying grip, didn’t remember pushing forward until he was there—until he was kneeling right there, his hands grasping for you before he could stop himself.

You were still too warm, feverish and clammy, but your fingers twitched weakly when Sebastian reached for you, curling toward him, grasping at his sleeve.

Sebastian let out a wrecked, shuddering breath. The he was leaning in, his forehead pressing against yours, his whole body curling around you like he could somehow shield you from everything that had already happened.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking apart. “I’m here, I’m right here—”

Your lips parted, barely moving.

“…Sebastian.”

A whisper. A breath. A single, fragile word. And yet, it was everything.

A sob ripped from his throat, raw and unrestrained, and he didn’t care anymore. Didn’t care that his hands were still shaking as they smoothed over your hair, your cheek, brushing away the damp strands clinging to your fevered skin. Didn’t care that the others were still there, watching. Didn’t care about anything except you.

"You’re okay," he whispered, his voice breaking apart at the edges, hoarse from screaming, from sobbing, from losing you. "You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay."

Your fingers twitched again, curling weakly around his sleeve, barely gripping, but trying. The effort it took for you to do even that made something sharp lodge itself in his throat.

Sebastian turned his head slightly, pressing his lips against your temple, his breath shaking against your skin. He needed you to know he was here. That he wouldn’t let go.

Your lips parted, the corners barely twitching—too small to be a smile, too exhausted to be anything more than an attempt.

But then, your voice.

Faint. Weak. Barely there. But real.

“…Didn’t… mean to worry you.”

Sebastian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, wet with relief and something close to hysteria.

“You nearly died,” he rasped, his voice rough, wrecked. “You did die.”

Your lips parted slightly, another flicker of movement, your brows barely furrowing.

“…But I didn’t.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, something caught between a sob and a laugh, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He pulled back just slightly, his fingers smoothing over your forehead, your cheek, memorizing every inch of you, grounding himself in the fact that you were still warm. Still here.

His lips hovered over your temple, pressing barely-there kisses against your skin, murmuring half-broken words between every breath.

“I love you.” The words spilled from him before he could stop them, raw and aching and uncontrolled. His chest heaved, his body trembling from the weight of everything. "I love you so much. I should've told you sooner—I should've—fuck, I should've done everything sooner—"

Your fingers twitched against him. Sebastian barely heard your response—so quiet, so weak—but he felt it, the way your lips moved, the way you pressed ever so slightly into him.

"—love you too."

Sebastian stilled. His throat tightened. His heart stopped.

For a moment, he thought he imagined it. Thought his exhausted, grief-addled mind had conjured the words he so desperately wanted to hear.

But then—then you smiled.

And he knew.

You had said it.

You had said it.

A sharp, wrecked breath tore from his throat, his chest constricting so violently it hurt.

He didn’t deserve this moment. Didn’t deserve to hear those words, not after everything. Not after how he’d failed to protect you, how he’d let you get hurt, how he’d let you die.

But you had said it anyway.

Sebastian let out a sound—half-laugh, half-sob. His heart was a mess, a tangled knot of fear and relief and love so overwhelming that it threatened to consume him whole.

He had nearly lost you. Had watched you slip away, had felt the unbearable weight of helplessness pressing down on him as your life balanced on the razor’s edge. And now, you were here. Weak, barely holding on, but here.

And you had said it.

You said it.

Sebastian exhaled, his breath warm against your skin as he tilted his head, as he pressed his lips to your forehead, your temple, then your cheek, his nose nudging against yours as his breath hitched.

And then, slowly, carefully—so much more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life—he pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t how he had imagined his first kiss with you would go.

Not with blood still drying on your skin, not with the taste of salt from his own tears mixing between you, not with your body still weak and trembling beneath his hands.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you were alive.

[st4rfckerz]

Film Me | Sam Monroe x Reader

word count: 2.7k

warnings: MDNI 18+, unprotected sex, choking, slapping, oral (both receiving), fingering, overstimulation, hair pulling, spanking, multiple orgasms, very slight dumbification, dacryphilia, praise and degradation, pet names, Sam’s a bully

summary: Sam wants everything documented.

The black, cool sheets against your skin and the softness of Sam's pillow lays under your head. You feel vulnerable, exposed wearing nothing but one of Sam's big band t-shirts and a pair of dark blue cotton panties. But there's also a sense of power. You're the one he's focusing on, the one he's capturing on film. You're the center of his attention, and that's a heady feeling.

Sam moves around you, the camcorder in his hand. He zooms in on your face, your body. He captures every curve, every line. He wants to remember this moment, this encounter. He wants to be able to replay it over and over again.

"There she is," Sam whispers, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Wave to the camera pretty girl." He nods towards the camcorder. Reluctantly, you lift your hand and give a shy wave to the lens. It feels weird, almost intimate, waving hello to an intrusive machine. Yet, there's a strange excitement coursing through you too.

Sam's fingers dance over the camera settings, adjusting the focus and lighting with practiced ease. His gaze flickers between you and the screen, a predatory glint in his eyes. His grin widens as he begins to set up the camera, checking and rechecking the angles, ensuring that every move, every touch, every sound you make will be captured perfectly.

Sam saunters over to you on the bed, his eyes locked onto yours. There's a hunger in his gaze, a desire that's almost palpable. He grabs your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin and leans in, his lips brushing against yours. It's a soft, teasing kiss at first but then he deepens it, his tongue sliding into your mouth. You can taste the weed in his breath, the slight hint of alcohol. It's intoxicating, and you find yourself leaning into him, wanting more. Sam's hand slid down your body as you continued to kiss, his fingers slowly making their way under you panties. Your skin was warm and smooth, the feeling sending a new wave of pleasure through him. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing as he explored your wet cunt.

"Wet already baby?" he coos in your ear. You arched your back slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips as he slowly grazed his finger along your slit. Sam pulled back slightly, his eyes glued to the little screen on his camera as he removed your panties and discarded them to the side. He admired your body, taking in the sight of your bare cunt before him. He swiftly pushed his boxers and jeans down while undoing his studded belt, his heart pounding in his chest.

Without missing a beat, he positions himself above you, aligning his hips with yours. He continues to record the entire process, making sure to capture every detail. Slowly, he slides into you, filling you up completely.

“Shit,” Sam breathes out. The camera shakes slightly with each movement, adding a raw and intimate element to the footage. “Grippin’ me so good Angel.” With a growl, Sam increases the intensity of his thrusts, driving deeper into you with each movement. Your moans reverberate through the room, adding another layer of intensity to the scene. He points the camera down to show how your cunt greedily swallows his cock, ensuring the viewer can see every nuance of your reactions. You arch your back, meeting his every thrust, your moans growing louder and more desperate.

“Don’t stop Sam, please.” you whine, your face increasingly gets more flushed as the heat in the room rises.

“Needy.” he teases. His thrusts continue, each one harder and faster than before. You writhe beneath him, your nails digging into his broad shoulders as he pushes you closer to the edge. Your breath hitches as Sam suddenly brings his hand up to your throat, his grip firm but not painful. He squeezes gently, giving you a sense of dominance. Then, with a sharp crack, he slaps you across the face, the sound echoing in the room. Surprised yet turned on, you moan loudly, your body buckling under his expert touch.

“You like that huh?” Another slap. “You like getting slapped around like a whore?” Sam tightens his hold on your throat once more, causing you to gasp for air. As you struggle to breathe, you clench around him, signaling your approaching orgasm. His thrusts become more erratic, reflecting his own impending release. The camera shakes uncontrollably in his hand now, the view jittery and off-balance. Sam's eyes spark with triumph, knowing he's about to send you over the edge.

“Cum on my cock baby, I feel you,” He releases your throat to grab your hip for stability, freeing your airway just in time for your orgasm, just the first of the evening, to wash over you. The camera records your face contorting in pleasure, the muscles in your neck straining as you scream out his name.

Sam follows suit shortly after, his release pulsating within you. As you catch your breath, Sam leans down to kiss you passionately, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same intensity he displayed moments ago. His hands roam over your body, cupping your tits and kneading them roughly. You moan into the kiss, your body still tingling from the intense experience. The camera captures your lips locked together, the sound of your heavy breathing filling the silence. Sam breaks the kiss, trailing kisses down your neck and across your collarbone. His hands slide down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. As he reaches your waist, he pauses, looking up at you with desire in his eyes. You nod, encouraging him to continue, and he smiles before moving lower, his lips brushing against your skin as he explores further.

Sam reaches your swollen, leaking cunt, his eyes widen in appreciation. "Oh, she’s pretty." he murmurs, his fingers parting your lips gently. He leans in and blows cool air onto the sensitive flesh.The cold air contrasts with the warmth from earlier, heightening your sensitivity. He lingers there, teasing you with the chill before placing a soft kiss on your core. The camera captures the tender gesture, a soft whine escapes your lips and your body jerks in response. He dips his head, licking a path along your folds, savoring the taste of yours and his fluids intertwined with each other.

“S-sam ‘m still sensitive.” you cry out while still threading your fingers in his dark hair.

“You’ll be fine,” Sam states firmly. "Hold the camera, baby." he instructs, his voice low and seductive. You reach for the camera, your hands shaking slightly. As you take hold of it, the viewpoint shifts, now capturing Sam from your perspective.

Sam settles between your legs, positioning himself comfortably. His hands rest on your thighs, his thumbs tracing gentle patterns. You watch from the camera, your heart pounding in anticipation. His tongue flickers out, teasing your most sensitive spot. His face is close enough to the lens that you can see the concentration in his features, the eagerness in his eyes. The camera shakes slightly as you try to keep it steady, but the image remains clear. Sam's tongue darts in and out, mimicking his earlier thrusts. His nose grazes your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The camera captures everything - the angle of his head, the movements of his tongue, the way your body responds to his touches.

Your moan fills the room when Sam wraps his lips around your clit and sucks at it harshly, making you squeal. It felt like it was too much to handle, especially when he starts thrusting his fingers inside you unexpectedly.

“You taste so good angel.” His hot breath fans over your skin. He spits onto your warm, wet skin harshly before diving his tongue back into your drooling hole.You whimper and your hips buck involuntarily, causing him to slap your pussy, the sound reverberating through the room.

“Stop fucking moving.” Sam growls. Anticipation builds, your breaths coming in short bursts. You mumble a whiny ‘sorry’ before Sam resumes his attention, his tongue darting in and out, his lips pulling you into his mouth. His fingers increase their pace, your moans growing louder and more desperate. Sam gazes up at you, his face flushed with exertion and desire. You meet his gaze, your eyes filled with gratitude and need.

“Sam, I’m gonna…I’m- ,” You warn him with a whiny voice. Your thighs clamp tightly around his head, keeping him locked in your hold.

“Do it then, cum now.”

When your orgasm hits, it's sudden and powerful, tears pricking your eyes. Your back arches and your fingers mercilessly tug at Sam’s locks. Your moans fill the room, loud and unrestrained. Sam continues his assault to help you ride out your orgasm. The little camera hardly keeps up, but manages to capture the essence of your climax. You cry out his name, your face twisted with pleasure and relief. Sam’s tongue never leaves you, milking every drop of satisfaction from you. When you finally fall limp, panting heavily, he releases you, his own arousal evident. The camera focuses on your spent body, the evidence of his masterful skills.

Sam slithers up your body and instantly locks his messy lips to yours. “You wanna show the camera how pretty you are with my cock in your mouth?” he asks with a sly smirk. A blush creeps up your face and you let out a shy giggle. “That’s my girl.” Sam mumbles as he gently flips you both over. You move down his body and see his erection standing proud once again. You reach his prodding hip bones and give them both a sweet kiss before reaching his hardened cock.

With one hand gently holding the back of your head, and the other around the base of his cock, Sam slaps it against your cheek, eager by your pathetic attempts to get him to insert his cock into your mouth instead. He eventually moves his tip past your lips and you begin to hollow your cheeks and suck on it slowly. Sam looks at you lovingly as you suck on his cock, tears running down your cheeks from the lack of oxygen in your body and the physical strain. “Fuck you’re so good.” He tilts his head back and lets the sweet noises tumble from his swollen lips. “Look at the camera, let me see those eyes.”

You remove your mouth from Sam’s cock and wrap your fingers around its base before sliding it up and down and twisting at the head. You gaze up at the small, silver machine through hooded eyes and flick your thumb across the slit at the top while tonguing the underside of the head.

“Do I look good Sam?” you ask with blown irises and a dopey smile. A low chuckle rumbles from Sam’s chest.

“You always do baby, fuck- always pretty f’me,” He responds. Sam's breath quickens and his hips jerk slightly, telltale signs that he was getting close - and fast. He gingerly removes you off his pulsing cock suddenly. “I don’t wanna cum in your mouth.”

“On your stomach angel, ass up.” he demands as he peppers your face with small kisses.

“But I wanted you to-” you complain, your voice was quiet and worn from your last two orgasms and from having Sam’s thick cock down your throat. Sam quickly grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks together, interrupting you in the process.

“What did I say?” Sam grits through his teeth. He leans in for a rough kiss, his tongue sliding against your own. “I’m not gonna ask again.” Sam places the camera on the nightstand next to you both and adjusts the angle, ensuring the new perspective captures both of your faces, as well as your bodies. The camera shakes with the intensity of the moment, but remains focused on the two of you. He pulls away, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Still panting slightly, you roll onto your stomach obediently, your ass sticking up invitingly. With a flick of his wrist, he slaps your ass, the sound startling in the post-coital quiet. It takes a moment for your mind to register the sensation, then a blush creeps up your neck. “You look so pretty like this Angel.” He slaps again, gently at first, then harder.

You whine softly, needing more from him despite your exhausted state. Sam chuckles and cocks his head to the side teasingly. "What do you want, baby?" he asks. You push your hips back towards him, wanting his touch again. "More?" He asks, his tone filled with promise. You nod, too embarrassed to form words. Sam slaps your ass again.

“I need words sweetheart.” Sam's fingers trace lazy circles on the red handprints on your ass. He leans forward and presses a few wet kisses to your spine. You swallow hard, nerves jangling.

“Need your cock, please Sam.” you whisper back.

“There it is, good job baby.” He positions himself at your entrance, his hands gripping your hips firmly. The camera captures the scene from behind, showing the anticipation etched on your face. Sam slides his member through your folds and coats himself with your wetness, his mouth slightly agape as he does so. Without warning, Sam thrusts into you aggressively. You yelp, your body adjusting to his sudden invasion. His movements are feral, his thrusts hard and deep.

You grip the sheets tightly, your nails digging into the fabric. Your eyes are closed, your breaths coming in short gasps. "Sam s-slow down," you whisper, desperation coloring your voice.

"Nope. ‘M giving you what you need." he prompts, his voice a low rumble. You begin drooling onto the sheet beneath you, your body losing control and your brain turning into a puddle of mush. Sam's thrusts become faster, his breaths hitching. Tears stream down your face, mixing with your saliva on the sheet.

“Only I can fuck you the way you like. Isn’t that right?” Sam wraps his hand in your hair, tugging your head upwards. The camera captures the pain and pleasure intertwined in this gesture. You whimper, your eyes meeting his icy ones. "What did I say?" he commands, his voice firm. Wordless babbles spill from your lips and tears continue to well up in your eyes. His thrusts slow down for a second as he looks at you in your pathetic state.

“Aw poor baby, gone stupid because of some cock huh?” Your lip quivers, and he traces a thumb across your cheek. "It's okay," he whispers, his voice filled with reassurance. He kisses your rosy, tear stained cheek and releases his tight grip from your hair. "Cum for me sweet girl, last one, you got it.” Your body responds, your climax washing over you in waves. Just as you think you'll shatter from the intensity, Sam releases, his name leaving your lips in a hoarse shout.

Sam slowly withdraws, the camera capturing the aftermath. You lie there, panting heavily, your body flush with pleasure. He turns you over, and points the camera down at your defeated cunt just like before. "Beautiful," he says, his voice filled with admiration. He brings his fingers to your sated flesh and pushes the mix of fluids back into your hole. The sudden intrusion makes you yelp lightly.

“Sorry.” he chuckles. He plants a small kiss to your puffy clit and moves up your body to kiss you lovingly. The camera catches this tenderness, the switch from dominance to care. "There she is, look at her," Sam teases, his voice filled with warmth. “Wave bye to the camera baby.” A goofy smile spreads across your face as you wave at the camera again. With a final loving glance, he turns off the small device and sets it back on the nightstand.

"Are you ok? I didn’t go too far did I?" he asks, concern lacing his voice. He lays next to you and wraps you in his embrace. You shake your head, biting your lip to suppress your growing grin.

“I liked it.” you respond meekly. Sam’s smile widens at your words.

“Yeah? Well I’ll still be nicer next time.” His hand traces idle patterns on your back, his gaze never leaving yours. You snuggle closer to him, feeling safe and cared for in his arms.

[cloudtransprncy]

Dumb/Problem

Kim Chaewon x Male Reader | 4k words Tags: cheating, light bratty elements, backshots, reckless decisions, tension, guilty pleasure Next Pt 2.

Cutting class to get a break? Nah. Cutting class to fuck your girlfriends best friend? Yesssssir

Is this dumb?

Skipping class just to fuck your girlfriend's best friend?

Absolutely.

But with her soft bed under your knees and your hands gripping her hips—who gives a shit about being smart right now?

Chaewon's room is exactly like her—carefully curated chaos that feels effortless.

All-white sheets that tangle around your legs, a fuzzy cream blanket kicked to the side. Squishmallows stacked against her headboard, now knocked over from how hard the bed's shaking. BTS watching from a poster on the wall, vinyls of SZA and Keshi mounted near her mirror like trophies. Polaroids scattered across her wall—blurry concert nights, drunken smiles, memories you're not part of.

Her dresser is a mess of half-open products—lip masks, serums in glass bottles, perfumes that cost more than you make in a week. The scent of her hangs in the air—sweet vanilla with something darker underneath, something that gets under your skin and stays there.

A Bath & Body Works candle sits for show, not for burning. Makeup scattered like she got ready in a hurry—an open tube of lip gloss, an eyelash curler abandoned.

Nike slides kicked off by the bed, a Starbucks cup still half-full on the nightstand. Your hoodie thrown over her chair—she took it last week and never gave it back.

Chaewon's face is pressed into the mattress, her messy bun barely hanging on, blonde strands sticking to her neck as she gasps. She's arching her back for you, pressing her ass against you as you sink your cock into her, her pussy gripping you so tight it makes your vision blur. The wet sounds of her taking you fill the room—slick, obscene, mixed with the slap of skin on skin and those breathy little moans she tries to muffle in her pillow.

Her skin is hot beneath your hands, a thin layer of sweat making her glow in the dim light coming through her curtains. That sweet vanilla scent gets stronger as her body heats up, mixing with the unmistakable smell of sex.

Her white tank top is riding up her back, bunched around her ribs. You keep pushing it higher, needing to see more of her, to feel more of her skin under your hands. Your eyes can't get enough of her—the curve where her waist dips before flaring to her hips, the way her body trembles when you hit just right.

Rough. Desperate.

She shudders when you dig your fingers harder into her waist, leaving marks that will still be there tomorrow. Her nails claw at the sheets, hips rocking back, trying to take control, but you don't let her. You decide the pace. You decide how deep. She just has to take it.

Her breath catches on a moan when you thrust harder. She feels too fucking good, squeezing around your cock like she was made to take you, like she's trying to break your self-control.

Then—light cuts through the moment.

Your phone, half-buried in the rumpled sheets, screen glowing bright. You don't need to check it.

Eunbi.

Your actual girlfriend.

Chaewon's supposed best friend.

She has no clue. No idea you're not in calculus right now. No idea you've got her best friend's ass pressed against you, your cock buried inside her.

Probably just asking about hanging out later, or sending you some stupid TikTok that made her think of you. Something sweet and normal because that's who Eunbi is.

You flip the phone over, face down against the bed. You shouldn't be here. You should be in class. Or with Eunbi. But Chaewon pushes back against you, and those thoughts disappear real fucking quick.

Chaewon turns her head, looking back over her shoulder, breathless but still fucking smirking. "Going to ignore her like that?"

Instead of answering, you press your hand between her shoulder blades, shoving her face back into the mattress.

She moans, the sound muffled by sheets, but you can hear the smile in it. Even with your cock inside her, she's still playing games.

"Bet she'd cry if she saw you like this."

Something dark twists inside you at her words. Your grip turns bruising, thrusts harder, deeper, and whatever smugness she had vanishes in an instant.

Chaewon whimpers, nails digging into the sheets hard enough to tear them, thighs trembling. She can't keep up anymore, can't match your rhythm as you fuck her harder than anyone has before.

She gasps out something—your name, "fuck," maybe both—but it breaks into a high, desperate sound that lets you know you've won.

Eunbi is good. Beautiful. Sweet. She gives head like she read about it in a magazine. She's the kind of girl people expect you to stay loyal to.

But Chaewon? Chaewon is filthy, tight, and knows exactly how to crawl under your skin and live there.

Eunbi texts you good morning with heart emojis. Chaewon sends you pictures of her tits when she knows her best friend is sitting right beside her.

Eunbi kisses you like she's making promises. Chaewon bites your lip until you taste blood and laughs when you wince.

Eunbi's the girl you bring to prom. The girl your mom loves. The girl who makes you lunch and saves you a seat in the cafeteria. But Chaewon's the girl you ruin your life for.

She's still testing you, still pushing back against you even as she falls apart. "You're holding back," she accuses between gasps, her voice shaky but challenging.

Your jaw tightens. She always does this shit. Always wants to see how far she can push before you break.

You answer with a thrust so hard it knocks her flat against the mattress, her blonde hair spilling across the white sheets. She gasps, a shocked sound that's almost a yelp, but when she looks back at you, that fucking smirk is still there, daring you for more.

"Fuck—slow down—" she starts, but you both know she doesn't mean it.

Your fingers dig into her hips, dragging her back onto your cock as you set a pace that finally wipes that smug look off her face. Whatever game she was playing dissolves into gasping breaths and desperate moans she can't hold back anymore.

She's squeezing you so tight it's hard to think, too good to remember why this is such a fucking bad idea, too perfect to care about who keeps blowing up your phone from the other side of the bed.

Your phone vibrates against the sheets. Again. And again.

Chaewon notices, of course she does. She lets out this breathless little laugh that makes your stomach flip, barely turning her head, voice syrupy and taunting like the cherry slushies she's always drinking between classes. "Does she even make you feel this good?"

You don't answer. You push her face into the mattress instead, feeling a rush that's better than any post-game high you've ever chased.

She moans, muffled against floral sheets, but you can hear the fucking amusement in it, the way she's still enjoying this too much, like she's winning some bet with herself.

If she wants it rough, she's going to get it. And God, every bone in your stupid teenage body is screaming to give it to her.

Your hand slides up her back, fingers wrapping lightly around her throat as you lean down, your varsity track team t-shirt sticking to your chest with sweat, voice low in her ear. "Take it, take that dick."

She instantly becomes a whimpering, moaning mess beneath you, her whole body quivering. You can feel her pussy clench tight around you, gripping your cock like she's desperate to keep you inside. She licks her lips—you can feel the sticky gloss against your palm—her breath hitching in that way that makes you dizzy, and pushes her hips back against you again. A deliberate roll that makes you forget there's a calc test tomorrow you should be studying for.

That's all you need.

Your grip tightens, forcing her still, making sure she takes it. She chokes out a gasp, her whole body shuddering against yours, her thighs—always toned from cheer practice—trembling as you fuck her deeper, harder, until her teasing completely breaks apart.

At this angle, with your weight pressing her down, you can feel everything—every slick, desperate clench around your length, the obscene wetness that spreads between you each time you push back in. It's suffocating, consuming, a vice of heat wrapped around you, pulling you deeper into something you shouldn't want this badly but fuck, you'd fail every class for this feeling.

Her hand reaches back, grabbing blindly for anything to hold onto—your wrist, your thigh—until she finds your arm. She grips it hard, nails dragging over your skin, feeling the way your muscles flex under her fingers. Feeling you as she feels you inside, the same fingers that wave to Eunbi across the cafeteria now digging into your skin.

Your phone vibrates again, the buzz muffled against the rumpled sheets where you flipped it face down earlier. Neither of you look at it. Neither of you dare.

Chaewon's breathless now, moaning into the sheets, a mess beneath you, every ounce of her earlier cockiness gone, replaced by something desperate and hungry that makes you feel ten feet tall. The most popular girl in school, falling apart for you.

If you were a better person, you wouldn't be here.

But you're not. You're the kind of person who thinks about this—about her—even during fourth period when Eunbi is passing you notes with little hearts drawn in the margins.

A noise outside the room—soft, but distinct. A car door? Her mom home early? Your body tenses, every muscle tight, your breath catching mid-thrust, the reality of where you are crashing in.

Chaewon hears it too. Feels you hesitate.

And then she laughs. Breathless, airy, like this is the funniest thing that's happened all day, like the thought of getting caught is just another cheap thrill.

"Aww, scared someone's gonna catch you balls deep in me?" Her voice is teasing, dripping with amusement, even as her legs tremble beneath you, her Victoria's Secret Pink thong still dangling from one ankle.

Your fingers flex around her throat in retaliation, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. She barely has a second to process it before you slam her down, your grip unrelenting, then flip her onto her back so fast she barely has time to catch her breath, her blonde hair—perfectly highlighted last weekend at a salon that costs more than your car payment—slipping free from its messy bun, wild against the sheets.

Your cock slips free in the motion, and you grab it tight, feeling the obscene slickness coating your length, dripping from her. It's wet—wet as fuck—before you slap it against her swollen folds. The sound is loud, filthy, obscene—wet as hell. Your cock slides against her, dragging through the mess between them before you shove it back in. She shudders, her breath hitching, her thighs twitching as you tease her with the weight of it before pressing forward, sinking back inside.

Chaewon's eyes flutter, her breath catching as you force her legs up, pressing her thighs flush to her chest, pinning her in place, giving her no room to squirm away. The new angle has her gasping, hands flying up to your arms, gripping tight, her nails—freshly done in that pale pink Eunbi helped her pick out yesterday—dig into your arms, clinging tight like she's bracing for impact, like she needs something to hold onto before she breaks completely.

The bed shifts beneath you, and your phone vibrates once more, the buzz reverberating through the mattress, felt through every grinding thrust. You both feel it. Neither of you care. Not when you should be in Mr. Kim's class right now, not when Eunbi thinks you're taking notes instead of taking her best friend.

Your only focus is on the way she clenches around you, the way she gasps your name between ragged moans, the way she completely melts beneath you, nothing like the ice queen who rules the hallways.

Chaewon's hands fly to your shoulders, nails digging into your skin as she pulls you down to her. There's nothing delicate about it—her kiss is messy, frantic, her lips parted, her breath hot and ragged against yours. She kisses like she's starving for it, like she wants to taste herself on your tongue, like she doesn't care how sloppy it gets.

Your tongues tangle, wet and uncoordinated, her mouth opening wider, drool slicking your chin, mixing with the sweat beading along your skin. She moans into it, needy, desperate, hips shifting beneath you, trying to keep up with the way you fuck her, so different from the composed way she presents herself in class.

You pull back just enough to catch her dazed expression, lips swollen, spit-glossed. A strand of saliva still connects you, snapping when she licks her lips, pupils blown wide with something dangerously close to obsession.

"You don't kiss her like that," she breathes, and it's not a question. It's a victory lap.

No, you don't.

Eunbi kisses soft, slow, careful—under the bleachers after school, sweet and innocent. Chaewon kisses like she wants to ruin you for anyone else. And you let her.

Your response is a sharp thrust, making her yelp, making her arms tighten around your shoulders. Her back arches off the bed, the tiny gold cross necklace her parents gave her for her birthday sliding against her collarbone, and you take the moment to move, dragging yourself out until just the tip remains before shoving back in, hard. Her breath hitches, body tightening, legs shaking.

Then you stop moving.

She whines immediately, brows furrowing, her legs squeezing around you, trying to force you to keep going. But you don't. You let the frustration build, watching her squirm, watching her writhe beneath you—wet, glistening, flushed deep with arousal. She's a fucking mess, and you're not done making her one.

You let the moment hang, let the desperation settle before tilting your head down and spitting—right on her clit. The thick glob lands exactly where you want it, shining against her swollen bud. Before she can even process it, your thumb is there, pressing in, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles as you start moving again.

She chokes on her breath, body jolting like she just got caught cheating on a test.

"Fuck," she whimpers, fingers clawing at your forearms, legs shaking with every tight, controlled rub.

You're still hovering above her, watching her squirm, watching her fall apart beneath you, burning this image into your brain to replay during the classes you actually attend.

"Eunbi wouldn't let you do that," she gasps, voice breaking, teasing even as she crumbles, the same mouth that gives morning announcements over the school intercom now whimpering your name.

No, she wouldn't.

Eunbi wouldn't moan like this, wouldn't beg like this, wouldn't be dripping like this. Eunbi wouldn't take you like this, wouldn't even dream of skipping AP Lit to fuck in an empty house. Eunbi is SAT prep courses and college applications and volunteer hours.

Chaewon is this.

And that's why you fuck her harder.

Your thrusts grow rougher, deeper, driven by something reckless and insatiable, something you're too young to name but old enough to crave. Chaewon's body rocks beneath you, her moans turning sharper, breathless, spilling into the thick heat of the room. You press down, pinning her fully against the mattress, making sure she takes every inch, making sure she feels all of it.

Her nails scrape against your back, leaving marks that'll sting in the shower after practice, her legs tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, needing you deeper. Her breath stutters between gasps, each one catching higher as you fuck her harder, hungrier, as if there's no tomorrow—no girlfriend still calling, no consequence waiting outside this room, no college future that could evaporate if this gets out.

Risk of getting caught? Forgotten.

Guilt of cheating on your girlfriend? Forgotten.

Eunbi? Forgotten.

The only thing that matters is the way your cock fits so snug against Chaewon's walls, the way she clenches down, tight and desperate, squeezing you with every frantic, high-pitched moan as she completely loses all composure. The Queen Bee of your high school reduced to a whimpering mess beneath you.

She's right there, on the edge, her nails dragging, her hips bucking up, desperate to finish. But you don't let her have it. Not yet. Not when seeing her like this—completely undone, completely yours—is better than any high you've ever chased on the field.

You slow—not in pace, but in control. Shift your weight, dragging her with you, rolling her onto her side without ever slipping out. One of her legs hitches over yours, your grip securing it in place as you push in again, deeper, the angle hitting something inside her that makes her whimper, makes her entire body tense up like she's been shocked.

Her fingers claw at your arm, nails pressing into taut muscle built from varsity workouts, her breath breaking apart into sharp little gasps that fill the bedroom. She's trying to speak, trying to say something, but it keeps getting swallowed between ragged moans.

"I'm—" she tries, voice cracking, "I—fuck—"

The way she stumbles over it, how she can barely get the words out—the girl who always has a comeback, who never shuts up in class—makes something snap inside you. Your cock throbs, swelling even harder, stretching her more as her walls squeeze around you in desperation. Your grip tightens—on her thighs, her ass, her waist. You need to feel her, need to hold every part of her as she comes undone.

Your hands roam—palming the curve of her back, gripping her tits, feeling the way they bounce with every thrust. Then up, fingers tangling into her blonde hair, tugging her head back against the pillows, making sure she feels all of it, all of you.

She pulls a pillow close, biting into it, eyes squeezed shut, drowning in the way you fuck her. The room is thick with the sound of skin against skin, her breathless whimpers breaking into something higher, needier. The air is heavy, thick with sweat, with the intoxicating scent of her—her Victoria's Secret body spray mixing with the raw, musky heat of sex, the sheets carrying the evidence of it. It's overwhelming, suffocating, consuming, every breath filled with her.

You're barely holding on yourself, tension winding tight in your spine, in your stomach, but seeing her like this—seeing her break beneath you, seeing her fall apart in your hands—that's what pushes you closer to the edge.

You grit your teeth, feel your cock twitch inside her, aching, swollen, so fucking close you can taste it. "I'm close," you manage, voice rough, strained, barely holding on.

Chaewon doesn't answer—not with words. Just a moan, high-pitched and wrecked, a breathless whimper spilling past her swollen lips. She turns her head, eyes hazy, half-lidded, looking at you through the blur of sweat and pleasure. Her gaze drops, trailing down your body, watching the way you're fucking into her, the way you stretch her open, the way you own her—this girl who has everything, who everyone wants to be.

Then her hand moves—sliding between her legs, fingers brushing over her swollen, messy clit. She gasps at the contact, whines as she rubs tight, fast circles, her entire body tensing, back arching into you.

The slick, obscene sounds of it mix with her gasps, her slurred curses, her whimpers breaking into desperate, breathless pleas. "Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—"

You're right there. So fucking close. This moment of perfect, terrible clarity where nothing exists outside this room—not school, not your future, not even tomorrow.

Chaewon gets there first. Her entire body seizes up, legs trembling, thighs squeezing tight around your waist as she crashes into her orgasm. Her grip turns bruising, hands clawing at you—your back, your arms, your shoulders—grasping for anything, everything as she spirals.

"Oh my fuck!" she screams, head thrown back, voice breaking into something raw and desperate, loud enough that you're suddenly grateful her parents won't be home for hours.

That's it. That's what fucking wrecks you.

Your body locks up, heat pooling at the base of your spine, surging through you like a live wire, so intense it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your cock twitches violently inside her, pulsing, aching, your entire body seizing up—legs tensing, toes curling, muscles locking in place as the pleasure crashes through you. You bury yourself deep one last time before instinct kicks in, before you yank yourself out, your hands shoving her onto her back.

You stroke yourself fast, frantic, desperate, your abs clenching, hips jerking on instinct, chasing that last pulse of pleasure. The sight of her wrecked beneath you, her skin still flushed, her thighs twitching, sends you over the fucking edge. "Shit—" you groan, voice wrecked, guttural, as your cock throbs violently in your grip. The first thick spurt shoots out, streaking across her stomach, hot and filthy, splashing across the curve of her waist, her navel. The rest follows in messy ropes, dribbling down her skin, pooling between her ribs. It's everywhere—sticky, raw, a fucking mess. Chaewon shudders at the sensation, her breath hitching, her thighs still twitching from the aftershocks of her own release.

She exhales, still trembling, thighs twitching, completely spent. A fucked-out smile tugs lazily at her lips as she drags a slow, shaky breath in, her chest rising, coated in the evidence of what you just did to her.

You sit back, gasping, running a hand through your sweat-damp hair, trying to catch your breath. The room smells like sex and sweat and her perfume—a combination that's going to haunt your dreams for weeks.

Chaewon stirs, reaching down without hesitation. Her fingers trail over her stomach, gathering the mess you left on her, scooping up a streak from her skin and bringing it to her mouth. Her tongue flicks out, tasting it, humming low in her throat. Then she does it again—this time from her chest, then her waist, dragging her fingers through the sticky warmth, licking it up like it's second nature.

"Fuck," you breathe, voice wrecked, hand finding her thigh and squeezing it tight.

She moans softly at the contact, smirking as she stretches out beneath you, shameless. "You fucked the shit out of me," she purrs, voice thick, teasing. "Now you gonna think about it the next time you fuck Eunbi, huh?"

Your jaw tightens. The mention of her—your girlfriend—after everything you just did, after the way Chaewon looks right now, smug and satisfied and so fucking filthy, makes something snap.

Your hand flies to her throat, gripping, pinning her back into the sheets. She gasps, but it's not in protest—it's in pleasure. Her lips part, her breath hitches, eyes darkening as she tilts her chin up, inviting more, daring you.

And then your phone rings.

Not just a vibration this time. A full-blown call.

Loud. Shrill. Eunbi.

A cold weight sinks into your chest, heavy, suffocating. The real world crashing back in like a bucket of ice water.

Post-nut clarity slams into you, cutting through the heat still clinging to your skin. Everything crashes in at once—who you are, what you've done, what this means.

You let go of Chaewon's neck like she burns you, scrambling off of her, off the bed, reaching blindly for your phone. Your hands are still shaky as you grab it, answering as fast as you can, voice rough, breath unsteady.

"Hey."

Eunbi's voice is light, sweet, unaware. "Hey, why weren't you replying? It's class change."

Fuck. You swallow hard, running a hand through your damp hair. Your skin is still hot, sticky, the air thick with the lingering heat and smell of musk.

"Uh—I had to walk home to grab something."

A lie. A weak one. But it makes sense. You live close enough to the school that it's not impossible. You just hope she buys it, hope she doesn't hear how your heart is still hammering against your ribs.

"Oh," Eunbi hums. "I got worried."

As she talks, you don't notice Chaewon moving. Not until she's right there, sliding down the bed, her bare body pressing into your side, her face hovering way too close to your cock.

Your breath hitches. Your grip on the phone tightens.

She's smirking. Watching you. Waiting. The same look she gives when she knows the answer to a question no one else can solve.

"You weren't answering," Eunbi says. "I thought something happened."

"Sorry, babe. Didn't mean to worry you."

And that's when Chaewon makes her move.

She doesn't touch your cock. Not yet. Instead, her mouth goes lower, latching onto your balls, sucking wet and slow, tongue swirling over sensitive skin.

A bolt of heat spikes down your spine. Your muscles go tight, your breath cuts short, your fingers dig into the sheets.

"Shit," you almost say out loud—but bite your tongue last second.

Eunbi's still talking. You don't even register what she's saying. Something about meeting at lunch, something about the chem test next period.

Chaewon's fucking grinning, lips stretched around you, her eyes locked onto yours, waiting for you to slip up, to lose control, to moan or gasp or fucking break. The thrill of it clear in her eyes—the risk, the power she has over you right now.

You shove her back, her shoulders hitting the mattress, but all it does is make her giggle—low and sultry, like she's savoring your panic, like she enjoys watching you squirm. Too loudly. Dangerously loud.

Panic seizes your whole body. Your eyes go wide. You press a finger to your lips, mouthing, "Shhh."

Eunbi pauses on the other end. "You okay?"

You force yourself to act normal. To breathe. You push Chaewon away—physically shove her back. She pouts, but she listens, sitting back on her heels, smug and satisfied, before stretching her arms over her head, languid and unbothered. Then, just as easily, she steps off the bed, stretching like a cat, unbothered, like this was nothing more than a game to her.

"Yeah," you say, somehow steady. "I'm fine."

Through the phone, you hear Eunbi giggling, the sound of footsteps, her friends chattering in the background. She's walking to her next class. Completely unaware. The girlfriend who trusts you, who saves you a seat at lunch, who helps you study for tests you're barely passing.

"Okay," she says. "I'll see you at lunch then, babe. Love you."

Silence lingers. A pause that stretches too long.

You should say it back. You need to. But then, you look up.

Chaewon's standing at her closet, slipping on fresh clothes. Her ass is in clear view, the length of her body stretching as she moves, her legs lean and smooth. Her messy tank top clings to her body, damp with sweat, a streak of dried cum still visible on the fabric.

Your mouth feels dry. Your brain short-circuits, caught between what you should feel and what you do feel.

"I love you too," you manage to say, through everything weighing on you, and the call ends with a soft beep.

Chaewon turns to face you.

And she gives you a look.

Not smug. Not teasing.

Just dirty. Unreadable. Something dark and lingering in her eyes.

She doesn't say a word. Just grabs her shorts, turns, and walks out to the bathroom.

The door shuts.

You sit there, still gripping your phone, staring at the space she left behind. Your pulse won't slow down. Not from the panic. Not from the guilt. Not from the fact that even now, even after all of it—you still want her.

Your skin burns, your body tense, still stuck in it. Still feeling it. What you shouldn't have done. But you did. And the worst part? Some fucked-up part of you knows that if she pulled you back into that bed, you wouldn't stop her.

You should feel worse. You should hate yourself.

But Chaewon's still hot as fuck, and that's the problem.

AN: This was originally going to be a longer fic, but I ended up with a newer Chaewon idea, and she’s my ult bias so i cut this down to just the sex.

Sorry to all the Eunbi fans, dw she’ll get her own

[mephisto-reporting]

A Work of Art: With Rafayel

Plot: Rafayel wants to go swimming with you but your insecurities have other plans. Based on this request Pairing: Chubby! reader x Rafayel Note: Rafayel and reader are not in a relationship but there is an implied mutual attraction. Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, angst (hurt-comfort).

Sylus version: More to love |

It was another scorching day in Whitesand Bay, the heat wrapping itself around everything like a heavy blanket. Rafayel’s studio, though large and open, was still stifling, the heat seeping in through the windows, making it nearly unbearable. Yet, his energy remained constant, almost too infectious. He bounced around the space, flitting between his easel and a pile of freshly painted canvases, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” he teased, leaning against his easel with that insufferably cocky grin. “Thinking about me, aren’t you? Go on, admit it.”

You rolled your eyes, masking your discomfort with a half-hearted laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, moving closer until he was just a breath away. “Oh, but I don’t need to, cutie. You already do it for me.”

You watched him from your spot, marveling at his effortless grace. He was in his element, his dusky purple hair falling into his face as he dabbed at the canvas with a brush. Occasionally, he’d glance back at you, a sly smile curving his lips.

“You know,” he began, his tone teasing, “you’d make the perfect muse. Why don’t you let me paint you sometime?”

You laughed softly, a sound you hoped didn’t betray the nervous flutter in your chest. “I don’t think I’d sit still long enough for you to finish.”

Rafayel turned, raising a brow in mock disapproval. ��Nonsense. You’re perfect just as you are. Besides, I think I’d enjoy the challenge of capturing your essence.”

It was always like this with him. Playful. Flirtatious. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room, even though you’d seen firsthand how easily he dismissed others. People fawned over him—his talent, his charm, his looks—but Rafayel never seemed interested. Yet with you, he was different.

But you couldn’t help the doubt that lingered in the back of your mind. What if this was just his way? You wanted to believe he was just being playful, that he didn’t mean it the way your heart desperately wished he did. Because how could someone like him—a vision of elegance and charisma—see someone like you in any other way?

You crossed your arms, tugging the fabric of your shirt tighter around you, as if it could shield you from his gaze. Rafayel always had a way of looking at you like he was trying to peel back layers, like he saw something you couldn’t. And it terrified you.

And then there was your body. Stretch marks, rolls, flabs. All the things you tried so hard to hide. Around Rafayel, you were especially self-conscious, always careful to cover up, to deflect attention away from yourself. He was an artist, after all, a man who revered beauty in all its forms. Surely, someone like him couldn’t find someone like you truly beautiful.

“Earth to you,” Rafayel’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you blinked up at him to find him staring at you, his hands on his hips.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, offering a weak smile.

“Sooooo, are you ready?” Rafayel called out, glancing over his shoulder at you. He leaned against the doorframe with that devilish grin of his—flirtatious and yet utterly carefree. You glanced up from your position by the window, attempting to push the self-doubt creeping into your chest as he beckoned you over.

“Ready for what?” you muttered, not eager to engage. The last thing you wanted was to deal with another one of Rafayel’s whims.

“A swim, cutie.” he declared, his voice light and teasing. “The ocean's calling us, don’t you think?”

You stiffened, already feeling the weight of the impending conversation. Swimming. Bathing suits. He’d see more of you. That thought alone sent a wave of panic rushing through you. No, I can’t—

“I—uh, I don’t know…” You trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. "I’m just not feeling it today."

“Oh come on,” he pouted, pushing away from the doorframe with exaggerated dismay. “It’s way too hot, and we could both use a break. Besides, I promised we’d do something fun today.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to avoid looking at him too long. What if he looks at me differently? Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. You’d been covering up around him for so long, hoping he’d never notice the things you tried so hard to hide.

“I don’t have my swimwear with me,” you quickly said, the excuse feeling weak as the words left your mouth.

Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t have it? I’ll buy you one at the boutique down the road. They’ve got everything.” His voice was laced with amusement, but you could feel a twinge of impatience creeping into his words.

Your heart skipped a beat. No, no, no. I can’t do that. Not with him seeing me like that…

“I’m just… not really in the mood, Rafayel,” you stammered, avoiding his gaze. “You go ahead, I’ll just...Keep you company on  the beach.” You swallowed, your palms growing clammy. “I… I don’t feel like it. Maybe another time.”

“Another time?” he echoed, his tone flat. Then his voice softened, laced with curiosity. “What’s going on with you, really?”

“I said I’m not in the mood—”

“Don’t lie to me.” he interrupted, his playful demeanor gone. His gaze was sharp, piercing, as though he could see every thought running through your mind. “What’s wrong?”

The dam broke before you could stop it.

“I just… I can’t, okay? I don’t want you to see me like that!” The words tumbled out, fast and frantic. Your breathing hitched as panic clawed at your chest. “I’m… I’m fat, Rafayel. I have stretch marks, rolls, flab—whatever you want to call it. And you… you’re you. You’re perfect. Handsome. And you flirt with me, but that’s just who you are, right? You wouldn’t actually—how could you? Look at me!”

Your voice cracked, tears welling in your eyes. You couldn’t stop now, even if you wanted to. “People like you don’t see people like me. Not really. And I don’t blame you, because who would want to? I’m not beautiful. I’m not anything. I’m just…” You trailed off, choking on the lump in your throat. “I am a whale. A big whale. People would look at us and wonder what someone like you is doing with someone like me. And you’re an artist! You see beauty everywhere, but what happens if you look at me and realize I’m—”

“Stop.”

The single word cut through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, sharp and unyielding. You froze, choking back a sob as you dared to meet his eyes. When you finally dared to look at him, Rafayel’s expression startled you. His playful smirk was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. His jaw was tense, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked… offended. No, furious.

“Are you done?” he asked, his voice low, trembling with restrained emotion.

You nodded, your heart sinking. Of course, he was angry. Why wouldn’t he be? You’d made a fool of yourself, ruined whatever fragile dynamic you had with him.

“Come with me.” He stretched out his hand, his movements sharp, deliberate.

“What?”

“Come. With. Me.” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Hesitant, you placed your hand in his. His grip was firm, almost too tight, as he led you across the studio to a corner you’d never paid much attention to. A cluster of canvases sat there, each covered in white cloth.

Without a word, Rafayel grabbed the edge of one cloth and yanked it away.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was a painting. Of you.

Not an embellished version of you, not some idealized fantasy, but you as you were. Your stretch marks, your curves, every detail you hated about yourself—it was all there. But somehow, in his brushstrokes, it was beautiful. They weren’t altered. They were you. Raw, honest, and breathtakingly beautiful. You were beautiful. The woman in the painting looked almost like an ethereal goddess, with all the features you’d tried to hide—your soft curves, your round face, the way your body naturally flowed—on full display. You barely recognized the figure, as if it wasn’t you at all.

There you were, sitting by the window, the sunlight kissing your skin. There you were again, lost in thought, your features softened by a dreamy expression. In another, you were laughing, your smile radiant, your body draped in soft fabrics that celebrated every curve, every line, every part of you that you had always tried to hide.

“This,” Rafayel said, his voice breaking the silence, “is how I see you. Do you even hear yourself?” His voice was low, trembling with an intensity you hadn’t expected. “You think I’d look at you—you—and see anything less than perfection? You think I’d waste my time on someone who wasn’t worth every second of it?”

You turned to him, your lips trembling. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Every brushstroke, every color—I poured myself into these because I wanted to capture you. You. Not some distorted version of what the world says you should be. You, with your stretch marks, your rolls, your everything. Do you know how beautiful you are to me?” He uncovered another, and another. Each one a masterpiece, each one of you.

“This,” Rafayel said, his voice rough with emotion, “is how I see you. Not some distorted version of yourself you’ve convinced yourself I’d be ashamed of. This.”

Each one, a depiction of you—each angle, each pose, each moment captured with breathtaking beauty. You stared at the paintings in disbelief. He hadn’t changed anything about you. He hadn’t smoothed over the imperfections, hadn’t tried to make you look like someone else. He had captured you, exactly as you were, and in a way that made you look… beautiful. You were beautiful in every stroke, every shade of color he had used.

He stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked at you, still reeling from the revelation.

“This is how I see you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. His fingers brushed against your cheek, almost reverently. “As for this… whale business? Humans like to forget that whales are majestic creatures. Powerful. Graceful. They’ve been admired for centuries, not ridiculed. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Fishes come in all shapes and forms, and yet are beautiful. As are you. Your shape, your insecurities do not blemish your beauty in my eyes, they enhance it.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. “I… I didn’t know.”

He gave you a small smile, that same devilish grin now softened with something far deeper. “In Lemuria, you’d be worshipped. Not shamed. You are beautiful, just the way you are, and I’m not going to let you forget that. You deserve to be seen, really seen, for all the beauty you have to offer. Every inch of it.”

You turned to face him, your vision blurry with tears. “You really think...?”

“I don’t just think it,” he interrupted, cupping your face with both hands. “I know it. In Lemuria, you would be the most beautiful woman to exist. Sought after. The very definition of beauty. And even if the entire world disagrees, it doesn’t matter, because to me, you are a work of art. And no matter what or who I paint, nothing could ever compare to you.”

His thumb brushed away a tear that rolled down your cheek. “So don’t ever insult yourself like that again. And stop hiding from me. Stop hiding from the world. Because you’re perfect exactly as you are. Understand?”

You nodded, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions you couldn’t even begin to name.

Rafayel smiled then, soft and genuine. “Good. Now, about that swim...”

You laughed through your tears, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a little lighter. A little more... beautiful.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[hencheri]

— love, H

▸ 18+ mdni.

| pairing. stalker!heeseung x fem!reader

| warnings. stalking, yandere elements (i hate saying that), heeseung's a freak, noncon/dubcon, knife play, fear play & chase kink ig.

| wc. 2.2k

It’s cold. Freezing cold. The night air has you clutching to your arms in an attempt to heat yourself up, but the breeze hitting you in the face, flowing through your hair and into the collar of your coat, makes it impossible to feel any type of warmth. 

You should have brought a scarf, you knew you should have right when you stepped foot outside this morning, but you didn’t. And now you’re sure you’re going to freeze to death before reaching your front door. 

But at the sight of someone in particular, your heartbeat quickens in seconds, pumping blood so rapidly you feel it pounding against your chest. You don’t feel cold anymore. 

A man you can’t name, but who has been following you and watching you for weeks — probably months at this point. You look back at him, halting your steps, his body standing a few feet away from you just outside your workplace like he’s been waiting for you for a while.

You don’t see his eyes, don’t see his face — never did you, and you might not discover it very soon either — a black hoodie draped over his head as it is often the case. 

He gets away from the wall he was leaning on when you walk away in the direction of your house. You check a few times behind your shoulder, seeing him following you closely in such a casual manner it reminds you how often you experienced this exact same situation before with the exact same person. Your faceless stalker. 

You live a few blocks away, and turning corner after corner, noticing he hasn’t disappeared, you start to really freak out. He usually doesn’t follow you until there, you’ve always supposed he was too scared in case he could get spotted by your neighbours, but this fear doesn’t seem to stop him at this moment. 

You fasten the pace of your steps, quicker and quicker until you’re actually running, the only sounds you hear being your boots hitting the pavement and the rapid breaths you take, accompanied, of course, by his own footsteps chasing after you. 

Your eyes well up in tears as you tighten your hold around the straps of your shoulder bag, taking a look behind you and being horrified to see his dark silhouette still behind you, determined and eager to catch you. You let out a sob, one that rips up through your throat, heartbeat now pounding in your skull, making your ears ring loudly. 

You’re breathless, scared and desperate, a spark of hope lighting in you at the view of your house. You’re almost there, come on. Your stomach hurts as well as the soles of your feet, but you keep going, running because your life depends on it. He’s never expressed the want to kill you, but he’s expressed many other things that made the hair on your arms rise up, and thinking back to it, you don’t want to discover what’s going to happen if he gets his hands on you. 

The letters he leaves you… they all ended up in the trash, until one day where he threatened in his letter to enter your house during your sleep if you got rid of this one, too. They’re now stacked up in the last drawer of your vanity, still in their original envelope. 

You could recite each one of them and exactly what they’re talking about. The subject always the same, but told in a different way; you. Only you. 

You find yourself rereading them sometimes, usually when a new one comes in. He leaves them in your mailbox, but it happens you fall upon one on your nightstand coming back from work, or, the weirdest, in your underwear drawer, exactly in the spot where one of your panties is missing. 

He’s not subtle about it, he admits it pretty buntly, in fact. He tells you which pair he took exactly, the last one he described as the ‘cute baby pink panties with a white heart pattern and small bow on the front’ and he also says what he does with it, a part that always leaves you in shock and weirdly turned on. 

He tells you when he gets inside your house, what he touches, what he likes, what he keeps. His words are kind and surprisingly caring, but when you do something he doesn’t appreciate, like throwing his letters in the trash for example, his tone changes completely. This double side of him is what scares you the most because you truly never know the extent of what he’s capable of. 

He talks about his fantasies, whether they’re explicit or not, you don’t know what to expect when opening his letters. He admits his desire to have you, possess you, his carnal need to make love to you as he so calls it, but anything he describes is the opposite of making love. 

You think he doesn’t really know the difference between love and obsession, but you’d be fooled with how skilled he is with words. Everything sounds poetic, when in reality, the meaning of his words are far from beautiful. They’re deranged and don’t make sense either. You can’t pretend to love someone you say you’d chop in little pieces if they throw away your unsolicited love letters. 

He always signs with H, that’s pretty much all you know of him, and you don’t even know if his name really begins with the letter H. You don’t know if he’s someone from your daily life or a stranger you’ve never met. You know nothing, but he knows everything, every little detail of your intimacy… 

He’s aware of that power he has over you. He could have had you way back before, but he didn’t. He wants you to be familiar with him, wants to make its way into your life without even revealing himself. He wants you to know you’re eventually going to be his and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Like tonight, there’s nothing you can do to stop him. 

He has the way to your house, he can get inside whenever he wants. If he decides to catch you tonight, he will, and with the chasing that’s happening right now, you think the time has come. You’ll be his, finally. 

But you’ll have to give up on running before he even touches you. 

You cross your front yard, clumsily climbing up the stairs to the entrance door. You slip your hand into your pocket and pull out your keys, hurriedly trying to insert it into the lock. You know he’s behind, you hear him, and you think you’ve never been so frightened in your life before. 

You turn the key and then the handle, pushing your door open and immediately getting inside. You only realize how close he was to getting you when closing the door, he startles you by rushing into it, seeing his body watching through the transparent glass. 

You lock it, shaking in fear, but relieved that you made it in. He hits the glass with his hand out of frustration, visibly upset. His head is down, so you can’t decipher any of his features, but knowing he’s angry is enough to make you scared, recalling the words he uses when he’s annoyed with your behaviour.

‘If you ever escape me, I’ll make sure you never use your legs ever again,’ followed by your name and then ‘love, H’, ending the letter. 

You never knew what that meant, but now you think you do. 

He stays behind your door for a minute or so, both looking back at each other, without you being able to see his eyes. 

He steps away and you watch him leave, wondering where he’s going. Your senses are all enlightened, a million thoughts going through your head at the same time. You walk into your kitchen, grabbing a knife, feeling a tad bit safer now armed. 

But there’s still this little voice in the back of your mind telling you the knife is useless, he’ll get you unarmed in a matter of seconds. You can lock yourself up in a room, he’ll still find a way in because he always does. 

And unconsciously, you make yourself an easy prey. You like it, you anticipate it. Why did you never call the police? Why haven’t you changed the locks on your doors? 

Why in the hell are you turned on to know he touches himself with your stolen panties? 

From the corner of your eye, you get the glimpse of a shadow. You instantly turn around, pointing your knife in front of you, but there’s nobody in the kitchen beside you. 

You walk out, looking on each side of you, being on your guard. Your face turns pale, noticing the back door half open. You gulp down. 

He’s inside. Your stalker, he’ll kill you. He will tonight in your own house.

“Oh, sweetie…”

Your heart skips a beat. 

You turn around again, losing all of the strength you had earlier to fight him. You step back until you hit the sliding door behind you, feeling the cold glass through your clothes. You clasp your hand tightly around the handle of the kitchen knife, but you look much more ridiculous than intimidating. 

“My poor little girl, all frightened and helpless,” he chuckles, and you find back the light-hearted tone he uses in his letters. It sends shivers down your spine, your pussy throbing.

He walks toward you and you point the knife at him, “don’t get any closer!” you sob out, wanting to sound serious, but your voice breaks pathetically at the end. More tears fall down your cheeks, the previous ones now dried out on your burning skin. 

You can see a smirk drawn on beautiful heart-shaped lips, and your mouth opens in shock when he pulls his hoodie off his head. 

Your arm holding your knife is trembling, your eyes staring at his face. You’ve spent night after night imagining what he could look like, feeling so powerless thinking that you might never know who he is, but he’s just revealed himself to you now. And it’s nothing you ever expected to see. 

He’s beautiful.

“What do you think you’re going to do with that thing?” he asks mockingly, referring to the knife that you no longer hold properly, letting your emotions get the best out of you. He approaches you despite your warning — that was nothing other than laughable. “Stab me, maybe? I know you could never.” 

You watch him taking control of you in no time with tearful eyes. He takes the knife out of your grip, and the way he easily uses it against you is humiliating. 

He swiftly puts the tip of the blade under your chin, forcing your head up. “I admire your tenacity, my love. I really do,” he tells you, and his voice is soft, almost too gentle. “But I thought I was clear on that; you’re mine. You can’t run away from me.”

You try to hold back your cries, keeping your mouth closed and looking away from his face, but the tears still roll down your cheeks, drawing a wet trail from your eyes to your jaw. 

“Look at me,” he suddenly growls, pressing the blade harder under your chin, but not enough to cut you. You reluctantly do what he said, your eyes meeting his. “There you go,” he coos, “I know you dreamt of this exact moment. You’re a little freak who likes the attention of deranged guys like me. You’re no secret to me, baby.”

Your bottom lip trembles, no words coming out of you. What possibly can you say? You’re not stupid enough to think you can change his mind. 

And maybe a part of you really waited for this moment to happen. For him to catch you. 

You gasp when he tears through the front of your shirt with the knife, tilting your head downward to see your chest exposed, goosebumps all over your skin. 

“So pretty. I always wanted to see them from up close,” he moans, dragging the knife between your naked breasts, going over your heaving stomach down to the band of your leggings. He lowers them with his other hand, pushing them all the way down to your ankles. 

He tears through your panties as well, leaving you with nothing covering your private parts and you can’t feel more embarrassed. 

The blade of the knife stays just under your belly button as his eyes stare at your uncovered pussy, wetting his lips with his tongue. He’s in love, to say the least.

“Fuck that shit.” He throws the knife away on the floor and with both hands free, he unzips his pants and takes his hard cock out. 

He aligns his leaking tip with your entrance, feeling how wet you already are. 

“N-No, don’t, please!” You cry out, holding his shoulders, but doing no attempt in pushing him away. 

Just as he pushes himself into you, he glances up at your face, looking totally blissed out. His mouth hungs open, staring back into your eyes as he thrusts up all in the way in, making you moan out in pain. 

“Stop lying to yourself, baby,” he groans, “we both know you love it.”