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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What��what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

#turns out vampire jack o’connell is my roman empire #the only plot here is what if a monster loved you too gently and then ruined you anyway“#yes he eats you out like it’s the last supper. no i will not be taking criticism at this time #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fic #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #jack o'connell

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proxycrit · 9 months ago

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FAMILIAR FAMILIAR MASTERPOST

If you want to see my general info (and also which tags to look at my other art, click here)

FAMILIAR FAMILIAR is a self indulgent TOTK AU where Link and Zelda traverse the wild lands of Hyrule together. There are ruins to be discovered and monsters to be eaten.

This project is a linktober challenge that will extend past the month of october. Please be patient with me as this is entirely being funded by a hyperfixation and the support of beloved patreon backers (ty patreon backers). Pls note fanart, fanfics, and spinoffs are perfectly fine as long as credit is due!

Chronological Order (updating as we go!)

1. Blood Moons and Headaches

2. Basement Adventures

3. Basement’s Adventures Haunted

4. Basement’s Extra Haunted

5. Lost (and found)

6. World’s Endin, Purah’s Stressin

7. Concern about Death Mountain

8. Goron City and Yunobo

9. Death Mountain vs Oversized Railgun

10. The Sage of Fire

11. Interlude

12. Goodbye Eldin!

13. Rained In

14. Skyview Towers

15. Close Call

16. Welcome To The Swamp

17. A Guide Named Yona

18. Sidon’s No Good Very Bad Two Months

19. Authority Issues

20. Lab in the Sky

21. The Water Sage

22. Reprise

23. Century Idol

24. Safe Travels

25. It’s Free Transportation

26. Song of Perseverance

27. Crack in the Maze

28. Looking for Lunch

29. Pirates, in MY Hyrule?

30. Ghost Ships

31. Great Fairy Cotera

32. Arm Collection

33. Mushrooms and Cheese

34. Three Headed Public Menace

35. Back into the Basement

36. Spider Jumpscare

37. It’s Free Spine Residue

38. Song of War

39. Wet Sand

40. Fight or Flight

41. Flooded Desert

42. Gut Conductor

43. Riju’s Bug Zapper 9000

44. The Shroud Bringer

45. Weight of Responsibility

46. Ghost Nap

47. Restless Dead

48. Lightning Sage

49. Surcease

50. Kept Promise

EXTRAS:

- Link and Zelda Reference

- Spotify

- Oneshot ficlets

(EDIT; Due to work and bills, Familiar Familiar will be returning June, just to give me some breathing room! Sorry for the wait)

#lonks diary #familiar familiar au #loz #pinned

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novthirty · 3 months ago

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OUT OF BOUNDS | you get isekai-d into the N109 zone

— pairing: sylus x non-mc! reader

— synopsis: you land in the world of love and deepspace. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of his personal secretary. wc: 3.8k

— tags: isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, pining, slice of life, birthdays, holiday season, reader is not the main character, boss/employee relationship

— edit: i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here.

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open!

It was just your luck to be walking home from a 7PM class on a desolate road, only for a vehicle to swerve and crash into you. The impact is like a sledgehammer to your body as you hear the crunch of glass and the snap of bones. This is it, you think, as the world around you blurs into nothingness.

—————————————————————

You wake up in a hospital bed, where you promptly have a panic attack from the IV attached to your arm. You desperately thrash against the nurses’ hold, trying to remove the intrusive line from your body, but it’s no use as your injuries and the numerous drugs hamper your movements. You hear muffled explanations— inaudible to your clouded mind— before they decide to sedate you. You drift back to sleep.

Sometime later, you wake up again, this time with the IV detached and a familiar face sitting by your bedside. You laugh, thinking you must be in some sort of dream or coma-induced hallucination. Because why was Sylus, a love interest from Love and Deepspace— the game you’ve been obsessed with for the past few months— sitting beside you? You say as much, and the only response he deigns you with is, “Did you sustain brain damage on top of your other injuries?”

You shake your head at the absurdity of your delusions, quickly falling back into a medically-induced sleep. Things should be back to normal when you wake up.

—————————————————————

Newsflash: they weren’t. Days passed, and you gradually had to accept that whether it was reality or not, you were gonna be stuck here until you figured out how to go back to the normal world. Sylus visits you from time to time, the strange girl who landed in his backyard and claims to be from another world. It turns out that the place you’ve woken up in is not a hospital, but Onychinus’s medical ward.

When you’ve healed enough to be discharged, you have nowhere to go. So you turn to the only person you’re familiar with in this world.

You had been a college student, just months away from graduation before you found yourself here. It fills you with spite, how everything you’d worked hard for was taken away in the blink of an eye. But you push the bitterness aside, offering whatever skills you have to Sylus so he doesn’t kick you out. You know that this world isn’t kind, the N109 Zone one of the worst places you could have ended up. A normal civilian such as you wouldn’t survive here alone. Though you don’t have much to contribute to a criminal organization, you’re grateful when Sylus offers you the job of his personal assistant.

Although you don’t have much work experience, your previous internships and methodical nature help you to excel at this job. Never has the leader of Onychinus been so…. organized, his colleagues around him observe the stark change in the following months. You whip him up to shape, scolding him when he arrives late to meetings, making sure he actually calls back when he says he will. His business partners now call his office to be greeted by a chirpy voice, “How may I help you? Oh, Sylus isn’t here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

He had initially given you this job as more of a placeholder role, so you can occupy yourself with the illusion of real responsibility while he investigates his suspicions about you. Where did you come from? Who sent you? And most importantly, how did you manage to infiltrate his base right under his nose? But his investigation leads him to the simple truth: there was nothing on you. It’s as if you materialized from thin air. No records, no blood ties, no evidence of your existence before you walked into his life.

But if reincarnation can be fact, and dragons more than legends, why deny the possibility of other realities? This, more than anything, makes him inclined to believe your claims.

Besides, you’ve proven yourself to be… useful, he supposes. Although the fear he instilled in his business partners was enough to put them in their place, he now had you to act as a buffer to their complaints and concerns, handling matters that were beneath him. You easily adjust to his nocturnal schedule; you’re like a little crow chirping at his shoulder at all times of the day, reminding him to leave on time for meetings, to eat three meals each day (even going so far as to ask his preferred meals to inform the chefs in advance). You physically force him out of his office the moment noon hits in an attempt to prevent him from overworking, “Sun’s up, boss. It’s time to hit the sack.”

Your office is connected to his, although it's less a room and more an alcove he cleared away when he gave you the job. You have a small desk, a fluffy pink swivel chair, and a shelf covered in the trinkets you spend your salary on. (Another thing you have in common with Mephisto, he notes to the ever-growing list.) He finds amusement to idly watch you during his downtime, twirling the strands of your hair and chewing your pen as you talk on the phone about weapons shipments and insuring someone who lost a finger in an operation.

Contradictory to his initial expectations, you prove yourself in a professional capacity and cement your place in the ranks of Onychinus.

—————————————————————

The first surprise is truly when the clock strikes twelve on April 18, and he enters his office to find a cake on his desk. Decorated in black and maroon frosting, it’s topped with his name in crooked cursive and a crow-shaped candle to boot. Moments after, you stride in from behind with Luke and Kieran, all carrying gifts and wearing patterned party hats, singing a terribly off-key rendition of the birthday song.

“Happy birthday, Sylus! Make a wish!”

He blows the candles (and wishes for the only thing he truly desires).

“Do you like the cake? The chefs helped me decorate it!” You say as you slice it into even triangles, giving him the largest one. Mephisto is perched on your shoulder, with his own red party hat, as you feed him small bites of your own slice. (The resemblances between the two of you are truly uncanny). The celebration is a silly endeavor that lasts no more than an hour before he kicks everyone out of his office. But try as he might, he can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day.

When May comes, you rope him into the preparations for Luke and Kieran’s birthday. Due to your incessant nagging, he’s since discovered your shared digital calendar— complete with monthly, weekly, daily, and hourly agendas— and chosen to ignore it. “The calendar exists for you to be on time,” You seethe whenever he steps into his office late, the little shit smirking as if you didn’t just rearrange his schedule to hell and back for that one hour-long meeting he missed. However, that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from any festivities you force upon the household.

The twins’ celebration is a significantly more chaotic affair than his, involving a two tiered cake and a booking for a laser tag arena, and ending with a trip to the medical ward. Despite the casualties, it’s the most fun Luke and Kieran have had since they joined Onychinus. (Fun that wasn’t self-orchestrated, at least).

Your presence brings a liveliness to his found family, something that grounds you all in this high-paced line of work. A presence that, little by little, seeps into his life to the point he can no longer imagine living without it.

—————————————————————

When he finds you on a cold midnight in November, sitting alone on the kitchen island with a puny cupcake and a candle, he asks you what the hell you think you are doing.

“Well, it’s just a birthday. I didn't feel the need to have a lot of celebration this year." The answer is nowhere enough to appease him, especially given your grandiose efforts to celebrate literally everyone else’s birthday. So, you admit to him, “I felt a bit sad, I guess. This was my last year of college. I had so many plans for before my entry into the workforce… and now, I can't really do any of them.”

Without missing a beat, he asks, “And what were those plans?”

You list off the various places you wanted to visit, the items you were supposed to cross from your bucket list this year. As you reminisce on old plans, you split the cupcake with him and bid him goodnight, returning to your office to catch up on work.

When you wake up at 5 PM later that day, it’s to streamers and balloons in the living room.

“Happy birthday!” Everyone in the house cheers as you enter the room, decked out in all sorts of party favors. Even Sylus, who was notoriously un-festive, is wearing a cone-shaped party hat striped with your favorite colors.

What follows is an impromptu day-off for everyone in the base (you feel an oncoming migraine thinking of how you’re going to readjust Sylus’s schedule). They bring you to Linkon City, your first time visiting since your arrival, following an itinerary that matches your original plans to a T.

Sylus is upset that you’ve kept the date to yourself for so long, but more than that, he’s angry at himself for not bothering to ask. So he does his best to make up for it in the final hours of your birthday. Throughout the evening, he drags you to every activity that had been on your wishlist, lavishing you with all sorts of presents on the way. It’s a little too much. You’re not used to being spoiled, not used to treating yourself without deserving it first, and you tell him as much.

He tips your chin upwards with a feather-light touch, his gaze unreadable as he asks, “And who says my lovely secretary doesn’t deserve the world at her feet?”

The atmosphere shifts, the effortless ease at which you interact with him dissipates into stutters and heated stares. You ride home on the back of his motorcycle, finding yourself flushing despite the winter chill in the air. It’s a comfortable silence, yet your heart is thumping loudly against your chest. Does he hear how he makes you feel? You wonder.

Before he retires to his bedroom, you place a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for today,” you whisper before shutting the door behind you.

—————————————————————

From then on, things are significantly more… tense, between the two of you. What were once casual interactions turn tense with every brush of your fingers, with every meeting of your eyes across the room. He's always lavished you with the sweetest of pet names; darling, little bird, sweet girl. You assume it’s just his speech pattern, given what you had known of him from the game. But why does it make your heart race every time he refers to you with such terms of endearment? Why does it fuel your delusions of having something more?

—————————————————————

It comes to a head during the week of Christmas, where you once again strong-arm him into having your festive way at the Onychinus base.

You were appalled at their lack of holiday spirit for the previous years, “How can you run an organization like this?!” So you drag your boss out to the nearest Christmas tree farm. “You’re rich enough to afford a real one,” You decide definitively. He rolls his eyes but drives you there anyway.

Each night on the week before Christmas goes similarly. The moment your work is done for the evening, you drag the whole house into some sort of festive activity. Decorating the tree, baking a gingerbread house, making eggnog. Holiday tunes fill the Onychinus base 24/7 and for once, Sylus finds that he doesn’t mind. Not when he sees the way you dance to yourself when you think no one’s looking, the way you know the words by heart and hum them under your breath. But he doesn’t participate much, mostly checking in and making a sardonic yet supportive comment before returning to his work.

One evening, he decides to bring his work to the living room while you’re setting up the tree. It was a great source of amusement to see you struggle on your toes to place the ornaments, hoisting yourself up on whatever surface was available to you. But even he found it a bit too pitiful to watch you struggle to place the star, too vertically challenged to place the finishing touch. Couldn’t you just get a ladder? “Let me help you,” His breath tickles your ear as he grabs your waist and lifts you up.

You squeal, holding tight to his arms and kicking at the air beneath you, “Sylus, what the fuck! Put me down!”

“Place the star, darling. While I'm still being nice.” In the end, you call it a team effort, despite his only contribution being his role as a human ladder.

—————————————————————

You’ve been very festive and cheery the whole week of Christmas, so it disturbs him when the eve of the 25th arrives and you’re downtrodden. A shell of your typical self. He's never seen you like this before— absentminded and listless, it takes you a whole minute to realize he’s calling your name for the grand Christmas dinner you had insisted upon. You open presents with everyone in the early morning, smiling and thanking at the right cues, but he can tell your heart’s not in it.

After the gifts have been given and the wrapping paper cleaned up, he takes you to the rooftop to ask what’s wrong.

And so, you bare your heart to the only person who holds enough of it to break it.

It’s a bittersweet Christmas for you, the first one you’ve ever spent away from home. For the first time since you were whisked away to this surreal world, you speak of your original life. Your family. Your friends. Your dreams. A fragile boundary that you haven’t touched with anyone here, for it hurts too much to speak of what you left behind. Of what was taken away from you.

And it is here, underneath the midnight sky where he tells you of his search for the other half of his soul. He speaks of a similar homesickness, resonating with how out of reach home feels for you right now, as he’s waited what seems like a millennia for the person he calls his.

You already know, of course, that sooner or later, he will meet her. This world was once your favorite game, and you had shed tears at their loss, at their cursed fate. You stay silent, listening to the tragic tale from the man himself. The affection in his tone as he speaks of her— his sorceress, his soulmate— makes you hurt for this man, for the trials he’s endured in the name of true love. But it is also a bitter reminder that you have no place by his side.

—————————————————————

On New Year’s Eve, he doesn’t even give you the chance to feel homesick. The moment the sun goes down, he takes you on a joyride to Linkon City, bringing you to a cafe to have dinner together and sightsee the various festivities for the holiday; making sure you don’t even have a moment to feel sad.

He brings you to the tallest building in the city, for the best view of the sky when the fireworks show starts. Despite the chilly air, his hand is warm in yours, clutching it in a tight grip as he wades through the crowd of people who had the same idea. You find a secluded corner where the two of you sit down and sip your milk tea, talking about your new year’s resolutions.

“I don’t do resolutions,” He waved a hand, unimpressed. “If I want to change an aspect of my life, I won't wait until the start of a new year to do so.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” You stick your tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes, but he’s internally pleased with how well he’s distracted you thus far. “My resolutions are always the same. Exercise more, eat healthy, and save money!”

“Dear, there is a private gym back home that you haven’t touched even once,” Your heart flutters at the word home. A word that brings you melancholy most of the time, but now fills your heart with a sort of domestic bliss.

“Well then, it’s perfect! I'll have no excuse not to start tomorrow.”

He shakes his head in fond exasperation. Your eyes are glued to the magnificent colors soaring through the sky, legs bouncing in time with the countdown. But unbeknownst to you, his gaze is entirely on you.

When the clock strikes midnight, you jump to give him a hug. “Happy New Year, Sylus!”

He cradles you in his arms, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, “Happy New Year.”

—————————————————————

As the months pass by, you grow more accustomed to the harsh edges of your new job. It's not exactly the first job you had envisioned for yourself; you had once hoped to start somewhere more in line with your aspiring career, somewhere you could make use of your degree. But plans don’t always work out. What you do is unorthodox, but it’s fulfilling and allows you to live in this dangerous world from a safe vantage point, almost like dipping your toes into a ten feet pool.

That doesn’t mean you’re completely sheltered from all the dangers of the job, however. Given the type of clientele you handle, more often than not, you’re faced with threats of being maimed over the phone when you can’t give somebody what they want. Each time, Sylus promptly takes over and matches their energy twicefold with a more heinous, yet very real threat.

The worst days are post-missions, when you have to witness your newfound family return bloody and bruised in the name of Onychinus. You become conditioned to waiting with a first aid kit and a change of clothes for Luke and Kieran, immediately patching up their wounds. But Sylus— you almost think he’s invincible, with how he returns from even the most high-risk operations without a scratch.

That is, until one night when he walks through the front door, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. His evol is working overtime to knit his skin back together, but the blood still pools beneath him on the marble tile. You stay by his side through the night as he recovers, listening to deluded murmurs about a time long past, and an ever-so-familiar name.

You grip his hand in yours throughout the night. But it’s not your hand to hold.

—————————————————————

Over the span of a year, you become one of Sylus’s closest confidants. He treats you with all the gentleness and care in the world, revealing to you a softer side of him that you knew existed in the game, but that he rarely ever showed to anyone else. You feel honored that he trusts you with these facets of himself, but you also feel guilty.

Because what Sylus doesn’t know is that he was your favorite. You, a student facing burnout in your final year of university, began to cope with a game suggested to you, subsequently becoming engrossed with one of its newest characters. His soft treatment of the main character, juxtaposed with his violent nature, had drawn you to him. Your heart had fluttered at every tender moment, each call and text message, each appearance in the main story. You had foolishly indulged in the delusions of romance with a fictional man.

When you landed in this world, there was a cognitive dissonance as you came to terms with the difference between the 2D character that lived on your phone screen and the living, breathing person in front of you. For a while, you were too focused on your new situation to even think of the implications of the fictional character you’d been crushing on being in close, real proximity. He had not trusted you, either. You could practically visualize his defenses in each interaction, as he contemplated what to make of you.

At the time, you thought that by now, surely you would have woken up from this coma-induced hallucination already. Surely you would have woken back up to reality. But as you grow to accept that the situation you’re in is real, and the likelihood that you may be stuck there for the foreseeable future— before you knew it, he had crept into your heart.

You don’t know when it started. All you know is that his presence in your life is more than the surface-level distraction it once was in your reality. No, Sylus— the living person who comforted you on the saddest birthday you’ve had, who indulged your demands for a Christmas celebration, who makes your heart race like no other— has you wrapped around his finger. He could ask anything of you, and your heart could do nothing but surrender to his whims.

But in the back of your head, always lurking, is the distant reminder of the main character. The vivacious hunter whose life is tied to his. The other half of his soul. There’s no chance you could ever come between something destined by the universe itself, so you yield in the face of their cosmic love. You shove away your feelings and resign yourself to finding a way back home, desperately, before this world forces you to lose a love you never had a chance at.

—————————————————————

What you don’t know is that he’s desperately blocking off every potential lead back to your world, not wanting to face a reality where you are not in his life.

He finds himself conflicted, because his soul is tied to her. His sorcerer, his soulmate, whom he has yearned for for what feels like a millenia. But here you are, his lovely secretary, the woman who forces him into mundane festivities and stays by his side even in weakness. The two images war in his head; the dragon roaring at how distracted he’s become from searching for his mate, and the man, falling fast and hard for a woman from another world, brought to him by pure fate. A love born out of an unexpected connection.

His search for his long-lost love continues, but alongside it are his attempts to tie you down to his world, to keep you in his grasp. Because he cannot, will not, live without you.

He will watch the world burn before he lets it take his love away again.

—————————————————————

So, the two of you continue in this cycle of push and pull, of moving closer but not close enough. You live in a limbo, desperately searching for ways to get home before the main storyline catches up to you. Haunted by the narrative, you two move in and out of each other’s orbit, just out of reach. Just out of bounds.

—————————————————————

like and reblog if you enjoyed!

i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here (comment there if you’d like to be tagged!)

#novthirty-writes #out of bounds 🐦‍⬛#love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x non mc #sylus #qin che #lnds sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x non mc reader

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xcziel · 2 years ago

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#not me in my imagination thinking the snty video shows signs of hasty editing #after nj's recent music rec post after the decision came down regarding relations while serving in the military #the delulu in me just wants somebody to edit him looking her in the eye and then walking right past her #to meet another 'figure' standing silhouetted in that golden light everywhere #like i'm sorry - we're not supposed to take the lyrics seriously when we have ... no pronouns just 'you'#we have dna. we have the sun and moon. we have the fallen angel symbology.#(can i say the man references afterglow a lot when really it's just been two times but if i had a nickel etc etc)#i just have this feeling like the mv might have been making a kind if statement if certain things turned out differently #but they didn't and so to use a sports metaphor the runner taking a lead off returned back to base #that doesn't negate the fact that there's this feeling that this guy is just itching to sprint like hell for home plate you know?#i do really want the story of the mv bc it does not make sense the way it's edited but people spotted luhrman romeo & juliet references #so yeah starcrossed but fated live thrown in there #as many have said ... who is the big mj stan and then all the literal tips of the hat to mj here #and the other choreo callbacks and other matching moves?#like he does this and then says don't read anything into the lyrics ...#personally i think he's remembering how all the people looked at alone and face off and started commenting #'break-up?' 'break-up?' like the seagulls in finding nemo even though jm ssid what the songs were about #there are sad songs about heartbreak on the album and i think his statement was more pointed at those #like i get that he chose the songs thinking hey these sentiments are pretty universal people can sing along to these #just as he says but - this one. this one just feels like there's more to unpack #but that's me living in my imagination where there's more to the mv than is on my screen rn

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grimeshound · 5 months ago

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UNDER YOUR SPELL.

masterlist.

word count: 4,329 (someone got a little carried away...)

pairing: in-ho x you.

summary: you haunt in-ho’s every thought, an obsession he can’t shake no matter how hard he tries—you have no idea the hold you have on him. when you get drunk for the first time, in-ho seizes the opportunity to show you just how deeply you’ve affected him.

cw: 18+, age-gap, dubcon (forced intoxication), mirror sex, first time, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, stomach bulge, semi-public sex, dirty talk, corruption, manipulation

a/n: i’ve had this plot simmering in my head over the past few days ever since i wrote my in-ho hcs and it was practically begging to be written … manipulative in-ho my beloved

title from ‘under your spell’ by snow strippers, everytime I see an edit to him with this song it always eats so hard

---

Ever since he first laid eyes on you, In-ho thought you were the prettiest little angel to ever step foot in this hellhole.

You were nothing like the others. Kind, wide doe eyes, sweet smile that radiated innocence. He wondered how a pretty thing like you had ended up in a place like this. In-ho always did pride himself in his appreciation for the arts, all things with beauty. The moment he took notice of you, it didn’t take long for him to wonder what it would take to make you his.

You had joined a small group, after having met a kind man named Jung-bae who graciously let you in. Everyone shared their names, and that’s when you learned his. Oh Young-il. Except, of course, that wasn’t his real name. Just a guise, a character to play during the time he spent amongst the players. That didn’t matter, though, since you rarely used his name.

“Sir,” you’d say. The times you did call his name, it’d be “Mister Young-il.”

The first time you spoke to him, you were nervous. It was hard not to be, something about his piercing gaze had a hold on you. Yet, you couldn’t help but admire him. The way you looked up at him, your voice so soft and deferential, made his pulse quicken. He’d do anything to protect you, and he did. Each time the games forced you apart, you’d come running to him the moment you returned to the main hall, your face lighting up with relief.

“I’m so happy you’re okay, sir.” You’d smile at him, and he’d smile back, gentle and reassuring.

You hadn’t realized it, but your attachment to him was carefully orchestrated, a product of all the high-risk situations In-ho would engineer to put you through. He’d swoop in at the perfect moment to save you, it made you trust him, made you depend on him more than anyone else. It also nurtured the little crush you were already dewasveloping, and he noticed. You couldn’t help it. He kind to you, protective, and so devastatingly handsome.

Behind the scenes, he dug through your file. Orphaned from a young age, too naive to understand the world’s cruelties. Trusting the wrong people, you had fallen into debt, landing here. The more he learned, the more he was convinced—You needed someone to take care of you. Someone like him.

One night, In-ho just couldn’t take it anymore. After hours of keeping up his cold, calculated facade, he found himself teetering on the edge of his own sanity. The stress of orchestrating the games was always a burden he bore in silence. But lately? It wasn’t just the carnage and strategy that weighed on his mind. On top of all that, now there was you. Every stolen glance, every soft word you uttered, every moment in your presence had burrowed under his skin. You consumed him, invading every thought until there was no room for anything else.

He knew he was losing control.

When the last murmurs of conversation faded throughout the main hall and the players around him drifted into an uneasy sleep, he finally gave in to his impulses. He had a guard sneak him a bottle of soju, not caring how inappropriate or risky the request was. Rank had its privileges, and he wasn’t above abusing them.

Even in the dim light he spotted you, laid in your bed not too far from his own. All curled up and completely unaware of the monster disguised as your guardian angel watching over you. He swallowed thickly, his jaw clenching as he tried to steady his breathing.

He listened to the sound of your breathing as a guide, the quiet rhythm of inhale and exhale filling his ears before finally pulling the bottle from its hiding place beneath his pillow. With a sharp twist, he uncapped it, the faint scent of alcohol wafting into the air around him. Sitting up in his bunk, he took a long, deliberate swig. The burn of the soju as it slid down his throat was a welcome distraction, albeit temporary. He exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

The alcohol dulled the edges of his stress but sharpened something far more dangerous, far sicker. Desire. Thoughts of you came to surface before he could resist, vivid and unrelenting. He thought of your wide, trusting eyes looking up at him, the way your voice wavered when you spoke his name. He didn’t stop his thoughts when they turned more and more depraved. Your quiet utters of his name turning into obscene moans, innocent brushes of skin escalating into him fucking you like a madman into the crummy bed he sat beneath. The way you clung to him, so innocent, so naive, so completely unaware of just how sick his thoughts would turn because of you.

He took another long swig, his grip tightening around the bottle as his frustration intensified. How could you do this to him without even realizing? Without even trying? It was maddening, the hold you had over him. And now, with the liquor loosening his usually taut held control, he found himself wondering how much longer he could resist. How much longer he could keep his hands to himself.

And then, as if summoned by his desires, your voice broke the silence.

“Sir?”

He turned to see you turned towards him, rubbing your eyes like a sleepy child. He softened instantly, smiling lazily as he called your name. “You’re awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” You climbed up to his bed without hesitation, settling beside him. “What about you?”

“Me neither,” he murmured. He thanked whatever god there was that you couldn’t read his mind, couldn’t take a peek into the sick fantasies that had clouded up his thoughts just moments ago. Even now, when sat face to face with you, they played in the background— like a channel he couldn’t turn off no matter how hard he’d press the remote. Only, he didn’t make much effort in stopping them. If anything, the fantasies only shot up with you now in front of him.

Your attention was soon drawn to the green bottle in his hand. “Is that… soju?”

He chuckled at your amazement. “It is.”

“Wow,” you breathed. “I’ve never had any before.”

His heart skipped. You really were too good to be true, weren’t you? He feigned surprise. “Never?”

You shook your head. “No. But..” You hesitated for a bit. “I’d like to try, if that’s okay.”

How polite. How trusting. He handed the bottle to you, hiding his smirk beneath a kind, patient smile. “Of course. Go ahead.”

You took it with both hands, your fingers brushing his briefly. There was a moment of hesitation, a fleeting glance at him as though you were silently asking for reassurance. He gave you a small nod, his expression warm and encouraging. Uttey deceptive. The thought of getting you completely wasted, rendering you impossibly dumber and even more impressionable than you already are rang like music to his ears. You tilted your head back as you gulped down more than he expected. He didn’t stop you, though. Simply watching with quiet satisfaction as you drained a sizable amount.

The first sip had your nose scrunching up, the bitter taste of the alcohol overhwleming you. Instead of backing out, you pressed on, curiosity and his approving gaze egging you on. With each gulp, you felt your body tense slightly at the unaccustomed burn that slid down your throat.

In-ho watched you intently, his dark eyes locked on you as the bottle tipped higher and higher. You were drinking far more than he expected, but he made no effort to stop you. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into a faint smile. Quiet satisfaction flickered in his eyes as he watched your determination to please him override your inexperience.

When you finally lowered the bottle, your lips were shiny from the liquid, your cheeks already beginning to flush, something In-ho was quick to take notice of. Whether it be your inexperience, the quickness of which you downed the Soju or the fact that you haven’t really drank or ate much prior. The alcohol had hit you harder than you anticipated, working its way through your system with worrying speed. Your head tilted back slightly as you tried to regain focus, blinking up at him with worried, glassy eyes.

“Sir,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “I feel…so funny.”

He stepped closer, his hand moving to steady you by your waist when your knees buckled slightly. “Funny how, sweetheart?” he humored you, the concern in his tone carefully crafted.

“Dizzy,” You clung to him instinctively, your hands gripping his arm like a lifeline as you specified. “I feel lightheaded, mister Young-il. M’scared.”

“Shh,” he murmured, pulling you closer against his chest. His hand slid to your back, rubbing soothing circles as he held you steady. “It’s okay. You’re just not used to it, s’all.”

Your forehead rested against his chest, your breath uneven as you tried to make sense of the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. He tilted his head slightly, looking down at you with something twisted in his gaze, though his voice remained tender and reassuring. “Poor baby,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. His hand stroked your hair, the sound of his words soothing you. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

You were too drunk to notice the dark glint in his eyes or the way his smile lingered just a little too long. Too naive to realize how tightly his grip held you, as though he’d never let go.

Young-il led you to the bathroom, steadying you with a firm grip as you clung to him for balance. Every touch, every reassuring glance he gave you was planned down to the last detail, feeding into the web he’d been weaving since the moment he first laid eyes on you. You were his perfect little pawn, and now, more than ever, he could see his plan falling into place.

When he knocked on the bathroom door, you were already bracing yourself for the usual bargaining and desperate pleading that so often accompanied requests to use the facilities. But to your surprise, the guards let you both pass without hesitation, a testament to the sway your knight in shining armor seemed to hold.

He guided you inside, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. Leading you to the sink, he turned on the faucet, letting the cool water rush out. “Here,” he said softly, his voice calm and soothing. “Let’s wash your face. It’ll help.”

You nodded, leaning over the sink and splashing the water onto your flushed cheeks. The cold sting sent a brief jolt through you, though it did little to clear the fog in your mind. When you blinked your eyes open and straightened, you nearly jumped at the sight of him standing right behind you, close enough that you could feel his presence like a weight against your back.

Your wide-eyed gaze flicked up to the mirror. He stood there, his expression as unreadable as ever, but the intensity in his eyes made your stomach twist. Despite yourself, you wiped your face with your sleeve and offered him a sheepish smile.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, stepping closer. His hand brushed your damp hair back from your face, the gesture tender in a way that made your breath hitch.

“Good,” you mumbled, though the truth was far from it. The alcohol swirled in your system, leaving you dizzier than before. But the way he touched you, the way he looked at you, it sent a warmth through your chest that was impossible to ignore.

“Yeah?” he hummed, his tone low and velvety, each syllable wrapping around you like a shackle. You hadn’t even noticed how close he’d gotten until now, his chest pressing lightly against your back.

Your breath hitched as something firm brushed against you from behind, and you let out a small, involuntary whimper. “Sir Young-il…?”

“In-ho,” he rasped, cutting you off. “My real name, it’s In-ho.” His voice had dropped even lower, and there was something raw and possessive in the way he said it. You blinked, confused, his real name rolling off your tongue before you could even think twice to question him.

“In-ho,” you repeated softly, as if testing the weight of it. “What’s going on?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, his hands settling firmly on your waist. “Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered, his eyes meeting yours through the mirror. “I’ll take good care of you. You trust me, don’t you?”

You nodded too quickly, too eagerly, the alcohol and your long-brewing crush on him clouding your better judgment. “I trust you,” you slurred, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his grip tightening slightly as he trailed his fingers along your waist, his touch deliberate and possessive.

He leaned in, closing the already small gap between you two as his lips found yours in a kiss—the first one you’d ever shared. Admittedly, it wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined it to unfold. You pictured your first kiss with a high school crush, maybe some boy your age who’d take you out on an innocent date. But all those dreams faded the moment you met In-ho, and now, all dreams you had were consumed by him.

You pressed against him, letting him take control as his kiss deepened, hungry and intense, like a man starved for more. You followed his lead instinctively, trusting him—because you always knew, deep down, he knew what was best. So when he raised his fingers to your lips, you hesitated for only a moment before parting them, allowing him to slip two fingers inside. His dark eyes gleamed as you sucked obediently, your cheeks flushing deeper under his watchful gaze. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, and his breathing grew heavier.

Pulling his fingers away, he wasted no time in hooking them into the waistband of your sweatpants, tugging them down in one hasty motion. His lips found the curve of your jaw, trailing kisses up to your ear as his right hand skimmed the sensitive skin of your neck.

You grabbed his wrist suddenly, your touch light and hesitant. “Wait, In-ho—” you murmured, your voice trembling with embarrassment. His dark eyes met yours in the mirror, his expression softening ever so slightly.

“I… I’ve never done anything like this before,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He wasn’t surprised; he had suspected as much. But hearing it from you, seeing the vulnerability in your gaze—only stoked the fire burning within him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice deceptively gentle, though there was an unmistakable tension in his tone.

You shook your head quickly, biting your lip. “I trust you. Just… be gentle. Please.”

He smiled at that, a flicker of something darker hidden beneath the curve of his lips. “Of course,” he murmured, his hands resuming their slow exploration. But in his mind, he knew the truth: restraint was never his strong suit. Especially when it came to you.

And with you—so soft, so eager, so completely his, he doubted he could hold himself back for long.

His fingers, still slick with your saliva, trailed down to your entrance, brushing over it with deliberate precision. The touch made you jolt, a shiver running up your spine as you gasped. In-ho groaned low in his throat, his eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror. “Fucking dripping,” he mused, his voice a sinful rasp. Slowly, he slid a finger inside, the intrusion making your thighs instinctively part.

A soft moan escaped your lips as he pressed deeper, his touch firm but unhurried. This wasn’t the first time you’d felt something like this, but the last time had been your own doing—fumbling, desperate, and entirely unremarkable. That had been just days ago, tucked away in one of these very bathroom stalls, shamefully thinking of him. Now, with his hands where yours had been, the stark difference had you feeling light-headed.

His fingers were thicker, rougher, impossibly skilled. The sensation left you trembling, your legs threatening to give out as he worked you open. His other arm snaked around your upper chest, holding you close, his grip firm yet possessive. The position bordered on a chokehold, but instead of fear, it only sent another wave of heat coursing through you.

Your breath hitched as a soft, broken “Ohmygod,” fell from your lips. He didn’t pause, didn’t falter. His finger curled just right, hitting a spot that made you see stars. Your hands gripped on In-ho’s forearm, knuckles white as you bit down hard on your lower lip, trying and failing to stifle your moans.

“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice was like velvet, roughened by desire. He pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. His other hand released its hold on your chest as it moved lower, settling on the curve of your ass. He squeezed firmly, eliciting a high-pitched mewl from you.

You nodded weakly, barely able to form words. “Uh-huh… feels so good, sir,”

That made him chuckle, a deep, dark sound that reverberated through your body. The honorific sent a thrill down his spine, his cock straining against the confines of his sweatpants.

“You’re ready,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he pulled back just enough to tug his waistband down. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes wide as you took him in, the sight was intimidating, your head reeling.

"In-ho, I–I don’t think I can take that." Your voice faltered, a hint of shame creeping into your words. He laughed, a sound so familiar it sent a chill down your spine. It was the kind of hearty laugh you'd grown so used to hearing from him. But now, there was something different—something darker layered beneath it, like a cruel mockery. "Course you can, angel," he said, his tone smooth but laced with an unsettling edge. "I know you can. Let me take care of you."

“H-Here? Like this?” you asked, your voice small and unsure, referring to the state he had you in—bent over the sink and in front of the mirror. utterly at his mercy.

He leaned in, his hand gripping your chin and forcing your gaze back at your reflection. “Right here,” he confirmed, his voice a low growl. Want you to watch yourself while I’m fucking you open.”

The vulgarity of his words sent a shiver through you, your body instinctively arching for him. You nodded, too dazed and drunk to do anything else, and he didn’t waste another second.

He slid inside slowly, the stretch making you cry out and grip the sink tighter. The initial sting was sharp, but it quickly gave way to something deeper, something so intense it left you gasping. Your legs wobbled beneath you, and you leaned harder against the sink for support.

“In-ho… In-ho,” you whimpered, his name falling from your lips like a chant. “Sir… I— I feel you in my stomach.”

The confession had him groaning, a sound so guttural it made your knees weak. “Yeah? Fuck, baby.” He babbled as he moved closer, his body pressing against yours as his hand trailed down with deliberate slowness. When his palm flattened against your stomach, his fingers brushing over the faint outline of him inside you, your breath hitched.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his composure slipping as he began to move. His hips snapped against yours, each thrust deliberate and punishing. You nodded frantically, a whimper escaping as he pressed down, sending a shockwave through your body. “In-ho, nngh!—“

You were completely out of it, your thoughts a tangled haze, your body slack and pliant in his hands. The alcohol coursing through your veins had stripped away every layer of hesitation, leaving you wide open to his manipulations. And In-ho, oh, he reveled in it. The way your voice slurred when you called his name, the way your movements were unsteady, dependent on him for every step and touch—it all fueled his sick delight. You were better than he could’ve ever imagined.

As he pulled you closer, pressing into you from behind, your gaze flicked to the bathroom door, a flicker of worry breaking through your drunken stupor. “In-ho…” you mewled, voice soft as you felt your body jerk with each rough thrust he made.. “What if–ah!—someone walks in?”

He paused, his hands resting possessively on your hips, a smile ghosting across his lips. “Don’t worry about that,” he said, his voice low and soothing, though there was an unmistakable edge of amusement in his tone. “The guards won’t come.” His confidence sent a shiver through you, but you weren’t entirely convinced. “But… but what if another player—”

“No one’s going to interrupt us,” he said firmly, his dark eyes boring into yours before you could finish your sentence. His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror. “You’re with me. They wouldn’t dare.”

Something about the absolute certainty, the power in his voice—had your anxiety ebbing away, replaced by a strange sense of safety. You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch, your inhibitions melting once again under his spell.

“You trust me, don’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Mmhm,” You squeaked out through laboured breaths.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you back against him. He watched your reflection as his fingers dug into your soft flesh, relishing the way you gasped and arched into his touch.

Your head lolled slightly, your body swaying under his hold. “Mmmh…I feel so dizzy,” you slurred, your voice barely above a whisper.

In-ho chuckled darkly, his hands moving to steady you. “That’s just the soju, sweetheart,” he said, though he didn’t bother hiding the smirk on his face. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He loved seeing you like this. Drunk, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. Every soft whimper, every stumble, every little movement that showed how completely you relied on him only fueled his desire. You were his, whether you realized it or not.

As his fingers grazed your skin, he couldn’t resist pushing you further, testing your reactions as he pushed your buttons. “You know,” he murmured, his lips ghosting along the curve of your neck, “Y’look so pretty like this. All fucked out and needy. Just for me.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, pressed against him. “Y-you think so?”

“I know so,” he replied, his voice a velvety purr. His hands roamed over your body, exploring, claiming. “Just look at yourself, baby. See how perfect you are for me?”

Your hazy eyes flicked to the mirror, taking in the sight of the two of you. His dark, piercing gaze met yours, his expression raw and predatory. The way he looked at you—it was almost too much. Your cheeks burned, and you averted your eyes, biting your lip.

He wasn’t having that. His hand left your waist, fingers gently gripping your chin and turning your face back toward the mirror. “No,” he said firmly. “I want you to watch. Watch yourself while I take care of you.”

The authority in his voice sent a thrill through you, your body trembling as you nodded weakly. “O-okay—ah, fuck!”

“Atta girl,” he chuckled, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.

As his hands roamed lower, teasing and exploring, you couldn’t help the soft, breathless moans that spilled from your lips. Every touch, every word, every look from him pulled you deeper into the fog of your drunken desire, leaving you utterly helpless in his grasp.

And In-ho? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room filled with the lewd sounds of skin meeting skin, your muffled cries, and his filthy murmurs. “Thaat’s it, there’s my pretty girl.” His hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, his lips brushing against your ear. “Fucking take it. Just like that.”

Every thrust sent you higher, the alcohol in your system amplifying every sensation, every nerve alight with pleasure. Your mind was fogged, the world around you turning into nothing but a senseless blur. And yet, you felt every little sensation In-ho fed you, each rough snap of his hips driving you closer and closer to the edge.

You felt your climax building, overwhelming and unstoppable. Your eyes fluttered shut, ready to let go—but his hand suddenly cupped your cheek, a sharp slap bringing you back.

“I told you,” he growled, his voice authoritative. “None of that. You keep your eyes on me when I fill you up. Understand?”

You nodded frantically, gasping as you forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze once again through the mirror—the sight was enough to send you over the edge. Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you cried out his name.

The sight of you coming undone beneath him was his undoing. With a few more erratic thrusts, he followed, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. A deep groan tore from his chest, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he rode out his high.

The room fell into silence, save for the sound of your labored breathing. In-ho steadied you, his hands gentle now as he helped you stand. He brushed your hair back, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“If we get out of here alive…” A sheepish smile spread across your face, “Let’s drink again sometime?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “When we get out,” he corrected, his tone laced with quiet determination. He kissed you once more, sealing the promise. And he meant it. If it meant keeping you by his side, he’d kill every last player in the game with his bare hands.

#hwang in ho #inho x reader #inho smut #player 001 #squidgame 2 #in ho squid game #smut #oh young il #the frontman

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beloveds-embrace · 9 months ago

Text

masterpost || MDNI

Hi! You can call me Noona! I write whatever comes to my mind and atm, I am very much obsessed with CoD and Genshin/Capitano. I am very much open to hearing ideas and just yapping in general, but I also can’t promise that I will write every request.

What I don’t write: fully explicit smut, suicide

Masterlist has not been updated fully. Use the tag noona.writes to see everything I’ve written!

Masterlist:

POLY 141 X READER:

Goddess!reader x poly 141

2. Baker Reader x poly 141

part 1 + part 2

3. Sick!Reader x 141

4. Bunny Owner Reader x Poly 141: Matchmaking Buns

part 1 + part 2

5. Chubby Reader x Firefighters 141

6. Expiration Date Concept

7. Stage Manager Reader x Magic Mike 141

8. Chubby Reader x Monster 141

part one + part two

9. Lavender Marriage AU

part one + part two

10. Abused Reader x Poly 141

part one + part two

11. Dark Romance Reader

12. Haunted House Shenanigans

13. john catches you making out with one of his men

14. spoiling them when they return from missions

15. False Accusations Concept

16. going to them for safety + guard dogs

17. kittens named after their titles

18. Poly 141 x Farmer Reader

20. Poly 141 x Neighbor reader

21. Clubs and Oiled men

22. Vampire 141 x Blood Donor Reader

23. Bodyguards 141 x Sick Reader

24. Poly 141 x Protective Reader

25. Shared-Wife trope

26. food: no1 source of comfort

27. anasthasia

28. Dragon John Collecting Chubby Reader into His Hoard:

p1 + p2 + p3

29. arranged marriage

30. harpy 141 grooming harpy reader

31. Chubby Burlesque Reader x 141

32. Reader with a Terrible Past

33. Self-Sacrificial Reader

34. Vampire Poly 141 x Reader: Late Night Hunger

35. yandere 141: bro-zone edition

36. 141 x big, tall fem reader they mistake for a man at first

37. 141 x Hacker Reader

38. Scuba Divers 141 x Mermaid Reader + super lovely art by @grombs-blog <333

39. mafia 141 x singer reader

40. 141 x recluse reader

41. 141 x Protective Reader:

p1 + p2 + p3

42. Guards 141 x Princess Reader

OTHERS:

Bite kink with Soap

Yandere Capitano + part two

Bundad Simon

harpy Gaz x wingless reader concept + oneshot + more

moose Konig

rugby player simon x ballerina reader

divorced but obsessed simon x reader

Ghoap angst concept

simon x family traditions

Horrible konig concept

john price x single mom reader

simon and a certain someone grieving your loss

from simon's girl to his missus

johnny's supportive nature

you came/you called

lipstick testing

Big eater simon riley

house-trained Simon Riley + p2

bear price x chubby reader, winter day

Simon Riley x reader: non-sexual smell kink

Raven Hybrids Simon x Reader

"As beautiful as the day I lost you"

John Price x Soldier Reader who wants to be wife-d up

Dukedom 141 Masterlist

CoD Omegaverse

Roommate au masterlist

Until the Last Loop

Here Comes the Sun + p2

Witch of the Woods

Bakery/Coffee Shop au

Fae Duke(King)dom au \\ different take

ANONS

WIPS

#masterlist #noona.posts

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dior-luxury · 2 months ago

Note

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

PT.1 [trey clover . jack howl . jade leech . jamil viper . epel felmier . silver] PT.2 [cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek]

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: This series like my 'Kiss And Make-out' series was heavily request so... Part two, here we go!! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

1K notes · View notes

buckysm · 5 months ago

Text

2:15 am (and i miss you)

ᯓ★part one, part two,

ᯓ★ Bucky Barnes x fem ex hydra AVENGER reader

ᯓ★ part one word count 6k+

ᯓ★a/n: junie’s first post— so please show some love— i hope you like!! my inbox is always open to chat! (minor edits on jan 27) (more edits on mar 11)

ᯓ★ summary: In the quiet hours of the night, you and Bucky find solace in an unexpected friendship built on sleepless conversations and cigarettes. Slowly, walls come down, and a bond forms, kept hidden from the team. But when crisis strikes, the Avengers are shocked to discover just how deep that connection runs—and just how far you’d go for each other. (i wrote this bc of a little fantasy of being in a secret situationship with bucky and the team finding out when bucky goes feral after reader goes missing during a mission)

ᯓ★ warnings/ tags/ tropes for the whole series: canon? what canon?, haters to lovers -- except you never hated him and he just resented you-- midnight rendezvous, friends to lovers, Anxiety, angst and fluff and smut, Bucky Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes Bucky Barnes issues related to past trauma, not so platonic cuddling, slow burn, jealous Bucky Barnes Miscommunication, Mentions of torture off screen (to be added and expanded as i post part two) NOT BETA READ

These are the hands of fate/ You're my Achilles heel/ This is the golden age of something good and right and real

It started with a cigarette.

It started when he had lent you a lighter. He did not smoke, and you didn’t ask why he had one.

For him, it started months before then.

Bucky was barely coping when you joined the team. His days were muddled by an eternal haze of anger and frustration…His life had been stolen from him, along with his memories from before. He did not feel like he deserved redemption. He had done terrible things, had had horrible things done to him.

He found himself disassociating whenever he wasn’t on a mission. He did not feel real; he couldn’t joke around and feel good without betraying his past. Yet, his past was real; it happened. But Bucky couldn’t just move on, couldn’t just exist without the churning in his gut telling him he was dirty, he was dripping in sin, tarnished by the red in his ledger, filthy to the point of no return.

When he was told about you, his body turned taut with trepidation. Two sides of the same coin. You were injected with serum just like him. Made to do things and had things done to you just like him. And he had heard of you. They had called you serpiente, the serpent, the snake. You were deadly and never made a mistake. No one knew any identifying details about you, not even your gender.

And it was his mistake, thinking you were a man. He yearned to be understood; maybe he would find companionship in you.

But then, you were not a man. The first time he beheld you, he had just finished a mission for Fury. Secret and dirty, he felt right at home doing SHIELD’s grunt work.

You were walking down the compound, side to side with Black Widow. He had assumed you were one of her brethren; maybe you had trained with her, a black widow yourself. Tony Stark pranced a few paces before you.

“Soldier, good you’re here! Come meet our newest recruit!”

Your smile was disarmingly bright. Pretty. Bucky felt himself grow cold with fury. It was a smile that came easily to you. And your eyes, frustratingly soft. You seemed at peace with yourself, and he hated that.

He just stared at you in response. Eyes hard. Waiting for you to react to his lack of reciprocity. You didn’t bite his hook. You just slightly pursed your lips and took his glare in stride.

“Nice to meet you. Stark was telling me about you. All good things, so don’t worry. But I had heard about you from before—you know—we do have in common h-”

“We have nothing in common.” He snarled before walking away, fuming. How dare you? How dare you make chit-chat about the thing that haunted his life. Every waking hour, every nightmare, he was haunted by his past. And you wanted to…what? Talk about it over jokes? No. He decided you had nothing in common.

Maybe your body count was higher than his, and he chose to ignore the elephant in the room. The fact that you were a beautiful woman could be a weapon as much as it could be a vulnerability.

He hated you a bit more each time he saw you get along with the rest of the team. How dare you?

He had thought, had been so sure, that the reason he was disliked was because of his past. But that wasn’t it, was it? Because you and the black widow seemed to do just fine. Maybe he was just broken, and perhaps you had been too, but you had fixed yourself just fine. Parallel wounds, yours had healed, while he had festered like a virus. How dare you?

His despise grew with each smile, each laugh, each time you were slapped on the back.

Everything came to a head when he found you on the balcony. He had thought it was his balcony. His.

It wasn’t a balcony, more of a ledge. A floor that had been destroyed during a hulk mishap had not been fixed and did not look like it would be anytime soon.

The wind was strong. You stood at the edge, facing the precipice. You seemed so peaceful.

He stared at your profile, illuminated by the city lights. Your expression was sad. He had never seen it like that. Your lips were tight, eyes fluttered shut. Were you about to jump?

He walked toward you, deliberately moving his limbs so that you heard his footsteps.

You turned unhurriedly, your eyes opening slowly. There was a small moment where Bucky saw you, your unguarded face. He was too involved in his stupor and had not considered the possibility of it all being a facade. But months had passed, and your mask hadn’t slipped until now.

It was only a fraction of a vulnerable moment before you schooled your features. And it angered him for some reason. Seeing you so easily slip into the practiced mask. It made him like the rest, taking you at face value, not digging deeper past your pretty face, sparkling eyes, and gleaming smile. But then he was angry at himself for not looking past and you for pretending.

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, words were coming out of his mouth faster than he processed them.

“Do not do that, don’t do that.”

You sighed, your mask falling to one of disdain. You looked disappointed in Bucky, exasperated. It was a look of derision; he felt scorned, yet it was better than the fake platitudes.

“Do what? Now, what am I doing that deserves your anger?”

“Pretending,” Bucky grunted.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “So what am I supposed to do according to you, huh?” You walked away from the ledge toward him. He towered over you, head lowered to meet your defiant gaze. “Am I supposed to growl, frown, and hate myself for things I can’t control? Well, guess what? I've been there and done that! And, hey—guess again what happened. I hated it. So what if I am faking it? Maybe if I fake it hard enough, it’ll come true.”

“What’ll come true?” Bucky asked beside himself, snarling.

“Wanting to live, not letting them win. Because if I hate myself, then they win.” Your angry gaze wavered, turning sad. You looked away from him towards the city skyline. “I’ll go now, leave you alone to your self-hatred and whatever….” You started making your way to the battered elevator doors.

Bucky sighed, exasperated. “No, stay. I’m sorry.”

You had stopped walking away, your footsteps silent, but some sixth sense told him you had, in fact, paused.

He turned toward you. “I’m sorry.” He echoed.

You nodded, moving towards the ledge and sitting on it.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Careful there, doll face.” His voice was gruff. “Don’t want you to fall off.”

You stiffened slightly, taken off guard, not for the first time tonight. The sweet nickname, coupled with his harsh voice, made heat rise to your cheeks. You decided to appear as if you took it in stride. Not wanting him to know just how much his words meant to you. Wanting to hear him call you that forever.

Because as much as you told yourself otherwise, it hurt when he brushed you off. You had looked up to him.

You didn’t have any memories of your past before the experiments or the training, so maybe it was different for him. He had a life that was taken away from him — and you were just now learning to have one.

You heard about him, heard him even. Heard his screams sometimes. Your handlers wanted to teach you what would happen when you didn’t behave.

It was clear he did not remember you. Why would he? He didn't know who you were when you passed each other in the hydra bases; that was part of your deal. No one expected a pretty girl to have a body count as high as yours.

Bucky had killed about 20-something people, important ones. You knew that Natasha had a count of about six hundred and had shared the fact with you. Bucky had been Hydra’s tool and was used only in important missions. While you…were a gun for hire, basically. A knife for hire. You used your charms on men and women alike to disarm them enough. Your kills were always up close and personal. Sometimes, you have to put yourself in compromising positions to do so. Bucky never had to.

You knew that he had to be put under a lot, had to have his brainwashed again and again, and conditioned an inhumane amount of times. His brain rebelled, and he had a life. Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he had memories or faint encodings of a life outside.

But you were awake all of the time. You did things because there was no other option. You had to survive. You didn’t know otherwise.

You pondered in silence. And when it became too much for you, you fumbled into one of the multiple pockets on your jacket for your cigarettes. You stiffened when you remembered you had left the lighter on your bedside counter. “Damn it.”

“What’s wrong, doll.” His voice was curious, less rough. He was standing somewhere behind you. You could feel the weight of his stare.

You wanted to comment on the pet names but didn’t want him to stop, so you swallowed a snarky remark. “I forgot my lighter.”

He made his way toward you, movements swift as he sat next to you, feet dangling on the edge. You understood him now. You didn’t want him to fall.

He slid his hand onto the pockets of his cargo pants and came out with a lighter.

You smiled at him. His eyes never strayed from yours as he placed the lighter in your hand.

His eyes were beautiful, darker than usual under the low light.

You tore away from his gaze. Placing a cigarette between your lips, you cupped the lighter and flicked it on.

You took a drag of the cigarette, enjoying the burn. Enjoying the strong scent, stronger than other cigarettes. It made your head light.

Banner had made them for you after you expressed sadness about not being able to enjoy any substances.

You heard a sniff. He had noticed it, too.

You waited a second, leaving the smoke in your lungs, before exhaling. “It’s enhanced with something, Banner made it for me.”

He hummed.

“You want one?” You looked at him from the corner of your eyes, not wanting to turn your face entirely.

“Thanks for offering, doll, but I don’t smoke.”

You hummed, taking another drag. “Not even before?” your question was tentative. You wanted to see if he would open up to you.

He hummed softly. “I did, yes, once or twice. But Steve couldn’t handle the secondhand smoke, so I stopped. Little asthmatic punk…”

Silence stretched out as you enjoyed the lightheaded sensation. Your limbs loosened, and you felt free.

“D’ya miss him?” You turned fully toward him.

His eyes never strayed from the skyline as he answered, “I do. It’s different. We’ve both changed a lot. You know how it is, losing the past.”

“I don’t know, not really…” your voice was soft and resigned.

His eyes flashed to yours. You didn’t know what to do with the full weight of his stare. “What do you mean by that doll?” His brows were furrowed.

You sighed, not wanting to get into it. “It’s late…” You took out your AVENGER-sanctioned phone to check the time, 2:15 A.M.

“I’m going to sleep.” You lied. And you couldn’t stop more words from tumbling out of your mouth. Clumsy and rushed. “Same time tomorrow?”

A ghost of a smile pulled slightly at the corner of his lips. “See you doll face. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, Jamie.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Jamie….

He had been too quick to judge, and now he couldn’t get you out of his thoughts. His sleep was fitful, but he was granted a reprieve from his nightmares. Dreaming instead of the multitudes in your eyes.

It was a slow day in the compound. He had a routine during slow days; he would go to his favorite training room and lose himself. The training room itself didn’t lack anything, but he had marked his territory with his glares at anyone who entered. He had achieved an unspoken ownership of that particular room.

After having you torment his dreams, however, he had to see you in person. He tried to contain himself and started his routine in the training room.

It lasted 42 minutes.

No amount of dagger throws could get him to calm down.

He found you on the tower’s common floor.

You hunched over a table, Banner at your side. Coming down was worth it.

“Well, good morning there, Sarge. It's nice of you to come out of your room and join the land of the living.”

And he immediately regretted it.

“Stark!” Two voices proclaimed in tandem. You and Steve jumped to defend him, Steve’s voice was sharp, and yours was a playful whine.

“What? I’m just saying, he’s acting like a teenager!” Stark’s voice was a defensive grumble. He tinkered with the toaster in the kitchen area.

“Oh, as opposed to you, who behaves so maturely?” The tone of your voice was playful but had a hidden bite to it. Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate it.

You turned to smile at him, and Steve turned to bicker with Tony. Bucky rolled his lips and moved to grab a mug. He poured himself a cup before walking away.

He barely heard Stark’s remark on his parting, mentally berating himself for caring about the hurt look that soured your face when he did not return your smile. He shouldn’t care; caring was dangerous. It made him vulnerable and put him in a position where he could be easily hurt again.

He had to be careful; he did not want to break down the walls he had put up protecting himself and others from himself.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You almost didn’t show up. Hurt but not surprised by his attitude.

You paced the room you had on Natasha’s floor. She was not home, leaving you to pace away your conflicting thoughts.

Your heart had skipped a beat when he showed up. He never showed up; he was a ghostly presence in the compound. Part of the team, but never there for ‘team building exercises’…

It was 2:14 when you rushed to the elevator, a pounding of indecision in your chest. You told yourself it was curiosity. You needed to know more about him, needed to figure him out - maybe then you would be able to understand why he made you want…-

The silent elevator ride left you time to think.

He is hurt, just projecting/ This could end badly/ This could end with a friendship/ He was an asshole/ He just needs a friend/ At the cost of your sanity?/

Two inner voices argued with each other in the back of your mind. You let them.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and there he was. The voices went quiet as soon as your eyes fell on him.

He leaned against a thick construction support post, overlooking the city skyline, his back to you.

“Nice of you to join me, doll.”

DOLL?! Asshole, he dared to call you doll- yet acted coldly toward you in public?! You grunted angrily, mimicking his usual blasé attitude and walking to stand beside him, not looking at him.

As you stared at the beautiful Manhattan skyline, a storm of anger raged inside you.

“Is everything alright, doll?” His voice was softer, and you weren’t as angry anymore.

Yes, he hadn’t smiled at you, but what exactly made you expect that from him? Yes, he called you doll, but he was from the forties. Plus, he hadn’t smiled at you before. And-what? You had one conversation, and suddenly, you expected him to smile at you? You were delusional! This man was set in his ways and maybe bored, but it meant nothing. He was bored and lonely, and you were overthinking everything. You were new at this, at socialization. Genuine socializing. You socialized a lot for your HYDRA days, but this was new. You were used to having the upper hand and being in control.

You sighed out your exasperation, letting your tense shoulders loosen.

“Mhm…” your eyes never strayed from the city.

You stood in comfortable silence. You were an expert at working yourself into a stupor. But honestly, you were about… twenty twenty-one (you lost time during HYDRA). Yet you felt emotionally stunted- of course, you did. You never had the chance to actually develop skills people your age did.

“This feels like a dream. Like I am hallucinating being free, and I will wake up from passing out due to torture and be back in my cell…” Words tumbled out of your mouth. You were also bored and lonely. Faking your way with the others made you exhausted.

He made no response, but you could tell he understood. And that was enough. You fumbled for your cigarettes. He slid a lighter from his pocket, handing it to you wordlessly.

You took it from his hand, inhaling to light your smoke.

“You know? It’s dumb… but I sometimes feel like screaming at them… like something deep inside me yearns to scream, kick, and throw whatever is around- to get out all my pent-up energy; maybe then I can pass out from exhaustion and sleep. And yea- the novelty of being free, and being in the fucking Avengers is slowly wearing off, and I just-” you sighed, you were talking, and maybe he wasn’t even interested in hearing you whine. “And whatever, I should be grateful… it’s dumb…” You stopped yourself. Letting the chilly New York air into your lungs.

“No, doll, it’s not dumb.” He turned to look at you, forcing you to face the full weight of his gaze. He was devastatingly beautiful. Your inhale was sharp. “Don’t feel bad about being angry. It’s valid to feel this way.”

You smiled then, “Look at you, giving emotional advice. Who knew you were a big softy underneath that grouchy, grumbling exterior.”

He scoffed, but you could tell there was no real meaning behind it. Your smile grew.

His eyes lowered to your lips for a charged moment before looking back to the city. “Those who can’t do, teach-” His lips tugged slightly upwards, a glimpse of a smile.

You took a drag of your cigarette, staring unashamedly at his profile. “What do you do when you are not brooding? Like, what does one do for fun around here?”

“At two am in the morning, doll, those who aren’t sleeping…” he trailed off, a soft pink brightening his cheeks.

“Are what?” your grin was teasing.

“Are you on a mission or something?” His voice came out slightly strangled.

“Or something…” you murmured, a yawn escaping you.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“So, you really liked big band music? Kind of… classy for a guy who threw himself off buildings.”

“Hey, a man can appreciate good music and bad decisions.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Stark’s fine, sometimes… but his ego’s bigger than his bank account.”

“If I had his money, I’d buy a planet and avoid people altogether.” You sighed,

“Doll, you’d get bored in two days.”

“True. I’d need at least one grump to frown at me.”

He couldn’t hide his soft grin.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Paris. You think it’s as romantic as everyone says?”

“Probably less if I was there...”

“You’re right. You’d make it a lot more broody.”

“And you’d make it a lot more… sneaky. You’d blend into the shadows and pickpocket tourists.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I could live off this forever.” You spoke around a mouthful of pizza

Bucky grimaced. “Takeout pizza? You call that food?”

“Says the man who probably ate spam for dinner in the ’40s.”

“Now, doll, it was a delicacy back then.”

“Spam’s not a delicacy in any era, Barnes.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever thought about getting a pet? Like a dog or something?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Me, with a dog? Not sure I’d be a good influence.”

“Nah, they’d see through you.”

“I’m more of a cat person.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I like the quiet moments just before dawn. No one’s around to bother you.”

“Night’s better. Everyone’s already asleep. Feels like you’re the only one left.”

“Until you realize someone like me is lurking in the dark.”

“Yeah, lucky me.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“So, any weird phobias? Mine’s spiders. Too many legs.”

Bucky shrugged. “Needles. After Hydra? No thanks.”

You nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. But hey, at least you could crush a spider for me. And I can catch all your bulk when you pass out at the sight of a needle.”

“Ha, ha.”

Someday, you’d get a real laugh out of him.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“If you weren’t a super soldier, what would you do?”

“Maybe a mechanic. Fixing cars, quiet life. You?”

“Bartender. People tell you their secrets. It’s like espionage, but with cocktails.”

“Sounds dangerous, doll. What’s in the drink?”

You grinned. “Depends on who’s asking.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I keep getting these flashes… Steve dragged me to Coney Island, insisting I’d love it. Turns out, I hate roller coasters.”

You rolled your lips, deciding on what to say. “I don’t have any memories of before Hydra, but I dream about falling. Maybe I would love roller coasters.”

“I’ll take your word for it, doll. I prefer solid ground now.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever feel like the idea of ‘freedom’ is just another way to trap us? Like, what do we even do with it?”

“I dunno. Still figuring that out. But it beats following orders like a puppet.”

“Yeah. I just wish freedom came with an instruction manual.”

“If it did, doll, I’d probably ignore it. I don’t need another piece of paper dictating my life..”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You were late, and Bucky was ready to leave when he heard the elevator doors open. You held a full white plastic bag.

“Honey, I’m home, and I brought dinner!” you had a slight spring in your step; he turned toward you, and a smile of pleasure and relief made its way into his expression without his consent. Your steps faltered slightly, your brows furrowing for a moment before a beaming smile took over, your eyes twinkling. It was real, not a sarcastic grin, a smile! Your response only made his smile more pronounced -slightly, but still-.

“It’s good that you don’t smile; if you did, people would pass out on the spot.”

He couldn’t stop the small laugh coming out of his mouth. “Not you?”

“Not me, I’m made of stronger stuff.” You sat beside him, a bit farther from the ledge than usual.

He followed suit, crouching in front of you. He noted the way you eyed his legs, your inhale, and the way you had to force yourself to look away.

“I wonder what would make you pass out.” His mouth ran away from his brain.

“Maybe take me to a fancy restaurant, and then you can try to find out.”

The thought made his heart race, and he stopped thinking about it. You were joking, it was friendly— you weren’t serious.

“I could, we could go on a few dates, and you would end it when you realize I’m too old and bitter for you, doll. Maybe it’s best we stay here at 2:15 A.M., where I can lend you a light.”

Your face soured to a pout. “Well I like my men a little bit older. But if you are telling me I’m not your type, and you like old ladies, well then I can handle rejection, not the worst thing I’ve lived through.” Your smile was sarcastic, yet he could tell there was hurt behind your eyes.

“No, doll, I don’t think anyone could reject you even if they tried.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Your heart raced at his words, caught off guard by their raw sincerity. You weren’t used to hearing compliments, not ones that felt real. A flippant remark was on the tip of your tongue, ready to deflect the tension, but it got stuck.

“You ever think about it? You know… dating?”

He snorted softly, “Who would date me? I’ve got more shit to deal with than anyone would want to deal with.”

You grinned. “Hey, at least you’re mysterious. I’m more… ‘potential assassin.’”

“Ah, the classic ‘will she kill me on the first date’ dilemma. I can hide the metal arm, but you can’t hide the serial killer smile.”

You laughed loudly, shoving him playfully.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

It was a few weeks after the initial meeting, and meeting had become a habit, a tradition of sorts.

You gave him a shy smile when others were present, and he reciprocated with a soft look in his eyes.

He knew he was being obvious with his staring, but he couldn’t help himself from looking at you.

He leaned on the counter, eyes flicking to and from you. He beheld as you smiled and laughed with the rest. He was jealous that you weren’t bestowing a smile upon him, but he held none of the contempt from before.

He sensed an annoying presence beside him.

“Hey, creep, why don’t you join us for drinks tonight? As luck would have it, even your star-spangled ass is joining us.”

Said star-spangled ass turned to glare at Tony, his expression turning into a smile as his eyes shifted toward Bucky.

“Yeah, come with us, you’ll have fun, we promise.”

A myriad of yeahs chorused from the rest of the team, including you. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he looked at the ceiling. “Whatever.” He muttered.

“Well, that wasn’t a no!” you grinned, acknowledging him.” Your smile was so bright he couldn’t take it.

He sighed and grumbled incoherently before turning to hide his blush and walking away.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You smiled to yourself as he retreaded.

Natasha bumped your shoulders together. “He stares at you so much, I have no clue if he hates you or wants you. Maybe both!”

“Nat, don’t be rude; it’s probably because I’m new.”

She smirked, “Sure.” You hadn’t been new for a while.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

He was anxious. It took him forty minutes to place where the tight feeling in his chest was coming from. But it came down to you. It always came down to you as of late.

Steve had an arm around his shoulders and was babbling on about how much fun these rare night outs were, where everyone was present.

He didn’t know what he expected, but you weren’t talking to some guy. Enthusiastic hand gestures and a dazzling smile on your face as some random guy looked at you with an entranced smile.

He felt bile rising in his throat.

He wanted to turn around and walk away, but that would have been too obvious. So he walked in with his stomach dropping with anguish.

He was out of it, sipping a drink that Steve had handed him. His taste buds not even processing the taste of his drink.

“Yo! Joe Goldberg, knock it out with the serial killer stare.”

He felt a smack on his shoulder. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from you.

“What are you talking about?” he grumbled. Smooth. Real smooth.

Even though she was shorter than him, Natasha towered over Bucky. “I don’t know your problem, but you have to check it. It’s getting really weird.”

He felt a hand fist in his heart, tight. He downed the drink and sighed. Think Bucky. Think. “It’s not like that.” He was quiet for a few moments, formulating a response.

“Well, then explain why you keep staring at her like you want to strangle her.”

“I don’t want to— fuck.” He placed the empty glass on the table. “She’s also from Hydra.” He stated.

“Yeah, duh.” Natasha looked at him with contempt.

He needed to fix the fact that she thought he was some sort of obsessed weirdo…. He wasn’t!

“She’s so normal, happy. And she…” he trailed off.

Natasha’s expression shifted to one of understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He looked to Steve, who tried to make it seem like he wasn’t listening to the conversation.

“Bucky, you’re-” Natasha placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to get another drink.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You could tell something was wrong when you stepped out of the elevator. He was quiet, not the usual kind, brooding. You acted like you always did, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“Bucky, is everything alright?” your voice was soft.

His reply was an irritated huff. You waited for a few moments, letting him have his space.

The night was cold, and you had worn thick cotton clothing. He wore a hoodie and pants; they looked comfortable, but the man in them did not.

You hummed and moved closer toward him. He leaned on a pillar,

“Big mission tomorrow, huh?” You shifted tactics. It wasn’t odd for him to have a quiet night, where you just sat in companionable silence. This was different, though… he was angry about something. Some insecure part of you told you he was mad at you. But there wasn’t any foundation to that, was there?

He grunted in response. He was making you anxious. You sighed loudly, deciding to smoke or go to bed. The stilted silence made you anxious, a pressure hard on your chest. You tried to exhale it out, but it wouldn’t budge.

You let him wallow next to you for a few minutes before giving up and turning to face him. You placed a soft hand on his forearm, about to say goodnight. He flinched harshly, and your heart twisted. He grimaced, eyes shifting to you before flitting away.

“Bucky, if you need, I-” Your voice had a nervous tinge, and you hated it. You were glad when he interrupted you.

“Go to sleep, doll.” His voice was sad, his face resigned.

You furrowed your brows, studying his expression. You had the urge to kiss him on the cheek for good luck but knew that you would break if he flinched away.

“Goodnight Jamie…”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You walked away, turning your head twice to smile at him sadly. He held your gaze as the elevator doors closed, removing you from his field of vision. Taking you away from him.

“Fuck.” His voice was soft and defeated. He looked at the city skyline. His eyes glossed over. He wanted to get the self-hatred out, to hit the wall, break his knuckles, and kick at the litter on the floor. But he let it sit, let it fester in his chest. A leech that grew bigger as it fed on the churning, loathsome thoughts overwhelming his brain.

He crumpled with the ease of a paper, falling to the ground.

His limbs splayed as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t take it. Any of it. He always told himself he was strong. He was The Winter Soldier, for fuck’s sake! And here he was, crying over a girl. But that wasn’t it. Or it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that he was too soft for all of it. And he was still somewhat human at the end of the day. He still had emotions, and he was starved for comfort. He lacked connection. And he was okay without it. Having gone so long without it, he had grown used to the lack. But then you had come into his sanctuary and ruined everything, and he let you. He felt a kinship with you. You had gone through hell and back, had walked the same road as him, and you smiled so big, your eyes twinkled so bright. He couldn’t help but fall into your orbit. Admiring you from afar.

Maybe it was better when he hated you; it was something he was used to and comfortable. He did not know what to do with all these feelings; he hadn’t felt them before, not even in the 40s. He was happy then; it was normal for him to smile. He didn’t know how to appreciate it. Yes, there was war, but there was hope, and Captain America was there to save him, but then Steve wasn’t there anymore. And any sliver of hope was quickly crushed under gleaming leather Hydra boots. He would die someday on a Hydra mission; he had made peace with that. But Steve did save him, a little too late. He wasn’t Bucky anymore and did not feel like he had any right to the mantle of Captain America’s best friend. Some parts of him still wanted that, but all of him yearned to be your Jamie.

And now bitter and traumatized, he held a flower in his calloused hands, and he didn’t know if he was worthy of it. He couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die here, and he couldn’t go in peace because he wanted to see you one more time. He couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t move; he keened in pain like a puppy.

Pathetic, get up. Voices from Hydra spewed venom, wracking through his psyche. He clenched his jaw and groaned from deep in his throat.

Broken…unworthy…killer…tainted…

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The mission was successful. The team had divided in two, his group had finished earlier.

He felt better, exhausted. It had been a long mission. He was covered in grime and blood.

It was rare for him to get to the point of exhaustion, but he had dived head-first into hand-to-hand combat, not letting up, ignoring the black widow’s knowing looks.

Freshly showered and changed into sweats, Bucky let himself fall face-first into his too-soft bed. Days of restless sleep and today’s exertion weighed his body down and pulled his mind into sweet oblivion.

He awoke with a start, looked at the clock, and sat up. 3:22 A.M.

He had stood you up. He rushed to the elevator and up to the floor. His thoughts raced with self-criticism and hatred. He breathed out a frustrated sigh, you weren’t there.

Of course, you weren’t there – he had been over an hour late.

He grumbled to himself all the way down to the common floor. His footsteps skidded to a stop when he found all the lights on and a flurry of activity.

Hawkeye typed furiously into a computer; Black Widow paced the floor, her hands fiddling with tech stuff. Steve was curled over a tablet, his hands clenched around the edge of a countertop.

Bucky stopped. The other team hadn’t come back.

“What’s wrong… where is she?” His chest felt tight.

Steve motioned at him to come near while the other two ignored him.

“Look, Bucky, I know you have some fondness for her, but I need you to calm down. She’s — uh— she’s missing…”

His ears started ringing; he didn’t hear anything after that. He took deep breaths, running his hands through his hair. It was longer, and he needed a haircut. Maybe you could cut his hair. Yeah, that sounded nice.

He stilled. Breathing in deep, “Give me the details. I’ll have her back with me within the hour.”

He didn’t recognize his voice. Black Widow and Hawkeye had turned to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Bucky, calm down, she’s alive from what we can tell, we can’t deal with y- we have to focus on finding her right now.”

“I am focused. I will find her.” His voice was gruff, and the language wasn’t English. He was reverting back…

Iron Man decided it was the best moment to walk in.

Bucky, The Winter Soldier, turned around with intent. He had some inkling of what he must have looked like, a menace— because Iron Man was opening his mouth to make some snarky remark, his jaw clenching shut, hands rising in surrender.

“Где она, где моя кукла?” Where is she? Where is my doll?.

His voice had a deadly cadence. He spoke and meant death.

“She’s okay, Wanda has her.” Black Widow had placed the radio on a table. She walked toward The Soldier slowly.

Wanda, the deadly witch, saved from Sokovia. He remembered her. She was strong. Not strong enough.

He leveled his eyes on her. “скажи мне где, или ты умрешь.” Tell me where, or die.

Her eyes grew hard. “Calm down, soldier. There is no need to threaten anyone.”

The tension was palpable then, rising… rising-

The Doors opened to you limping… being supported by the witch and the doctor.

His shoulders slumped. He shifted toward you, but something blocked his path. He looked down to see Steve’s arm pushing against his chest. The enemy’s stance was on the offense, about to attack, to keep her from him. He was about to threaten his best friend, The Captain, to move when-

“Jamie…”

His gaze flashed toward you. You pushed away from them, limping— stumbling toward him.

He met no resistance this time as he rushed softly toward you.

Your knees buckled as he wrapped his arms around you. You collapsed against him.

You sobbed softly- and he broke. His arms were strong and soft as he held you close.

He didn’t care about anything. He didn’t care how the scene looked. He didn’t care that they all knew for certain now. He loved you.

He just needed to know you were okay.

He held you as you shook, “I thought, I was back there Jamie, I- thought I wasn’t going to to see you again. I thought he would get lonely, and- and- I was going to miss you- they- they- I didn’t care about any of it. I just thought about you….” You sobbed, trying to get words out. “I got out. I killed them all, I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face not- I killed…” For you.

“Kukla…” Doll. “you’re here, you’re okay, let’s get you to the infirmary. You are hurt and bleeding…”

His voice was so, so soft —dense with remnants of Russian. His arms holding you together.

He ignored it all, ignored the dropped jaws and furrowed brows. You came first. He had shown you his vulnerability, but he first had to be sure his Achilles heel would be okay.

Please remember to leave your kind thoughts in the comments, and if you enjoyed support with reblogs, ok thanks for reading be back with part two soon!!!!

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