#but i got carried away with details and it got too long

[ellewoodswrites]

couldn’t watch live so I didn’t dare come here until I finished watching, but tonight’s episode was so fun!!!!! I loved it, easily best episode of the season for me, and I didn’t even mind the pacing!

maybe I’ll have more detailed thoughts later but I truly loved everything. Some highlights:

Blake Ritson acting his ass off

Marian and Oscar together being pseudo-siblings, which I always love

and some acknowledgment of Oscar’s sexuality and the true nature of his grief over John’s death!! idk how accurate it is that Marian would figure this out so quickly but I’m okay with it, let the man have one person who supports him

John keeping the photographs of himself and Oscar made me legit cry — is he the most romantic man on the show? I think yes.

Mrs. Fish’s face while reading Society As I Have Found It was a delight! Great acting

I can finally see Gladys’ resemblance to Bertha, and it’s so marked for me that I don’t know how I never saw it before

Ada losing her shit over Mrs. Astor deigning to thank her was giving big “ignored in high school and trying to be cool in later life” vibes that I hate, but it’s in character

Ada and Marian’s talk was really nice

I really enjoyed the downstairs shenanigans at the Russell house — reminded me of the kind of thing we used to see on Downton Abbey that this show had often lacked (for which I blame the short seasons)

Peggy was absolutely radiant this episode and I thought the picnic scene was so sweet — so I really really don’t want to watch her get her heart broken 😭😭

Jack touring the house!!! Marian supporting him!!! Cuties.

Bless Jack for saying what needed to be said about Larry. They’re definitely naming one of their kids John now (do I have to rename my head-canoned Brook Russell kids to include this? I think I do).

Really enjoyed all the Larry and Marian scenes — Harry Richardson in particular was really good at portraying hurt and bewilderment — and also some shame (imo) at his lie, and the realization that Marian has a very good and valid point about spending her life with a man who lies when it’s inconvenient.

Idk why George is being SO nasty to Bertha right now when they both have giant egos and boundless ambition. It’s pretty clear that he’s taking his frustrations out on her and I hate that for him and for her. I got it in the wake of the Gladys wedding (although he only has himself to blame, he did nothing to stop it if it was so offensive to him) but now it really feels like he’s just venting his frustration at his business failures on her, and I hate that.

George and Larry both turning away from Bertha to Do Business made my heart hurt for her

Look, I get why Larry jumped to the conclusion he did re Bertha interfering — and I don’t think it’s an unfair conclusion, based on the recent Gladys wedding finagling. It’s also a very human thing for an adult to lash out at their mom like this (IMO) about something that is actually their own damn fault, especially when hurt and vulnerable — but it still sucks to see, and I really felt for Bertha. Obvi I am a Larry fan but I am also a major Bertha fan. Larry has a bit of growing up to do that I think/hope is going to come out of this whole thing — both on the front of not telling (white, from his POV, but hurtful from another POV) lies to his fiancée, but also not jumping to conclusions and blaming his mom, and generally navigating his relationships with a bit more maturity and honesty…but that shit is hard, and I don’t want to see perfect characters. And it’s hard to have a domineering parent who you want to break free from (tbh both of the Russell parents, but he seems to be focusing his frustration on her this season) AND are also being unfair to said parent about other things.

This was a bullet point but then it got too long: give Carrie Coon a fucking Emmy already. My heart broke for her a hundred times this episode, and while I love Bertha, I am no Bertha stan — so Carrie was really selling it. I love seeing Bertha in all of her complex, flawed humanity, and this was a really satisfying episode for that, IMO. I find Bertha interesting as a character BECAUSE she is an ambitious striver who can be vicious and self-interested — but also is someone who clearly loves her family and is trying to do her best by them and by herself in both the restrictive society they live, and by her own beliefs about what is best. I also think she can be a power-hungry egomaniac who did blindly shove her daughter into a marriage her daughter didn’t want, willfully closing her eyes to that fact and focusing on what she (Bertha) was getting out of it. But that’s very much within her character, IMO — it’s the logical extension of her unfettered ambition (and her excellent ability to strategically plot something and see it through!), and I’m okay with seeing it, as much as I didn’t love it for Gladys. Both George and Bertha are ruthless people because they had to be to be who they are — while also being capable of deeply loving their family without seeing these things as contradictory. I just think they should have made George be a little bit more brutal in business to drive this point home (I really think he should have fired on the striking workers last season to drive home just how vicious he could be in business), because right now it’s feeling a bit imbalanced between George and Bertha, and I don’t think that’s entirely fair. They are BOTH Big Personalities with big ambitions, big egos, killer instincts, a deep ruthless streak, etc, and that’s what makes them interesting and compelling characters, IMO.

Just like it’s in character for Bertha to be ruthless and self-interested, it’s also in-character for her to drop everything and run to help Gladys in England (and totally fuck up Lady Sarah in a deeply satisfying way), and be proud of Larry for the copper mine whatever, and be so very hurt when her husband and son are ignoring her, and to be baffled by George’s sudden anger at her ambition (which is only rivalled by his own, c’mon George, that’s what you like about each other, don’t act all high and mighty) and all of her other little nuances. I don’t know what I am trying to say except that the character is very interesting to me, and Carrie Coon is absolutely killing the role.

Oh, and George got shot?! Good thing there’s a doctor across the street!

Trailer for next week looks great. Really looking forward to it.

Remember when I said I didn’t have long thoughts? This is how I end up writing long-ass fanfiction when I said I’d write something short. I just can’t stop.

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles - part II: reunion

(~3,4 k words) // part I here // au masterpost here --

After being left out in the open, weakened and alone, without supplies or his cloak, wings on full bright display, Grian… isn’t doing so well. 

He barely survived the attack. He scrambled so much to defend himself. He used the arrow (the one that was once buried in his thigh; the one he kept because it was sharp-edged and better than nothing). There was so much blood. It was all so horrible. 

Now he finds himself alone and cold and terrified, bleeding. Everything hurts and he doesn’t know where Scar is—

Where is Scar? 

... Did Scar leave him?

Scar wouldn’t leave him, right? (He doesn’t want to believe it. But the possibility that Scar might be in danger, somewhere far away from Grian, is absolutely dreadful.) 

The camp is empty when Grian stumbles back into it, and the ribbon is gone, and— Maybe Scar did replace him, after all? Got rid of the burden of Grian’s violet wings, chose the path of least resistance, opted for survival instead of trying to constantly fight against Grian’s doomed fate?

Grian is so scared and confused. Worried sick too, but he feels abandoned and doesn’t know where to go. He misses that fabric on his wrist. He feels so so alone. 

He tries waiting, for a while. But it’s dangerous to stay put and, eventually, he’s forced to move. And it almost feels familiar, in some awful way—it’s as if he was plunged back into his first week in this world. Hostile and cruel and nightmarish, with no reprieve, no kindness, no gentleness. No warmth to curl against, no hands to hold him steady, no safety net beneath his wobbly feet. Except he’s worn down by months in this world. And it’s colder now. And on top of that, he’s already wounded horribly.

He scrambles from place to place, leaving a trail of blood that he’s sure someone can trace. He tries so hard to hide himself, to lose any potential pursuers, but—

But a part of him wants to leave a trace. A part of him keeps hopelessly wishing that Scar might be out there, looking for him.

As days pass, that seems less and less likely.

Grian barely sleeps, reverting to old habits of wings pressed tightly against harsh surfaces in an attempt to hide them, surrendering the very much needed warmth they could provide if only he wrapped them around himself instead. He shivers, exhaustedly alert to every little sound. Dizzy and hurting and terrified.

He’s got nothing left now. Being with Scar feels like less of a memory and more of a fever dream. He's so sure it’ll now forever be this: him, lost alone in this vast forest, running until he can’t anymore. It will be the cold, or the hunger, injuries, or the hunters—something will inevitably bring him down, soon.

He misses Scar.

He hopes Scar is okay.

(He tries not to think about how he wishes this would all just end.) (He tries not to sink too much into exhausted, hopeless despair.) (He tries to dredge up his pesky resistance, any sort of spite against fate that could fuel him to just keep going, keep surviving.)

It’s a harsh week. He gets into more fights, each of them bleak and panic-filled and horrible. (A lot of the scars he later has—including the one on his face—come from this week spent alone.) He’s so, so tired. It all hurts. He’s scared.

When it happens, he’s curled up, hurt and bruised, face dirty and bloodied, body shaking from the cold, stomach twisted with hunger. All of a sudden he jolts, thinking he heard something distant that sounded like Scar’s voice. And he doesn’t know if he’s imagining things, because at this point that seems more likely than this being real, but he still can’t help himself as something urgent swells in him, begging him to reply, to call back.

He tries to call for Scar, but his voice falters and fails. His throat is so dry. He hasn’t made a sound in days.

Scar’s voice moves further away and Grian panics. He scrambles, unfurling his sore wings. Everything aches, his balance is off, but he tries to get up anyway. Desperate, he lets out a cry—a loud, sob-like sound, the only one still willing to wrangle itself from his throat. 

And then he does something he hasn’t done in months: he spreads his wings further, and he tries to fly.

The branches are thick, and Grian’s wings don’t really carry him, and in his blind desperation, he quickly crashes against a tree. His wing spikes with pain and he tumbles harshly to the ground, but he doesn’t pay it any attention.

Panicked desperation keeps flooding his veins as he’s sprawled on the forest floor, his own body not listening to him as his lungs edge hyperventillation. Because— Because Scar was there but he was moving away and Grian couldn’t follow and he’s— he’s—

He’s just going to die here, isn’t he?

The trees rustle. There’s a loud noise Grian can’t quite decipher, but it doesn’t matter.

All that registers is danger. 

Danger danger danger danger

It’s only ever been those horrible creatures. Nothing good approaches from the sky here. Grian’s made too much noise, and now they’ve found him, and he can’t fight, not anymore, not again, please—

A series of panicked, frantic chirps spills out of him on nothing but blind instinct as he tries to back away, press against something, flatten against the ground, anything.

His wings are bright. He doesn’t have a cloak. He can’t hide. He can't run.

He doesn't stand a chance.

He can’t do anything as the source of danger swoops down on him.

---

When Scar left Juni, he was a mess of conflicted emotions, the hurt and betrayal fresh and wildly flaring. But as he keeps moving, those emotions get overrun by others that spread through him like a wildfire: the rage, the desperation, the fear.

He doesn’t know where to go. 

He doesn’t know if Grian’e even alive.

With heart torn to pieces in his chest and nothing but feeble, foolish hope—and an insane amount of blind recklessness—he clutches the ribbon, spreads out his tattered wings, and leaps up, scaling the trees to get as high as he can. The morning light is soft, pale and gentle, interspersed with fog that obscures everything further in a cottony haze. 

Scar’s wings struggle to carry him, but he doesn’t care. He needs to go. He needs to go, and this is the fastest way, and—

He’d do anything right now. Anything to find Grian.

Desperately, he tries to feel the tug of their connection; the dark fabric of the ribbon prickles against his grip in silent accusation and Scar begs it to lead him. Yet there’s nothing to help him pick a direction; he simply scrambles in whichever way feels right. 

He hollers. It’s not a word, just a cry. A call. 

He really shouldn’t be loud, shouldn’t heedlessly drag attention to himself, but he doesn’t care what he attracts. The only thing that matters is that he also attracts Grian.

It feels futile. The world is vast and Scar doesn’t even know which direction him and Juni took, because he was continuously dosed with weakness. He doesn’t know how to get back to where he saw Grian last. (Days ago—) 

He flies and glides and leaps, yelling, heart feeling like it’s going to explode in his chest. 

And then he hears it.

A sob. A wretchedly (wonderfully) familiar sob.

His ears twitch rapidly, latching onto that. His whole body whips backwards midair, almost making him tumble completely. Frantically, in a haze of vex magic that edges on feral, he delves in the direction where he heard it.

He knows he’s near when his ears flick, catching another sound. Terrified little chirps.

He makes his way down through the trees. Down the branches. Down towards his avian.

---

Grian’s panic breaks the moment he catches sight of those bright spectral wings. Broken. So broken. Tattered and frantic. 

Scar is made of sharp claws and fangs and wisps of pale blue magic. He looks like a monster ready to pounce. He looks absolutely nightmarish and terrifying.

Grian’s never been more relieved in his life.

He scrambles forwards. He’s on his hands and knees and his wing throbs and his face is wounded and none of it matters. Scar rushes to meet him, his wings fading before he’s even on the ground, and he practically falls into an embrace. (His claws stay pressed to his palms, careful, so careful. His tail wraps around them as he holds on, holds on, never wanting to let go again.)

They both cling tightly and cry. Grian’s making garbled noises, as if he was trying to say things, but he’s crying too hard to be coherent; he just paws at Scar and clings and burrows into the comforting safety of his arms. (He thought Scar left him.) (He thought Scar got captured.) (He thought Scar was dead.)

Feeling the shivers and cold skin, Scar scrambles to wrap the cloak around Grian, noticing the limp wing in the process. (His heart hurts.)

The familiar weight of the cloak provides such a small but important sense of security. Grian tucks his wings underneath it, even though it hurts, one of the wings twitching and moving wrong. He hisses in pain, but it gets swallowed up by his sobs and crying.

Amidst it all, Scar isn’t doing well—he only just got clear headed from that constant dose of weakness and he’s just majorly overused his magic, slamming into trees as he glided recklessly—but he has to keep pushing through, keep using his magic to be able to function right now, because Grian is the priority here and Scar won’t rest until he knows Grian is safe.

Here isn’t safe. They’re out in the open, after making loads of noise. And— Grian’s hurt. He’s bleeding. It’s so clear that something happened and Scar wasn’t there and— He can’t bear it, can't forgive himself. 

Grian looks so cold and small and scared. And even though Scar was dosed with weakness potions, at least he was fed and kept warm. At least he was carefully steered away from danger and into shelters, left to rest. At least he wasn’t alone, terrified out of his mind for his life. 

Grian didn’t have any of those luxuries. And there’s no way Scar can undo any of it. 

Now Grian presses close to him, desperate to have him be here and be real. Through the crying, something desperate comes through—something that sounds like “Please don’t leave me again.” 

With a hitched breath and a heart torn to absolute pieces in his chest, Scar shakes his head. He’s choking on sobs as he babbles, “Never, no no no no, never, never—” Urgently, he tucks the ribbon back into Grian’s hands.

Grian thought he lost it forever. He immediately clings to it, in such a desperate, urgent gesture. Needing to feel it in his grasp, to tell himself that it wasn't lost, that its connection persists. That it still belongs to him. (The ribbon and Scar's heart alike—)

“Yours, yours yours yours.” Scar, too, means more than just the ribbon.

Grian cries so hard he can’t breathe. He’s holding onto the ribbon and pressing himself against Scar and— he’s loud. His sobs carry. He can’t get them under control; it’s just so so raw.

With shaking hands, Scar tries to tie the ribbon around Grian’s wrist, where it belongs. He’s shaking too much, he’s struggling. (Trying to ignore the bruising he sees there. As if someone tried to pin Grian down by his wrist—) He’s babbling incoherently through it all, the words that  tumble out of him both reassurances and apologies, repeating that he’s here, he’s here, he’s so sorry. Once he manages to get the ribbon tied, his words stumble through “This is yours, always yours, I’m yours, I’m sorry—”

Grian  has no words beyond Scar’s name.

In all of this, Scar’s feeling weird. He wants to scoop Grian up and never let go, but he’s a little afraid of his claws— a little afraid of himself, really. This has never happened quite like this, with the surge of vex magic that borders on feral. He is lucid but off. He still feels a bit like he’s spinning. This is real, right? It’s real?

A frightened squeeze to Grian’s hands is reciprocated with a squeeze back and a whimper. Scar makes a quick decision to pull Grian up, to lift him and hold  him tight. (He feels so urgent and needy, desperate and afraid that Grian is going to slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.) He tries not to be rough, but he still feels only barely in control of his own body. And despite the bruises and wounds that litter Grian’s body—despite everything hurting—Grian barely makes a sound of pain, instead tucking himself closely to Scar. Relieved to be held, to feel him so near. Trusting him fully with himself.

Securely holding Grian, Scar breaks into a run. His ears twitch, catching sounds of the forest as he tries to avoid them all. It’s chaotic. It’s all a bit of a blur. He keeps slurring more nonsense to Grian: “Sorry, safe, safe, never again, sorry.” Something broken about “love”. 

Once Scar finds a semi-safe place, he kneels down, but he’s hesitant to let Grian go. Everything feels weird and light and he’s terrified it’s a dream he’s waking up from.

Grian isn’t any better, though; he keeps clinging to him, too. Scar was gone for so long and now he’s randomly back? He can’t quite process it; all that he knows is that he’s terrified to let go. (He remembers feeling woozy on weakness potions, and he remembers the deep pit of the fever from that arrow wound way back, and... This feels similar. Like maybe he’s not quite aware, not quite getting things right. Maybe— Maybe Scar isn’t here?) 

 Grian begs Scar to stay. (He feels like he’s asked that of him before, but it’s hazy in his exhausted mind.)

Scar can feel himself falling from the high of his magic; he feels weak again, confused, distant. But he latches onto that. “I’m not leaving,” he says, suddenly so clear. “He— he tricked me…” his voice wobbles. He feels awful, like a failure. He doesn’t want to think of the mimic ever again. He’s terrified to as well. The fact that he didn’t kill him means he could return—

Grian feels such a tangled mess at that admission. He wonders if Scar felt better with Juni? It took so long for him to realise and go looking for Grian, maybe he was better off with the fake one? It's so... it's so horrible to think that Scar took this long to realise Grian wasn't with him.

Scar still hasn’t let him down, instead falling to his knees entirely and cradling Grian close. He doesn’t want to admit how hard he fell for the trick. He hates himself for it. What if he didn’t find Grian? 

His skin feels prickly and odd like his whole body has fallen asleep. He’s numb and weak and heavy and— Is he drugged again? 

He wants to provide so many answers but— His skin is pulsing an off whitish blue. And he just croaks, “S–something’s wrong. I don’t feel— Grian. I don’t feel good.”

That singular admission throws Grian into sharp focus, panicked. He ignores his bruises and aches and the cold and tiredness, the wooziness from hunger and thirst—all of it. Instead, he whips to attention, looking Scar over. Trying to get him to tell Grian what’s wrong. (Obviously the colour is wrong—Scar’s not meant to pulsate with magic hue like this. But Grian doesn’t understand it. He’s never seen it. He’s— He’s so scared that this is something he won’t be able to help with, won’t be able to fix.)

Instead of a constructive answer, Scar stammers, slurred: “Did you— he— more potions?” He feels like he’s falling past some edge. His body won’t listen to him. His thoughts are turning fuzzy and staticky and he’s sick to his stomach, thinking about weakness potions.

Grian’s holding his cheeks, trying to keep eye contact. He doesn’t think a potion could do this. He pleads with Scar to tell him what does he need. How can he help?

The genuine concern from Grian horribly reminds Scar of the mimic. The nausea churns in his stomach, acidic, and he feels painfully helpless in this moment as everything seems to slip past his fingers. “Please be real?” 

Grian makes a miserable sound, edging a startled sob. Something aborted and strained. His thumbs brush over Scar’s skin and he leans in. “I’m real,” he promises weakly, desperately, sealing it with a soft kiss to Scar’s cheek. And then another one to his temple, and his eyebrow, and his forehead. A swelling build up of helpless heartache translates to hot tears dripping down Grian’s face. “I’m here. You found me. I’m here.” 

The tenderness, as well as the easy forwardness of the affection help reassure Scar. Juni wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. He never did. (Maybe Scar should’ve realised sooner—)

Grian’s fingers brush over Scar’s cheeks. His touch is featherlight, gentle, as if he was worried Scar will break underneath his fingertips. (Scar’s skin still pulsates, a sickly hue that reminds Grian of those awful, rotting vines they found in a cave so many months ago.) (He doesn’t know what’s wrong with Scar and it terrifies him.) His breath hitches, and then he finds himself saying, “Please don’t leave me.” His voice cracks. It’s so awful.

The words snap Scar to attention—as much as he can currently manage. “God— No. No, not leaving.” The flickering hue of magic across Scar's skin speeds up, like a panicky heartbeat stuttering out of rhythm.

The change frightens Grian and he scrambles to make things better, in any way he can. He thinks maybe they need to stop panicking first. Maybe— Maybe they both just need to take a deep breath. Surely they could both benefit from some proper breathing.

He suggests just that, and it does help somewhat. The flickering slows and steadies and almost fades, and Grian moves to pepper Scar’s face with soft kisses, tiny and light and greedy. And wet. Because he can't seem to stop crying.

Grian’s own cheek throbs with his unhealed wound, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. He just needs— He needs Scar to be okay, and he needs him to be right here with him, and he needs both of them to believe that this is real.

With deliberation, he moves his hands to brush them over Scar’s ears, knowing full well how sensitive they are. Remembering Scar’s flush, that very first time, and the way his ears twitched underneath Grian’s touch. A weak, destabilised chuckle precedes his strained words, ready to break. “Remember when I did this before?”

Scar barks out a little laugh at that. And… it helps. It helps to hear Grian bringing up a private, intimate memory they both share. 

And then all of a sudden, he’s begging for forgiveness. “I messed up. I’d… I’d never leave you, Grian.” Even with a leaden, exhausted body, he pulls together enough strength to graze his fingers over the wound on Grian’s face, his touch gentle and sad. 

Grian falls quiet for a moment, breaths still tripping in his throat, coming out shaky. “I thought— I thought you—” He can’t say it.

“Never.”

Exhaling, Grian falls against Scar. He curls up and presses into the crook of his neck.

Scar still feels tingly and strange and light, but it’s almost pleasant now. Like he could pretend it’s from Grian and not overextertion. Like it’s just silly nerves. And even though he wants nothing more but to collapse, to curl up with Grian in his arms and drift off to sleep, he can’t. He can’t have that.

Because Grian’s wounded, and hungry, and so horribly exhausted, and Scar needs to patch him up and grant him some safety. He needs to try to clean Grian’s wounds. (On next to no supplies.) He needs to get him to eat something. (He doesn’t have anything to offer; he fled Juni so fast, unable to think past Grian might be dying right now.) He needs to let Grian rest, after a week of horror; he needs to take watch and let Grian sleep. (He’s so, so tired, the magic overuse weighing him down in a way that makes him almost certain he wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight.)

This feels familiarly miserable.

But Grian isn’t dying.

He isn’t dying, and Scar found him, and they’re together. And he won’t let anything separate them ever again.

(But he might not have a choice.)

[beautifulplaceofyouth]

WERE YOU PLANNING TO JOIN ME?

summary - Driven by curiosity, you impulsively open Caleb's ajar bathroom door and find him, near-naked and captivating, polishing a gun. His intense gaze meets yours in the mirror, creating a moment of charged silence and unspoken questions.

pairing - Caleb!Yandere x Reader (Best friends!au)

(nsfw +18) - He is absolutely insane in this (they both are), inexperienced!reader!first time, male!receiving, female!receiving, vaginal raw shower sex, creampie, a lot of tears, gun play as in...literally, knife throwing, a lot of banter and tension, gravity and resonance evol usage, praise kink, nipple play, neck biting, pet names(sweetheart, baby, princess), a lot of dirty talk, he is very much bossy, possessive and sadistic as always. This is a little bit angst but sweet. He likes it rough.

w-20k - Got carried away with this one because I was too excited. I don't even care that it isn't like the original. I needed this.

Masterlist

The rhythmic drumming of the shower fills the opulent, cloud-kissed apartment. Skyhaven, a marvel of suspended architecture and technological prowess, hums with a quiet energy, a stark contrast to the sudden flutter in your chest. You're here, a visitor in Caleb's extraordinary world, drawn by a longing that has quietly bloomed over years of shared history. A mischievous impulse takes hold – a desire to catch him off guard, to inject a spark of playful surprise into his meticulously ordered life.

Your mind drifts back to the Chronorift Catastrophe of '34, a dark mark on the timeline that had unexpectedly woven your lives together. Orphaned in its wake, you and Caleb found solace and a surrogate family in Gran's warm, welcoming embrace. 

The bond forged in those turbulent years was unlike any other, a tapestry woven with threads of shared sorrow, unwavering loyalty, and a silent understanding that transcended words. Caleb, always the stoic protector, and you, the fiery, independent spirit, found a strange equilibrium within Gran's chaotic, loving home. He was your brother in all but blood, your confidante, your rock.

That was fourteen years ago. Now, standing outside his bathroom door in Skyhaven, in his own domain, the air thick with steam and anticipation, you feel a subtle shift in the familiar dynamic. The playful surprise you intend feels laced with something else, a tremor of nervous excitement that you can't quite explain.

Drawn by an irresistible curiosity, you move closer. The door is slightly ajar, a teasing invitation that your impulsive nature can't resist. A frown furrows your brow. It's unusual for Caleb to leave anything to chance, especially a door. The scent of his sandalwood soap mingles with the humid air, further fueling your burgeoning anticipation.

Against your better judgment, against the silent warnings echoing in your head, you push the door open. The hinges sigh in protest, a sound that seems deafening in the otherwise silent apartment.

The scene that unfolds before you steals the breath from your lungs. Time seems to slow, each detail etching itself onto your memory with vivid clarity.

There he is. Caleb.

Towering and undeniably male, he stands bathed in the diffused light of the futuristic bathroom. Water droplets cling to his skin, catching the light like scattered diamonds, tracing the sculpted lines of his back. The muscles ripple with restrained power, a testament to years of rigorous training and the demanding life he leads as a Fleetspace Colonel. His dark hair, usually impeccably styled, is damp and tousled, falling across his forehead in a manner that is both boyish and utterly captivating.

A simple white towel is slung low around his hips, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the lean, powerful physique beneath. But it's not the near-nudity that truly stops you in your tracks.

Around his neck, nestled against the tanned skin of his throat, gleams a familiar piece of silver. Your silver Chan dog tag. The one you gave him the day he left for DAA, a small token of your affection and unwavering belief in him. He’s always worn it, a constant reminder of your shared past, a silent promise of enduring connection. The sight of it there, against his skin, sends a jolt of unexpected warmth through your veins.

Caleb is standing in front of a large, impeccably clean mirror, his reflection staring back at him with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. He's doing something with his hands, something that makes your heart pound in your chest.

Your gaze drops to his hands, and your breath hitches in your throat. He’s holding a gun. A large, black, undeniably lethal weapon. He is wiping it meticulously with a white towel, his movements precise and practiced.

As a hunter yourself, you’re no stranger to firearms. They are tools, instruments of protecting the city from wanderers, as familiar to you as your own gun you wield with deadly accuracy. You've seen Caleb handle weapons countless times, witnessed firsthand his skill and expertise. But seeing him here, in the sterile intimacy of his bathroom, polishing a gun with such focused intensity, feels… different. Disturbing, even. This isn’t the Caleb you know. Or perhaps it is, just a side of him you haven't been privy to before.

Your eyes travel back up, drawn to his reflection in the mirror. And then, they lock with his.

His eyes, that arresting shade of violet that has always held a strange power over you, are fixed on yours. There's a flicker of surprise, a fleeting shadow of something unreadable, before they settle into an unnervingly calm, assessing gaze.

Shit.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken questions and burgeoning awareness. You feel like a deer caught in headlights, paralyzed by the intensity of his stare. Your mind races, desperately trying to formulate an explanation, a plausible excuse for your blatant intrusion.

He lowers the gun, placing it carefully on the pristine countertop. The sound is almost deafening in the otherwise silent room. He doesn't break eye contact.

“Were you planning on joining me?” His voice is low, a rumble that vibrates through the air, sending a fresh wave of heat washing over your skin. 

There's a teasing lilt to his words, a hint of amusement that barely masks the underlying tension.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I... I just wanted to surprise you." The words sound weak, unconvincing even to your own ears.

A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his features, softening the harsh lines of his jaw. "You succeeded." He takes a step closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Though I must admit, I prefer your surprises to be a little less… intrusive."

You flush, your cheeks burning under his scrutiny. "I didn't mean to… to intrude. I just heard the shower, and..." You trail off, unable to articulate the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling within you.

"And?" he prompts, his voice a husky whisper.

You take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. "And I thought I'd catch you off guard."

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "You always were a noisy person, weren't you?" 

He takes another step, and now you're close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to smell the lingering scent of sandalwood and something else, something uniquely Caleb.

"Only when necessary," you retort, your voice regaining a touch of its usual fire. "Besides, you leave the door open. What did you expect?"

"Perhaps," he says, his gaze dropping to your lips, "I wanted to be caught."

Your heart leaps into your throat. "Caught doing what, exactly?"

The air crackles with a strange energy, a mixture of tension and something undeniably… charged. Before you can fully process the situation, he uses his gravity manipulation – a casual display of power that still sends shivers down your spine – to slam the door shut behind you with his mind alone. The click of the lock echoes in the suddenly confined space, a definitive sound that seals you both inside.

You jump, startled by the abruptness of it all. The sound reverberates through the apartment, amplifying the awareness of your isolation. Your heart pounds a little faster in your chest, a mixture of apprehension and a thrill you can’t quite explain.

“Just making sure no one else gets any ‘surprising’ ideas.” His eyes twinkle mischievously, the light glinting off the moisture in his now-drying hair. But beneath the playful glint, there’s an unmistakable intensity, a smoldering ember that catches your breath. 

He runs a hand through his damp hair, that simple gesture somehow drawing attention to the sculpted lines of his shoulders and arms, unconsciously giving you a full view of his muscular physique. The water droplets cling to his skin, emphasizing the lean strength that's usually hidden beneath his uniform. 

"You know," he begins, his voice a low drawl that seems to caress the air.

You frown, pulling yourself back from the brink of distraction. "In your apartment? Really?" You scoff, trying to inject a note of normalcy into the increasingly unusual situation. "You're a colonel, you know better than to leave your own home vulnerable. You wouldn’t let just anyone in like that… And besides," you shrug, gesturing vaguely, "you added my fingerprint to your automatic door lock, remember?"

He raises an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate movement that accentuates the sharp angles of his face. A smirk, knowing and undeniably attractive, plays on his lips. 

"True," he concedes, his voice laced with amusement. "But you never know when someone might try to pull a fast one, even with biometric security." He backs away from you, moving with the effortless grace you’ve come to expect, and leans against the counter, his arms crossed casually over his chest. The posture is relaxed, almost nonchalant, but you sense the underlying alertness, the coiled energy that’s always present. "Besides," he adds, his gaze locking with yours, "I didn't expect you to be the one sneaking up on me."

You scowl, your carefully constructed composure starting to fray at the edges. "I didn't… I just wanted to give you a surprise visit. I didn't know you'd be polishing your toys," you nod pointedly at his gun, lying disassembled on the nearby counter. The metal gleams under the lamplight, a stark reminder of the dangerous world he now inhabits since you got together again.

He chuckles, the sound a warm rumble in his chest, and uncrossing his arms to pick up his gun again. He examines a piece with careful precision. "You should see your face when you make that scowl," he teases, his smirk widening. "It's quite... endearing." He polishes the gun absentmindedly, his movements fluid and practiced. "So, no sneaking around to steal my food or snoop through my stuff this time?"

“Excuse you?” You exclaim, indignation flooding your voice. “I’m not… I just…”

He cuts you off, still chuckling. "Relax, I'm just messing with you," he says, his voice softening slightly. He sets the gun down with a soft clink and walks over to you, his movements fluid and predatory, like a panther stalking its prey. The space between you shrinks, the air growing thick with unspoken desires. "You're the only one I let get away with stealing my food, remember? It’s practically a tradition at this point."

“It’s not my fault that you always give me snacks…” you mumble, trying to deflect the intensity of his gaze. It's true, of course. He always has a stash of your favorite treats, and he never seems to mind when you help yourself.

"Because you always end up rummaging through my pantry anyway," he retorts, ruffling your hair playfully, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. He steps back, creating a sliver of distance, and resumes polishing his gun, his expression turning thoughtful. "Speaking of snooping..."

You clear your throat, a nervous tic that betrays your guilt. Your eyes dart around the room, avoiding his piercing stare. “I didn’t do it again. I swear.”

He pauses in his task, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. The playful glint is gone, replaced by a sharp, assessing look. "You promise?" he asks, his tone laced with skepticism. He sets the gun down with a sigh and turns to face you fully, his arms crossed again, his body a wall between you and the door. "You swear on your favorite chocolate bar that you haven't been going through my stuff lately?"

You look at the bathroom ceiling, as if searching for answers in the mundane. "Oh, would you look at that? There’s some dust." You point vaguely upwards, hoping to distract and deflect. 

The attempt is weak, even you know it. The dust is barely visible, and the pathetic maneuver only serves to confirm his suspicions. You’re caught, and you know it. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the telltale sign of your guilt.

He follows your gaze, his expression unreadable. "You're not distracting me that easily," he says, his voice low and even, a subtle rumble that vibrates through the humid air of the bathroom. It’s a statement, but also a dare. A challenge laid bare in the space between you. 

He moves with a quiet grace that belies his muscular build, each step deliberate and measured. The tiles are cool beneath his bare feet as he closes the distance between you. “Look at me,” he commands, the request laced with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

You back away, a primal instinct taking over as you try to create distance, a buffer between his raw masculinity and the sudden vulnerability you feel. The cool, smooth surface of the door presses against your spine, the only barrier between you and escape. But escape from what, exactly? The question hangs in the air, thick and unspoken.

He stops in his tracks, respecting the boundary you've unconsciously set. A hint of amusement dances in his eyes, a flicker of knowing that sends a shiver down your spine. "Afraid I'll catch you in a lie?" he asks, his voice a soft challenge, a velvet-wrapped threat. 

The air crackles with unspoken tension. He takes another step, closing the gap, his body almost pressing against yours. You’re trapped, caught between the solid, unyielding door and the magnetic pull of his presence.

Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard, the sound amplified in the confined space. Your gaze involuntarily drops, snagged by the sight of his damp chest, the water droplets clinging to the sculpted planes of his abs like tiny, glittering jewels. He’s fresh from the shower, his skin gleaming, radiating a heat that seems to seep into your own. 

You try to look away, but it’s like staring at the sun – blinding, yet impossible to resist.

He notices your wandering gaze, the subtle widening of your eyes, the almost imperceptible intake of breath. A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips, a predator recognizing its prey. His voice drops to a low purr, a sound that resonates deep within you. "See something you like?" he asks, the words laced with playful arrogance. 

His hand comes up, not to touch, but to stake his claim on the space around you, resting on the door beside your head, caging you in with the casual ease of someone who knows his power. His other hand reaches out, his touch feather-light as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, to acknowledge the desire that’s simmering beneath the surface.

“Caleb…” you warn, the word a breathless whisper, a plea for him to stop, even though a part of you doesn’t want him to.

"Mhm?" He hums, a sound of pure amusement that vibrates against your skin. His finger remains tilted on your chin, holding you captive, his lips only inches away from yours. The air between you crackles with unspoken promises. His voice drops to a whisper, a seductive murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "You're the one who showed up unannounced in my shower..." He intentionally leans forward just a tiny bit more, testing your boundaries, pushing you to the edge. 

You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, smell the clean, fresh scent of soap mingled with his intoxicating natural musk.

Panic flares, a desperate need to break free from the intoxicating spell he’s weaving. You turn your head, the movement abrupt and jerky, right as his lips brush your cheek. It’s a near miss, a tantalizing tease that leaves you breathless and yearning.

He pulls back slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he notices your abrupt movement. "Missed by inches," he murmurs, his breath tickling your cheek, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across your skin. 

He leans away from the door, giving you some space, a sliver of freedom, but keeping his proximity close enough that his damp skin still radiates warmth, a constant reminder of the intimacy you just shared.

You turn to look at him, your heart pounding against your ribs, trying to regain some semblance of control. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, the question barely audible, lost in the chaotic rhythm of your own breathing.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He counters, his eyes searching yours with a mix of curiosity and something else, something that makes your stomach flip. He raises his hand again, this time tracing the curve of your jaw with his thumb, a slow, deliberate caress that ignites a fire within you. "I'm just making sure you're not going to keep avoiding eye contact with me." The statement is a challenge, an invitation to engage, to stop hiding behind your carefully constructed walls.

You blush, the heat rising in your cheeks, betraying your carefully constructed composure. “I’m not…avoiding you…and…can you unlock the door so I can get out?” you stammer, the words tumbling out in a rush, a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk still playing on his lips, enjoying your flustered state. 

"Afraid of being alone with me?" he asks, the question laced with teasing mockery. But then, he relents, stepping aside and unlocking the door. "Here you go." He gestures towards the open door, a clear path to freedom, but he doesn't move away from it completely, keeping his body angled towards you, a silent promise of more.

You raise an eyebrow, mirroring his earlier expression, a spark of defiance flickering in your eyes. “That easy? I thought I will have to borrow your gun to shoot the lock.” The words are meant to be flippant, a way to deflect the intensity of the moment, but there’s also a grain of truth in them.

A laugh escapes him as he hears your joke, a deep, genuine sound that washes over you, easing the tension in your muscles. A real smile spreads across his face, transforming his features, making him look younger, more approachable. "You'd have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands," he says, still chuckling softly, the sound warm and intimate in the small space. 

His gaze flickers to your lips briefly, a fleeting moment of undeniable desire, before returning to your eyes, his smile lingering, a silent invitation.

This time you smirk, a slow, confident curve of your lips. “In love with it too much?” you challenge, pushing his buttons, daring him to reveal more.

"Damn right," he grins, his shoulders relaxing, the tension finally easing from his body. He unconsciously adjusts the towel lower on his hips, unknowingly giving you a better view of his sculpted abs, the movement casual, yet undeniably provocative. "You almost had me there with the shooting the lock thing." He chuckles again, the sound warm and inviting. If you were desperate enough to, you would probably do it but he knew you were bluffing this time.

Before he can predict your move, you lunge forward, a reckless impulse taking over. You run to take his gun, a daring act of defiance.

But before you can even grasp the gun, Caleb swiftly lunges forward with surprising speed, his wet feet slipping slightly on the bathroom mat. He regains his balance with effortless grace, using his evol to steady himself. 

He grabs your wrist just as your fingers brush against the cool metal of the gun, his grip firm but not painful. "Uh-uh," he chastises playfully, his voice a low rumble, a warning and an invitation all in one.

“I touched it,” you smirk, a triumphant glint in your eyes.

"You barely grazed it," He retorts, pulling his hand back slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches your smirk, your unknowingly tempting body language, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath. 

God, you’re killing him. He swallows hard, struggling to maintain control. "You know stealing's wrong, right?" He adds teasingly, the words a lighthearted attempt to break the tension, to mask the desire that's raging within him.

You glance at his gun on the counter beneath the white towel, the cold steel a stark contrast to the domesticity of the setting. Your fingers twitch, yearning to close around the familiar weight, to reclaim a sense of control in this tense dance you've been locked in. You try to reach it again, stretching but he anticipates your move with a speed that borders on preternatural. He shifts his weight, a subtle adjustment that places his body squarely between you and the gun. 

"Nice try," he chuckles, the sound a low rumble that vibrates through the air. His eyes, usually guarded and watchful, are sparkling with amusement, a playful glint dancing in their depths. But beneath the surface, you catch a glimpse of something more intense, a smoldering heat that sends a shiver down your spine.

He keeps your wrist gently but firmly in his grasp, his fingers warm against your skin, preventing any further attempts. His touch is light, almost teasing, but the underlying strength is palpable. "You really want that thing?" he asks, his voice a husky whisper that seems to wrap around you.

You shrug, feigning indifference, though your heart is hammering against your ribs. "You're so protective of it. Might as well be your girlfriend." The words are laced with sarcasm, a desperate attempt to mask the turmoil swirling within you.

His lips twitch with suppressed laughter, the corners of his mouth lifting in a tantalizing curve. "Jealous?" he teases softly, his thumb unconsciously rubbing a slow circle against your wrist. The simple gesture sends a jolt of electricity through your veins, making it difficult to breathe. "Here," he says, surprising you by releasing your wrist and placing the gun within your easy reach. 

"See if you can steal it." He challenges, his eyes dropping to your lips briefly, a fleeting moment that feels like a brand against your skin.

Your eyes glint with challenge, a spark igniting within you. It's not just about the gun; it's about the game, the chase, the intoxicating pull that exists between the two of you. "No cheating," you say, your voice low and husky, mirroring his own. "We can't use our evols."

"Deal," he whispers, a competitive edge creeping into his voice. He purposefully places the gun just slightly out of immediate reach, as if daring you to try. Then, he steps back, giving you space, ready for your move. His posture is relaxed, almost nonchalant, but his eyes are laser-focused on you, tracking every movement, every breath. They spark with excitement, the thrill of competition mixed with something else, something far more dangerous, that's becoming harder and harder to ignore.

With a swiftness that belies your earlier feigned indifference, you sidestep him, your body a blur of motion. You feint to the left, drawing his attention, then pivot sharply to the right, using the momentum to deliver a swift and precise kick with your elbow, sending the gun spinning into the air. You lunge forward, reaching out, your fingers closing around the cold, hard steel just as it begins to fall.

"-Shit," he curses under his breath, impressed despite himself. He moves to block your escape route, reacting purely on instinct, but in his haste, he ends up accidentally catching your waist in his arms. 

The air rushes from your lungs as his hands wrap around you, pulling you against him. For a moment, time seems to stand still. 

You're practically chest to chest, his rough breathing audible in your ear, mingling with your own ragged gasps. His heat radiates through your clothes, a tangible force that threatens to melt away your resolve. "You fucking cheated," he accuses, his voice a low growl against your skin.

“How? I said, no evols. Just our hands.” You fight to keep your voice steady, to project an air of nonchalance that you certainly don't feel.

"...Your foot," he mutters, his gaze flicking down to your feet before returning to your eyes, his expression a mixture of frustration and grudging admiration. His hands remain wrapped around your waist, his thumbs brushing against the curve of your hips. The contact is innocent enough, but the sensation is anything but. 

He swallows hard, his mind suddenly filled with inappropriate images, a dangerous dream landscape of him kissing you like he always wanted to and cross that line for once. "Give it back," he demands, his voice strained, barely a whisper.

You smirk, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips that you know drives him crazy with annoyance and amusement. You reach behind you, intending to stash the gun out of reach, but of course, he anticipates your move. He uses his gravity evol, the familiar force field shimmering almost invisibly around you both.

As you try to place the gun behind you, Caleb's gravity evol kicks in, the subtle pressure intensifying, making it impossible for you to move the gun away from his reach. You're caught in his invisible web, your movements restricted, your will subtly bent to his. He leans in slightly, his breath warm against your temple, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your very core. 

"Not so fast," he murmurs, the words a promise and a threat all rolled into one. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you a fraction closer, eliminating the already minuscule space between you.

“Uh…not fair,” you grit your teeth, the words forced out as you struggle against his evol, your muscles straining against the invisible force. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension coiled tight within him, mirroring the tension that's gripping you.

"All's fair in love and war," he murmurs, his face inches from yours. His eyes, dark and intense, flick down to your lips again, lingering there for a moment too long. The air crackles with unspoken desires, with the weight of years of suppressed longing. He reaches around you slowly, deliberately, his chest pressing against your back as he plucks the gun effortlessly from your hand with his other. 

The contact sends a jolt of electricity through your body, igniting a fire that threatens to consume you both.

He chuckles, the sound a low, throaty rumble that sends shivers down your spine, the gun now back in his possession, safely out of your reach. "You touched it because you cheated with your foot," he argues, his arms still wrapped possessively around your waist, effectively trapping you against him. 

He pulls you a little closer, as if testing the limits, his gravity evol making it increasingly difficult for you to step away, to create any semblance of distance.

“Caleb…stop it,” you hiss, desperately trying to regain control of the situation, of yourself. The proximity is intoxicating, too close, too dangerous.

"Stop what?" he asks innocently, even though his grip on your waist tightens slightly and his breath is warm against your ear, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across your skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, and the smirk playing on his lips gives him away. "I'm just holding you so you don't try to steal my gun again." The lie hangs in the air between you, a fragile shield against the storm of emotions threatening to erupt.

You glare, fighting to maintain eye contact, but your gaze is drawn, almost against your will, to the silver dog tag chain nestled between his pecs, rising and falling with each breath. Your gift for him. A silent promise of safe return.

He feels your stare silver necklace glinting under the light, a tangible reminder of your connection. His mind wanders back to the day you gave it to him when he left for DAA, engraved with a little red apple and the words "When you come back". A lump forms in his throat, a wave of tenderness washing over him. His hands on your waist flex unconsciously, pulling you closer, as if wanting to erase the distance that has always separated you.

His eyes soften as he glances down at the dog tags, remembering the care and emotion behind your gift. The playful smirk fades from his lips as he realizes how close you are, your bodies almost melding together in the confined space. 

He clears his throat nervously, the sound amplified by the sudden shift in atmosphere. "You giving me that glare because you lost, or..."

"I will get that gun," you hiss, your voice a low, determined rumble. The air crackles with your competitive spirit, a challenge laid bare.

A low laugh escapes him, his chest vibrating against your back, sending shivers down your spine. "Is that so?" He challenges softly, his grip on your waist loosening slightly, but not enough for you to escape easily. His eyes spark with a mix of amusement and something more intense, a hunger that makes your breath hitch in your throat. "You want it that bad? Come and get it."

"Caleb…I swear…" you start, a warning laced with a hint of exasperation. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, a dangerous warmth that threatens to melt your resolve.

"You swear what?" His lips quirk up in a teasing smirk as he senses your growing frustration. With deliberate slowness, he slips the gun behind his back, keeping it just out of your reach, a silent promise of the game to come. "You're welcome to try," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, sending another wave of shivers through you.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to resonate with his own evol, the unique energy that surrounds him, a key to unlocking his defenses. The air hums with anticipation.

"Smart," he whispers approvingly, feeling your evol activate, a tangible connection forming between you. Normally, this would be a fair competition, a test of skill and power. But with his arms still wrapped around your waist, trapping you against him, he's enjoying this too much to let you win easily. Instead of resisting your gravity pull, he uses it to his advantage, subtly shifting his weight, drawing you even closer. "You feel that?"

"Just a bit," you grit your teeth, focusing on the task at hand. "I will have it." The heat of his body is a distraction, a tantalizing temptation that wars with your determination.

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your neck, making the hairs stand on end. 

"Is that a promise?" he teases, his grip on you tightening just enough to make it clear he's not going to let you have the gun easily. 

He shifts slightly, using his own evol against you, pulling you even closer until you can feel the hard planes of his chest against your back.

"Caleb!" you exclaim, a mixture of annoyance and something akin to pleasure coloring your tone. You can feel your resolve crumbling under the weight of his nearness.

"Too slow," He laughs, feeling your gravity push against him half-heartedly. He realizes you're trying not to push too hard, afraid of hurting him. His smirk widens, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. "You're not trying hard enough," He taunts, "Here, I'll make it easier."

You bite back a retort, your mind racing, searching for a way to break free from his intoxicating hold.

He shifts his body slightly, giving you a small opening, a sliver of hope in your current predicament. But instead of making it easy for you to grab the gun, he uses the opportunity to lean in even closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Come on," he whispers, his voice low and challenging, husky with desire. "Show me what you've got."

You shiver, despite yourself, and swallow hard. The nearness of him is intoxicating, a potent cocktail of danger and desire. You decide to move, channeling all your energy into a sudden burst of momentum.

"There," He whispers softly as you move, finally putting some real effort into your evol. His smirk widens, a glint of admiration in his eyes. You're fast, he'll give you that. 

He sees an opening at your sudden move and takes it, his reflexes honed from years of training. He whirls around, mirroring your resonance pull, creating a vortex of energy between you.

"Hey!" The gun gets floated in the air above your head, spinning gently in the space between you. Since you were short, you couldn’t get it, your fingers grasping at empty air.

"Gotcha," he laughs triumphantly, watching the gun float effortlessly towards his hand from above. He catches it with ease, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He looks down at you, still floating about a foot off the ground, your arms stretching up to try and reach the gun, your brow furrowed in frustration.

"Caleb! It will not kill you if you give it to me," you plead, your voice tinged with a playful desperation.

He laughs heartily, his chest shaking with mirth. "And miss out on this?" He asks, gesturing to your futile struggle, his eyes sparkling with delight. "No way." He holds the gun just out of your reach, his arm extended high above you, a tantalizing prize. "Say please."

You pull a deep breath, steeling your resolve. You decide to use your other card, the one that always works, the one that exploits his soft spot. He always falls for that. Your eyes get sad, a well-practiced expression of vulnerability, and you pout, your lower lip trembling slightly. "You don't love me anymore," you say, your voice barely a whisper, laced with mock sorrow.

"Damn it," He mutters softly, his expression instantaneously softening, the playful gleam replaced with a flicker of guilt. He lowers the gun slightly, his eyes searching your face, his thumb caressing the cool metal. "You know that's not true," He says softly, his voice losing its competitive edge, replaced with a tender warmth. "Here," He lifts his chin towards the gun, floating it gently within your reach, surrendering to your carefully constructed emotional trap.

You lunge at it, your fingers wrapping tightly around the cool steel.

"Too easy," He laughs, a hint of exasperation in his voice, as you snatch the gun out of the air. He watches your serious expression, your pout gone, replaced with determined eyes, a triumphant glint shining in their depths. 

He swallows tightly, mesmerized by your transformation. "You cheated," He accuses softly, his competitive nature re-igniting slightly. "Using those puppy eyes."

You smirk, a mischievous glint in your eyes, as you look at the big black weapon in your hand, savoring your victory.

He shakes his head in amused disbelief, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I fall for that every time," he murmurs, watching you proudly display your prize, his gaze lingering on your face, admiring your cunning and determination. Caleb spreads his hands in mock surrender, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Congrats, you win this round."

You grin, feeling a surge of satisfaction course through you. "Yes."

The playful glint in Caleb's eyes is disarming, even as he playfully mocks, "Don't get too cocky," his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your skin. He takes a step back, a gentlemanly concession of space, yet the air crackles with unresolved tension. "You know I won't go easy on you next time." A pause hangs in the air, the silence amplifying the intimacy of the moment. His expression softens, a flicker of something deeper replacing the teasing. "You know what?"

"Mmm?" you hum, the sound a question and an invitation.

"You've gotten really good," Caleb says, the admiration in his voice a stark contrast to his earlier jesting. It’s an honest, unguarded compliment, a moment of genuine respect that makes your heart flutter. "I swear, in a few years, you'll probably be better than me." He chuckles softly, shaking his head as if marveling at the impossible. "Lucky for me, I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."

A genuine smile blossoms across your face, warming your cheeks. "Do you think so?" you ask, the words barely a whisper, laced with a mixture of disbelief and hope. You know you were pretty good hunter but be better than him who is taller and stronger than you? That was a big compliment.

"Duh," he grins widely, that competitive spark reigniting in his eyes. He loves that you're humble, your lack of ego only fueling his desire to push you, to see how far you can go. "You're like a sponge. You learn something once, you got it. I swear, you're scary good." He laughs softly, a sound that always manages to send shivers down your spine. "Here," he says suddenly, reaching into a nearby basket. 

Without warning, he throws a small dagger in your direction.

Years of training kick in, instinct taking over. You react without thinking, your hand shooting out, effortlessly catching the dagger mid-air. Simultaneously, you set the gun you had been holding down on the counter.

He whistles appreciatively, his brows raised in genuine surprise. "Damn, you're fast today." The playful teasing returns, but there's an undercurrent of something more, a respect for your skill that he can't quite hide. He moves closer, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. His voice drops lower, becoming a husky murmur that sends a shiver snaking down your spine. "And you caught it perfectly." He reaches out to take the dagger, his fingers purposefully brushing against yours in the handoff, a deliberate act of provocation.

A wave of awareness washes over you. You instinctively hide the dagger behind your back, the cool metal a reassuring weight in your hand. It's then that you realize you're backed against the bathroom counter, the cool tile a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Caleb. 

He notices your realization, the triumphant smirk that spreads across his face a clear indication that he's exactly where he wants to be. 

He takes another step closer, effectively trapping you. His voice drops to a teasing whisper, a low rumble that seems to vibrate through your very bones. "Cornered already?" He leans in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, a captivating gaze that holds you captive. "You know, for someone who just won a gun off me, you seem pretty vulnerable right now."

"You always do this," you scoff, the word laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Play and tease me."

"And you always fall for it," he retorts, his face just inches from yours. You can feel his warm breath on your skin, the scent of him filling your senses. "It's cute." He reaches behind you, his body pressing against yours, a blatant act of intimacy designed to fluster you. His fingers brush against your back as he reaches for the knife you're holding, the deliberate contact sending a jolt of electricity through you.

You tighten your grip on the dagger, a stubborn refusal to relinquish control. The game is on, and you're not about to back down.

He feels you tightening your grip, a smug smile tugging at his lips. He loves this, the push and pull, the battle of wills that always seems to erupt between you. "Let go of the knife," he whispers, his eyes locked in the knife reflected in the mirror behind you. He can feel your knuckles turning white as you refuse to loosen your grip. "Last chance."

"And if I say no?" you breathe, the words barely audible, laced with a mixture of defiance and apprehension. You can't stop this cat and mouse play, this dangerous dance that always leaves you breathless and wanting more.

He chuckles darkly, a low, predatory sound that sends shivers down your spine. His breath is hot against your ear as he whispers, "Then I'll have to take it from you." His free hand comes up to rest on the counter beside your hips, caging you in, making it impossible to escape. "And trust me, you won't like how I do it."

You shiver involuntarily, a reaction to his words and the heat radiating from his body. Leaning back, his bare chest presses against yours, the solid muscle almost crushing you.

He feels your shiver, his smile widening mischievously. He straightens his arms, locking them beside your hips and pushing you further against the counter, intensifying the feeling of being trapped. "Last warning," he whispers, his voice low and commanding, sending a thrill of fear and excitement through you. "Open your hand."

"No…" you whisper, the single word a testament to your stubbornness.

He hears the defiance in your whisper, a surge of frustration and determination rising within him. Without another word, he uses his arm to press your hand against the counter, the knife still gripped tightly in your fist. With his other hand, he grabs your wrist, applying firm pressure. "Open. Your. Hand."

"You could easily cheat you know? Why are you adamant to take it directly from my hand?" you ask, your voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and defiance.

"Because I want to see how far you'll push me," he admits, his voice gruff, the honesty unexpected. He applies more pressure to your wrist, his other arm still pressing your hand flat against the counter. "Now open your damn hand before I break your wrist to get the knife out."

You gasp, the threat surprisingly intense.

Seeing your gasp, Caleb pauses, realizing the intensity in his words. He is a colonel in the military, used to commanding, never meaning to threaten you. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn't release you entirely from the cage of his arms. A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans in closer, his voice lowering to a teasing murmur. "Gotcha."

"Did you just fucking threaten me?" you hiss, the anger bubbling to the surface.

He hears the anger in your hiss and feels a strange mix of amusement and unease. He leans in even closer, his lips barely an inch from yours. "Maybe," he whispers back, a challenge clear in his voice. "What are you gonna do about it?"

You glare, trying to mask the effect he has on you.

He holds your glare, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he tries to suppress a smile. He can feel the tension radiating off you, making him enjoy this power dynamic a little too much. He flexes his arm, pressing your hand flatter against the counter. "Last chance,"

"Don't use your Colonel voice on me!" you snap, the outburst a testament to his control over you.

He feels a jolt at your snap, the Colonel voice slipping out automatically. He blinks, breaking eye contact for a moment, the memory of his past life a sharp reminder of the man he used to be. When he looks back at you, his expression is softer, almost apologetic. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he murmurs, his grip on your wrist loosening completely, his regret palpable.

You breathe heavily, trying to regain your composure.

He sees the heavy breathing, taking it as a sign that he's getting to you, that the game is still in play. He decides to push his luck, leaning in closer until his forehead rests against yours. "Open your hand," he commands, his voice dropping lower, taking on that authoritative tone again. "Or I'll…"

"What? Restrain me?" you challenge, your voice laced with a mixture of fear and excitement.

"Mm, something like that," he murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. He can feel his hands itching to grab your arm and pin it behind your back, to take control completely. "You leave me no choice but to use force," he whispers, his fingers slowly inching back towards your wrist, as if testing the waters.

"Caleb…" you breathe, the word a warning and a plea.

"Too late," he whispers, his hands moving quickly. He wraps his arm around your wrist and pulls it behind your back, trapping it between your shoulder blades. He steps closer, caging you against the counter with his body, making escape impossible. "Open your hand," he orders, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

"You goober!" you exclaim, the childish insult a desperate attempt to break the tension.

He chuckles at your insult, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Keep talking back and see what happens," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to rest on the counter beside your other arm, effectively trapping you. "One more chance to open your hand before things get... interesting."

“Interesting?” you breathe, the word catching in your throat, a strange heat blooming in your chest. It's a question, but also a confession. Suddenly, this confrontation, this tense standoff, feels…different. You don’t know why you're feeling this way. The adrenaline, maybe? Or the way his eyes are locked on yours, intense and unwavering. Whatever it is, it's undeniably a turn-on.

He notices the subtle shift in your breathing, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hands. He sees the way your eyes dilate, dark pools reflecting the fire that's beginning to flicker within you. He realizes that you’re not just angry or defiant anymore. 

A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face, a predatory curve that sends a shiver down your spine. He leans in even closer, the heat of his body radiating against yours, his lips almost brushing against your ear. 

"Are you enjoying this?" he murmurs, the question a low, seductive rumble.

“No…” you hiss, the denial weak, unconvincing even to your own ears. The fight seems to have drained from you, replaced by a strange, unsettling vulnerability.

He can hear the tremor in your voice, the subtle waver that betrays your true feelings. He feels the way your body is pressing against the cool countertop, trapped between his unyielding arms. He takes advantage of this newfound weakness, his body shifting slightly, a calculated maneuver that tightens his hold. 

His arm around your wrist pulls your arm up higher between your shoulder blades, forcing you to arch your back, accentuating the curve of your breasts against your shirt. The position is undeniably compromising, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. "Last chance," he breathes, the words a promise and a threat.

“Last chance…” you mock, mimicking his deep voice with a forced bravado that doesn't quite reach your eyes. You glare at him, attempting to recapture the anger that fueled you just moments ago. But the heat in his gaze melts your resolve, leaving you feeling exposed and strangely thrilled.

He smirks at your mimicry, enjoying the playful banter, the dangerous game you’re both playing. "You're playing a dangerous game," he murmurs, his voice a silken caress that belies the steel beneath. His hand on the counter, the one not holding your wrist captive, slides closer to yours, inching its way toward your trembling fingers. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, a light, fleeting touch that’s almost teasing, sending sparks of electricity through your veins. "I could make you open it," he says, the words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.

“Guess what? With your evol?” you retort, trying to sound confident, but your voice cracks slightly, betraying your inner turmoil.It was a desperate attempt to regain control, to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

"Exactly," he whispers back, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand, a deliberate, hypnotic motion that draws your attention, stealing your focus. Your hand twitches slightly at the sudden sensation, giving away your vulnerability, the way his touch affects you. He watches your reaction closely, savoring the moment, drawing power from your response. "Then again, I might use something other than my evol..." he adds, the words laced with a suggestive promise that makes your heart leap in your chest.

You gasp, the sound escaping your lips before you can stop it, and your eyes widen in surprise, searching his. Fear and anticipation war within you, a confusing mix of emotions that threatens to overwhelm you. 

"What do you mean?" you ask, the question a breathless whisper, barely audible above the pounding of your heart.

His expression turns intense, a dark, smoldering gaze that holds you captive. It’s dangerous, predatory, and utterly thrilling. 

He leans in closer, invading your personal space, until his lips are nearly touching yours, the heat of his breath a tangible presence against your skin. His voice drops to a husky whisper, a seductive murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "You really want to know?" he asks, intentionally blowing a small, warm breath across your lips, teasing you, testing your limits. "I could just..."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your lungs seizing as your body betrays you. The world around you seems to fade away, the sounds of the bathroom blurring into a distant hum. All that exists is him, the intoxicating scent of his skin, the heat of his gaze, the promise of something forbidden. 

Your eyelashes flutter shut, surrendering to the moment, inviting him in.

He waits for a moment, relishing in the effect he's having on you, the power he holds over you. He feels the tremor that runs through your body, the rapid pulse at your throat. He knows he's won. 

Then, without warning, he closes the distance between you, his lips claiming yours in a searing, electrifying kiss. His hand, the one that was tormenting your hand only moments ago, moves to tangle in your hair, gripping the strands possessively, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss, demanding a response.

A whimper escapes your lips, a small, involuntary sound of surrender, as your fingers loosen their grip on the knife. The metal clatters against the tile floor, the sound echoing in the sudden silence, a symbol of your defeat.

He hears the knife fall, the sound like a starting gun, and a satisfied growl rumbles in his chest, a primal sound of victory. The kiss intensifies, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting, exploring, staking his claim. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, igniting a firestorm of sensation. His arm around your wrist tightens possessively, a steel band that keeps you trapped, at his mercy.

“Caleb…” you gasp, your voice breathy and weak, barely a whisper. The sound of his name on your lips feels like a betrayal, a confession of your desire.

"Shh," he murmurs against your neck, his teeth gently sinking into the flesh, a playful bite that sends shivers down your spine. His other hand slides down from the counter, around your hip, and grips your bottom possessively, pulling you closer, molding your body against his. "No more talking," he commands softly, the words a velvet promise laced with steel, before starting to lift you onto the counter, claiming you.

Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic drumbeat that threatens to drown out all other sounds. You can feel his strength as he lifts you, the way his muscles flex beneath his skin. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him for support, surrendering to the moment.

He can feel your heart racing against his chest, mirroring his own frantic rhythm, as he lifts you onto the counter, stepping between your legs to keep you trapped, a willing prisoner in his embrace. His hands roam your body, touching and exploring in a way he's never allowed himself to before, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you both. He presses close, his growing erection evident against your core through the thin barrier of the towel, a tangible reminder of his desire.

“Caleb…” you whisper again, his name a plea, a prayer, a promise of what's to come.

He silences you with another kiss, this one more demanding and dominant than the last, a raw expression of his hunger. His tongue pushes into your mouth, claiming you completely, possessing you with every touch. His hands continue to roam, exploring the curves of your body, igniting a fire with every caress. 

One hand slides up to cup your breast, squeezing gently through your shirt, teasing the sensitive nipple, while the other grips your thigh, pulling you even closer, erasing the remaining space between you, preparing you for the storm that's about to break.

You allow yourself to moan, the sweet, vulnerable sound catapulting straight to his core. You feel the immediate result of your surrender as his erection presses harder against your thigh. Instinct takes over, and you find yourself pulling him closer by the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the short hairs at his hairline. He's so tall, you have to lift your hips off the counter, practically bending him in half to maintain the fervent connection of your lips.

He groans into the kiss, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your own mouth as you pull him closer, bending him down to accommodate your smaller stature. The altered angle presses his hardness even more firmly against your center, igniting a fresh wave of heat that makes you moan again, a low, primal sound escaping your lips. 

His hand, which had been tentatively resting on your waist, slides upwards, seeking the bare skin beneath your shirt. He pushes the fabric upwards, urgency lacing his touch, as his other hand squeezes your thigh, almost desperately.

You pant, your breath coming in ragged gasps, too overwhelmed by this sudden and dramatic turn of events to form a coherent thought. The world has narrowed down to the feel of his mouth on yours, the hard press of his body against yours, and the frantic rhythm of your accelerated heartbeats.

He breaks the kiss briefly, reluctantly, to trail his lips down the sensitive curve of your neck. He nuzzles his face between your breasts, his breath hot and damp against your skin, as he tries to push your shirt up further. 

"Lift your arms," he growls, the command rough and edged with a desperate, unsatisfied desire. He needs to see you, touch you more, now. The burning need is consuming him.

You gulp, your throat suddenly dry, and obediently lift your arms, your movements slightly jerky and uncoordinated.

In one swift, decisive motion, he pulls your shirt over your head, casting it carelessly to the side. You stand exposed in just your bra, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin, but the chill is quickly replaced by a searing heat as his eyes darken with undisguised desire as he looks you over. His gaze lingers on the curve of your breasts, the swell of your hips, before finally returning to meet your eyes. His hands, as if drawn by an invisible force, immediately go to your waist, his thumbs tracing the delicate line of your hip bones. 

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a raw, reverent sound, as he leans down to place open-mouthed kisses between your breasts, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

You moan again, a longer, more drawn-out sound this time, as you arch your back instinctively, offering him more. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to him as if he's the only thing anchoring you to reality. 

"What's happening?" you manage to gasp out, the question barely audible.

"Shut up," he snaps, but there's no real heat or anger behind the words. He's too far gone, too lost in the feeling of your body against his lips, the taste of your skin, the intoxicating scent of you filling his senses. 

His fingers, emboldened by his growing passion, hook into the bottom of your bra, and with surprising ease, he unhooks it. He pushes the material aside, revealing your bare breasts to his hungry gaze. He pauses for a moment, just to admire the sight, before his hands cup your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples.

“Caleb…please…” you say, your voice thick with a mixture of arousal and confusion. You reach up, your hands trembling slightly, and cup his face, your thumbs tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

Caleb pauses, his intense gaze softening as you cup his face. He leans into your touch, a visible shudder running through him as he closes his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the feeling of your skin against his. "Please what?" he asks, his voice low and rough, the question laced with a raw vulnerability. 

One hand comes up to cover yours on his cheek, his fingers interlacing with yours as he holds your hand against his skin, while the other gently squeezes your bare breast, thumbing the nipple in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Why are we…” you trail off, unable to articulate the jumble of thoughts and feelings swirling within you.

"Because," he answers simply, his voice husky with desire, leaning down to take one of your breasts into his mouth. He suckles gently at first, teasing and tantalizing, before his grip tightens and he begins to suckle more firmly, drawing a sharp intake of breath from you. His hand, the one not holding yours, slides down your side to your waistband, his fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans. "We're always supposed to," he murmurs around your breast, the words muffled but clear, his fingers finally succeeding in unbuttoning your jeans.

“Why?” you ask again, the question a desperate plea for understanding.

He looks up at you, his eyes intense and unwavering, as he unbuttons your jeans, his fingers hooking into the waistband. 

"Because we're always supposed to be more than friends," he explains, his voice muffled against your breast. "Because every time I see you laughing with someone else, I get jealous. Because every time someone looks at you for too long, I want to punch them."

You swallow hard, your throat tightening with emotion. “That's why…you said you will never get a girlfriend?”

He nods against your chest, the movement small and hesitant, before standing up straight and pulling the rest of your clothes off, leaving you sitting bare before him. "I never wanted a girlfriend," he admits, his voice raw and honest, his eyes fixed on yours. "I never wanted anyone but you."

Your heart skips a beat, a wild, erratic rhythm taking over your chest. “Since when…? When we met or…”

He swallows hard, his eyes flickering down your body, lingering on the curve of your breasts and the swell of your hips, before meeting your gaze again. "Since we were kids," he says softly, the words barely audible above the frantic pounding of your heart. 

He steps closer, closing the remaining distance between you, until he's standing between your legs. "Remember when we used to play hide and seek?" he asks, his fingers hooking around your thighs, his touch sending shivers up your spine.

You nod, a small, involuntary movement. “You always somehow found me.”

"Because I always looked for you," he explains, his thumbs rubbing the inside of your thighs, his gaze unwavering. 

"Remember when you scraped your knee on that field trip, and I carried you home?" he asks softly, his eyes searching yours, as if looking for confirmation, or perhaps forgiveness. When you nod again, remembering the incident vividly, he continues, "Remember I told I will always be by your side?”

You nod again, feeling a lump forming in your throat. The memory is sharp and clear, the feeling of his arms around you, the concern etched on his face, as real now as it was then.

Caleb leans in closer, his voice dropping to almost a whisper as he continues, "That wasn't just something friends say. I meant it. Every promise, every joke shared, every bump and bruise I tended to - it was all me saying 'I'm in love with you' without actually saying it."

Your heart actually swells, filling your chest until it feels like it might burst. You struggle to breathe, the air caught in your throat, as the weight of his words settles upon you. This is it. This is the culmination of years of unspoken feelings, of hidden glances and secret longings.

He watched, his gaze intense and unwavering, as a kaleidoscope of emotions played across your face – surprise, disbelief, a hesitant joy that threatened to bloom into something more. He saw the question in your eyes, the silent plea for reassurance, and it fueled the courage that had been simmering within him for what felt like an eternity.

His own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the years of longing he had so carefully concealed. Each stolen glance, each casual touch, each shared laugh had been etched onto his soul, fueling a secret fire that now threatened to consume him. He had built walls around his heart, fortifying it against the vulnerability of love, but you, with your infectious laughter and unwavering spirit, had chipped away at those defenses, brick by agonizing brick.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for you, his hands trembling slightly as they spanned your waist. The touch was electric, a jolt that sent shivers down your spine and stole the breath from your lungs. With a strength born of years of suppressed desire, he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The heat of your body pressed against him was intoxicating, a promise of connection that he could no longer deny himself.

"I'm in love with you," he said, the words finally free after years of restraint. There was no fanfare, no grand pronouncements, just a simple, honest declaration that resonated with the weight of his unspoken feelings. He watched, his breath suspended, as the words settled between you, waiting for your reaction, for the answer that would either shatter him or set him free.

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, tilting his chin up so you could meet his gaze. The question hung in the air, unspoken but palpable. "That's why you wrote my name on that graffiti wall by the basketball court? As a wish, when we wrote our wishes?"

He continued to walk you further into the shower's embrace, feeling the slick tile beneath his bare feet. Without breaking eye contact, he used his evol to release the knot of the towel cinched around his hips. It fell to the wet floor, discarded like the pretense he had carried for so long.

The warm water pulsed against your skin, a comforting weight that seemed to ground you as the world tilted on its axis. Caleb cupped your face with his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. 

He looked at you, really looked at you, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that left you breathless. Unspoken words swirled within those depths, echoes of old wishes and long-held dreams.

"Yes," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin. "I wished for you every time."

He gently lowered you to the shower floor, the cool tile a startling contrast to the heat that radiated from his body. Kneeling before you, he took your hand in his, his touch reverent and tender. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against them.

"You don't have to say anything right now," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, searching for a flicker of understanding, a sign of reciprocation. "Just…just let me love you for now, okay?"

You could only nod, the gesture small and uncertain, but enough.

His lips curved into a gentle smile, a smile that reached his eyes and banished the shadows that had haunted them for so long. He knew how rare it was for you to grant silence, how you usually filled every space with your vibrant energy and quick wit. Your quiet acquiescence was a gift, a fragile offering that he would cherish.

"Always wanted to know what your lips tasted like under the shower," he said softly, his voice laced with a playful desire that eased the tension in the air. He slid closer, his hips brushing against yours, tilting your chin with his fingers, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Mind if I find out?"

A spark of your old self flickered in your eyes, a hint of the playful banter that defined your friendship. "Oh…now are you asking permission after you manhandled me?" You raised an eyebrow, a challenging glint in your gaze.

He laughed, a deep, husky sound that resonated through you. "Too late for that," he pointed out, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. His hands slid down to your behind, his fingers gently kneading the curves of your flesh. "Answer the question, smartass." He nuzzled your neck, the warm breath against your skin sending shivers dancing down your spine. "Can I kiss you under the shower?"

Another nod, this one more decisive, more eager. The anticipation was a tangible thing, a vibrating energy that hummed between you.

And then his lips were on yours, gentle at first, a tentative exploration of familiar territory. But the gentleness quickly gave way to a deeper hunger, a raw need that had been simmering beneath the surface for too long. His lips became demanding, coaxing your mouth open, inviting his tongue to slide in and taste you. 

The warm water rained down on you both, a sensuous curtain that veiled you from the world, mixing with the heat of his kiss. He sighed into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, his hands squeezing your backside possessively, drawing you closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. "Finally," he breathed against your lips.

In that single word, you heard the depth of his longing, the flicker of fear, the sting of jealousy, all woven together with the raw, undeniable thread of love. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a testament to the years of suppressed desire and unspoken emotions.

He finally broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he caught his breath, his chest heaving. "I've imagined this so many times," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion, raw and vulnerable. "You, me, under the shower, finally together." He kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring all his pent-up feelings into the kiss, a desperate plea for reciprocation, a silent vow of devotion.

You smiled into the kiss, a genuine, heartfelt smile that radiated through every cell of your being. It was a smile born of relief, of joy, of the burgeoning realization that your own secret feelings were finally being mirrored back at you.

He smiled back, his eyes shining with a happiness that banished the shadows and revealed the man you had always known was hidden beneath the surface. He stood up, pulling you up with him, his hands roaming possessively over your wet body, lingering on the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips.

"Let me wash you," he said, his voice husky with desire, picking up the bottle of body wash and squeezing a generous amount onto a waiting loofah. "All over."

You giggled, the sound light and carefree, a stark contrast to the intensity of the moment. "So now you’re my sweet Caleb and not Colonel Caleb?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, filling the small space with a comforting intimacy. "Only you get to see this side of me," he said softly, running the loofah gently over your shoulders, his touch careful and tender. "Colonel Caleb is for everyone else." 

He leaned down to kiss your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin, his hands tracing slow, deliberate circles as he began to wash you.

You sighed and leaned against him, letting the warmth of his body and the gentle caress of the loofah soothe your senses. 

The water continued to pulse around you, washing away the doubts and fears, leaving only the raw, undeniable connection that bound you together.

"You know you're making it really hard for me to just wash you instead of-" He paused, clearing his throat, his voice suddenly thick with desire. "You're killing me here," he murmured, nipping gently at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin. His hands trailed down your sides, lingering just under your breasts, his fingers tracing the delicate curve. "Should I continue washing?"

"You already stripped me naked and dragged me into the shower," you pointed out, a playful challenge in your voice, a subtle invitation in your eyes.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through you. "Touché," he said, his hands finally moving to cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your hardening nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. "I guess I can skip the washing part." He pressed his hips against your backside, letting you feel his growing arousal, a tangible expression of the desire that consumed him.

You moaned, the sound muffled against his shoulder, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your ass.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands tightening on your breasts as you wiggled against him, your movements only fueling the fire that burned between you. "You're driving me crazy." He spun you around, pinning you against the shower wall, his eyes blazing with a raw, primal need. "I need to taste you," he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, as you looked down at him. He was tall enough that his face was eye level with your tummy, his gaze intense and unwavering.

Caleb pressed a quick kiss to your belly button before trailing his lips lower, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place. "I've thought about this moment even more than kissing you," he confessed, his breath hot against your core, sending shivers of anticipation through your body. "Want to eat you out until you're screaming my name."

You whimpered, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The anticipation was almost unbearable, the promise of pleasure a tantalizing lure that threatened to shatter your carefully constructed composure.

He smirks up at you, loving the effect he's having. "Brace yourself, sweetheart," he warns playfully before diving in, his mouth covering your clit as his tongue flicks rapidly over the sensitive bud. He moans at your taste, the vibrations sending shockwaves through you.

“Caleb!”

He hums in satisfaction, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive spot. "Mmm, just like I imagined," he murmurs against you, not breaking his rhythm. He slides one hand up to your breast, teasing your nipple while the other grips your thigh, pulling it over his shoulder for better access.

You almost come from the sight. This sweet powerful man who was always with you through the years was actually kneeling in front of you and eating your pussy. It was a fantasy you'd nurtured in secret, a forbidden bloom in the garden of your mind. 

You never tried to imagine it, respecting your friendship and bond with him but you always wondered what if….

Now, here it was, a vibrant, tangible reality. The contrast between the gruff exterior he often projected and the exquisite tenderness of his current ministrations was almost too much to bear.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with lust and something more profound. "You have no idea how many nights I've jerked off thinking about this," he admits, his voice muffled against your thigh. The raw honesty in his confession both shocks and thrills you. 

To know you've occupied his thoughts in such a primal way, to realize the depth of his desire… it ignites a fire within you, hotter than anything you've ever known. He dives back in, his tongue working faster, more insistently.

You moan as you grab his hair. The feel of his thick, dark hair between your fingers is intoxicating. You tug gently, urging him closer, desperate for more. The sensations are building, swirling, threatening to consume you.

He growls possessively, the sound rumbling against your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. He stands up abruptly, lifting you so that your legs wrap around his waist. "Need to be inside you," he declares, his voice firm with need. "Now." The urgency in his tone is electrifying. You feel your own desire mirroring his, a desperate hunger that can only be sated by the joining of your bodies.

You bite your lip. The anticipation is almost unbearable. You've waited so long for this moment, dreamed of it countless times even if it’s wrong. To finally be here, on the precipice of intimacy with Caleb, is both terrifying and exhilarating.

He takes your silence as agreement. 

"Damn," he mutters, positioning himself at your entrance. He looks at you, making sure this is okay. He's big - almost too big - and he doesn't want to hurt you. The genuine concern on his face softens his rugged smooth features, making him look vulnerable and utterly irresistible. He captures your mouth again, pushing just the tip inside you. The sensation is foreign, intense, and undeniably arousing. You gasp softly against his lips.

“Wait…” you push his muscular chest to stop him. The small barrier of your hands against his powerful frame feels almost comical. 

The heat radiating from his body is overwhelming, and the throbbing pressure where he's joined you is making it difficult to think.

He pauses, holding his breath as he waits for you to speak. "What's wrong?" He asks softly, his arms tightening around you. He can feel how tight you are around just the tip, and he's worried it's going to hurt too much. His concern is palpable, a wave of tenderness washing over you.

You swallow and decide to be honest, "It's gonna bleed." The words hang in the air, heavy with the unspoken truth. You watch his expression carefully, bracing yourself for his reaction.

He freezes, his eyes widening slightly as he processes what you've said. "Are you—?" He starts, then stops, his voice barely a whisper. "Are you a virgin?" He asks gently, his brow furrowing with concern and something else—tenderness. The realization washes over him, transforming his gaze from one of pure lust to one of profound respect and awe.

“Yes..” you whisper. The admission feels strangely liberating. It's a vulnerability you've kept hidden for so long, a secret you're now entrusting to him.

Caleb's breath catches as he realizes the enormity of the moment. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes soft with emotion. "Hey," he murmurs, "we don't have to do this right now. As much as I want you, I don't want it to hurt you." The sincerity in his voice is disarming. He's willing to sacrifice his own desire for your comfort, a testament to the depth of his feelings.

You shake your head. “No. I want you too. We can’t just…stop..” The words tumble out, fueled by a mixture of nerves and longing. 

You don't want to back down now. You've come too far, waited too long. The fear is still there, but it's overshadowed by the overwhelming desire to experience this with him.

He can see the determination in your eyes, mirroring his own desire. He kisses you gently, trying to prepare himself for the pain he knows you might feel. "Alright," he whispers against your lips, "but if it hurts too much, we stop, okay?" The promise is both reassuring and arousing. He's putting your needs first, but his own yearning is still evident in the intensity of his gaze.

You nod. The agreement seals the pact. You're ready.

With extreme care, he slowly pushes in further, feeling you tense around him. "Jesus," he hisses, "you're so tight. Relax, sweetheart." He keeps kissing you, trying to distract you from the invasion of his size. 

The pressure is building, a burning sensation that makes you want to both pull away and lean in closer. "Here comes the part that might sting..."

You tense. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, bracing for the inevitable pain.

He pauses, giving you a moment to breathe. 

“Just a bit more," he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. With infinite gentleness, he pushes forward, feeling the barrier give way. You inhale sharply, and he freezes, holding himself still inside you. "You okay?" His voice is laced with concern.

“It’s worse than my period,” you wheeze. 

The comparison is clumsy, but it's the closest analogy you can come up with in the moment.

His heart clenches at your words, knowing he's the cause of your pain. He stays perfectly still, letting you get used to his size and the discomfort. "Shh, baby," he whispers, peppering your face with soft kisses. "Just breathe through it." He's a fortress of strength and tenderness, holding you close and offering silent support.

You nod and breathe deeply. You focus on the rhythm of your breath, trying to find a center of calm amidst the storm of sensations.

After what feels like an eternity, he feels your body start to relax slightly. He takes this as his cue to begin moving slowly, careful not to cause you too much discomfort. "Tell me if it's too much," he pants, his forehead dripping with sweat from the effort of holding back. The vulnerability he shows in this moment, the raw emotion etched on his face, is more intoxicating than any physical sensation.

The sight of him struggling, fighting against the raw desire that threatened to consume him, ignited a spark within you. A mischievous glint entered your eyes, a silent dare. You wouldn't cower, wouldn't appear weak or intimidated. Instead, you dug your heels into his, a subtle yet deliberate act, pulling him closer, inch by tantalizing inch. The whisper that escaped your lips was a single word, a plea, a demand: "More."

That single syllable, laced with innocent longing and burgeoning desire, seemed to shatter the last vestiges of his restraint. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh. The controlled movements he had so painstakingly maintained became less precise, more urgent, fueled by a primal need. 

"Fuck," he growled, the sound raw and guttural, a stark contrast to the playful banter you usually shared. "You feel so good... better than I imagined." He paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. "But baby, I'm really deep like this... too deep?"

A moan escaped your lips, your body humming with a newfound awareness. The sensation was overwhelming, a delicious ache that spread from your core to the tips of your fingers. In that moment, words seemed inadequate, clumsy tools to express the intensity of what you were feeling. All you could manage was a simple, almost childlike description: "Like stick."

The unexpected crudeness, delivered with your characteristic naiveté, drew a smile from him, a genuine curve of his lips that momentarily softened the intensity in his eyes. Even as he fought to control his own spiraling pleasure, he understood. He knew you wanted him buried deep inside you, wanted to feel the fullness of his presence. 

"Too stuck, you mean?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin. He began to move, slowly at first, thrusting his hips in a circular motion, deliberately pressing against your sensitive walls, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from you.

"No…" you choked out, a nervous laugh bubbling up from your chest. "You're so hard that it feels like I have a stick in my pussy." The words were clumsy, unrefined, yet perfectly captured the unfamiliar sensation that had taken hold of you.

His head snapped back, and a deep, unrestrained laugh erupted from his chest, a sound you had never heard before. It was a sexy, guttural sound that resonated through your body, sending shivers down your spine. 

Despite your innocence, your blunt phrasing had only served to harden him even more inside you. "Only you," he said, his voice thick with amusement and desire, "could make me laugh while I'm fucking you senseless..." He leaned down, pressing a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive curve of your neck, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through you.

A smile bloomed on your face, and a soft moan escaped your lips, a testament to the exquisite sensations flooding your senses.

He continued to move, his body finding a rhythm that seemed to please you both. His thrusts grew deeper, more assured, each one pushing you closer to the edge. "God, you're amazing," he murmured, his voice strained with effort. "Your pussy is so tight and wet... it's like a perfect glove." He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue mimicking the motion of his hips, driving you wild.

"Mmm," you hummed, lost in the intoxicating sensation of his mouth on yours, his body pressed against yours.

Seeing you so consumed by pleasure emboldened him, and he quickened his pace slightly, his movements becoming more insistent. He could feel your body beginning to relax, opening up to him, surrendering to the raw, untamed desire that coursed through you both. "You like how I fill you up, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "Is my big cock hitting that sweet spot?"

Your eyes rolled back in your head, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his voice. It was a voice you had never heard before, seductive and possessive. You had known him for years, talked to him countless times, but this voice, this side of him, was completely new.

He could see the surprise in your eyes, the flicker of recognition as his deep, husky voice washed over you. He knew this voice was reserved only for the intimacy of this moment, a secret language spoken only between lovers. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer as he thrust deeper, pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice laced with a hint of possessiveness.

You slowly obeyed, your eyelids fluttering open, revealing the hazy depths of your desire. You met his gaze, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

He held your gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart pound in your chest. "That's it," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. "I love seeing you like this—flushed, breathless, and taking my cock so beautifully." He shifted his angle slightly, finding that elusive spot that made you gasp aloud, a strangled sound of pure pleasure.

"Caleb…" you moaned, his name a breathless plea on your lips. "Please!"

Hearing his name spoken with such raw desire seemed to snap something inside him. In that moment, you were no longer his innocent best friend, the girl he had protected and cherished for years. You were a woman, a sexy, wanton creature beneath him, begging for more. 

"Please what, baby?" he ground out, his hips bucking against yours, hitting that sweet spot again and again. "Do you want it harder?"

You bit your lip, a nervous habit that had always plagued you. Seeing that small, vulnerable gesture seemed to ignite a fire within him.

"...Fuck, don't bite that lip like that. Never hurt yourself," he growled, his voice laced with a protective ferocity. He caught your plump bottom lip between his own teeth, gently tugging before capturing your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss. Without warning, he abandoned all pretense of control and began pounding into you harder, each thrust precise and powerful, driving you closer to the brink. "That what you wanted?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your lips, knowing full well that it was.

You whimpered, your head lolling down against his shoulder. "Like that. Yes…"

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, his control finally slipping away as your whimpers drove him wild. "You feel so damn good I could come already..." He pinned your hands above your head, changing the angle completely, granting him deeper access. His eyes darkened with unrestrained desire as he slammed into you, finding that perfect spot that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

"Oh fuck, Caleb!" You screamed his name as you came, your body arching off the wall, exposing the delicate curve of your throat.

Seeing your neck bared and hearing his name spill from your lips in a scream of pure ecstasy made his body taut with anticipation. He plunged into you even harder, chasing your orgasm with his own. 

"Damn," he muttered, watching your body writhe beneath him, your muscles clenching and releasing in a symphony of pleasure. 

Your neck was arched back, your breasts thrust out, a vision of pure, unadulterated beauty.

Releasing your wrists, he used the advantage of your exposed neck, curling his hand around your throat, holding his fingers against your jaw.

"Fuck…."

He used his other hand to pull one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up completely, granting him deeper access. He wrapped his fingers around your throat, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tilted your head back further, exposing you to his intense gaze. 

He continued to thrust into you brutally, each stroke a testament to his raw, untamed desire. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice hoarse with passion.

You sobbed as you looked at him, another orgasm building within you, threatening to overwhelm you completely.

Seeing the tears in your eyes, the raw vulnerability etched on your face, pushed him over the edge. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent as he came with a guttural groan, his body convulsing with the force of his release. 

His hot, thick seed filled you up, throbbing inside you as his hips jerked erratically. 

"Fuck...fuck…fuck," he chanted, his fingers tightening slightly around your throat, a primal expression of possession.

As his breathing slowly returned to normal, he inhaled the familiar scent of apples, a fragrance he had come to associate with you, now mixed with the intoxicating aroma of sweat and mingled pleasure. It was a scent that suddenly felt incredibly intimate, comforting, and achingly familiar. 

He nuzzled his face into your neck, gently kissing away the beads of perspiration. 

"Baby... you're crying," he murmured, his voice laced with concern.

You choked out a teary laugh. "Yes."

He wiped the tears away with his thumb, his fingers loosening their hold on your throat. 

"Was it too much?" he asked softly, his purple eyes searching your tear-streaked face, seeking reassurance. He could feel you still trembling beneath him, your body wracked with aftershocks and lingering sobs.

You swallowed, trying to find the words to articulate the complex emotions swirling within you. "You're so intense…."

"Too intense?" he asked carefully, pulling back slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. His gaze dropped to your neck, and he saw the faint marks left by his fingers. He realized his handprint was slightly visible, a stark reminder of the intensity of their encounter. He also remembered your throaty screams, the way your legs had been wrapped tightly around his waist. 

"Answer me," he said hoarsely. "Truthfully."

"I mean…it surprised me…"

He nodded slowly, understanding your shock. "I know I got a bit... carried away," he admitted, his thumb gently rubbing the faint mark on your neck. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" 

His voice was laced with genuine concern, the intense lust from earlier replaced with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

You shook your head, your eyes meeting his. "I loved it."

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You did?" he asks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Because fuck, baby, you looked so beautiful like that... tears and all." He leans down and kisses you gently, his hand cupping your face. 

The shower roars around you, a steamy cocoon isolating you both from the world. The water sluices over your skin, washing away the remnants of your earlier despair, replaced now by a heady mix of fear and exhilaration.

“So you admit that you’re a sadist?” you laugh, the sound a little breathless, a little shaky. You try to inject some lightness into the moment, to diffuse the raw tension that crackles between you. But the words hang in the humid air, heavy with unspoken desires.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through your chest, his fingers tightening around your face possessively. 

"Guilty as charged," he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and moist against your skin. "You bring out the worst in me, you know that?" He pulls back slightly, his purple eyes glinting mischievously, reflecting the overhead light. “You like being manhandled?”

You blush, the heat rising in your cheeks, prickling your skin. "What kind of question is that?" you stammer, your mind struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire intensity of his words and actions. The way he looks at you, like you're the only thing in the universe, is both terrifying and intoxicating.

He smirks, clearly enjoying your reaction, the curve of his lips predatory and enticing. 

"It's a simple question, baby. Do you like it when I get rough with you?" He shifts slightly, making sure you can feel him, still hard and throbbing, deep inside you. 

"Because I can do it again if you want." The air crackles with unspoken promises, with the threat of exquisite pain and pleasure intertwined.

“Round two?” Your eyes widen, mirroring a mixture of disbelief and undeniable anticipation. The thought of surrendering to his dominance, of relinquishing control, both scares and excites you in equal measure.

"Or three," he says with a smirk, lifting his hips slightly to remind you of his persistent presence within you. "I can keep going all night, you know. And judging by how your pussy just tightened around me..." He runs his nose along yours teasingly, the scent of soap and arousal filling your senses. "You want more." He knows you. He sees through your carefully constructed facade of defiance straight to the yearning core of your desire.

“Shit…you little-“ you start to retort, but the words die in your throat, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his presence.

"Fucking genius?" He offers, interrupting you, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Yeah, I know." He captures your lips again, swallowing your curses as he starts moving his hips again, slowly, deliberately, drawing out the exquisite torment. "Now shut up and let me manhandle you some more," he growls against your lips, the possessive command igniting a fire deep within you.

You growl in his mouth, a primal sound of frustrated desire. You want to fight him, to resist, but your body betrays you, arching instinctively into his touch.

He grins, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, a delicious threat. "Like that?" he asks, his voice low and husky, vibrating with barely suppressed passion. "You're so fucking adorable when you're trying to be aggressive." He uses his gravity evol to lift you even higher up against the tiled wall, your legs wrapping around his waist, affording him even deeper access. 

By this point, you're both completely drenched under the relentless shower spray, the water plastering your hair to your face and tracing rivulets down your heated skin.

“Hey!” you exclaim, a weak protest.

He laughs, a deep rumbling sound that echoes in the small space. "You're adorable and you know it." He starts thrusting harder, his hips slapping against yours loudly, the rhythm primal and insistent. "Now be a good girl and hold on," he commands, his hands gripping your ass tightly as he fucks you hard against the wall, claiming you with every powerful stroke.

“Shit…shit…shit,” you curse and moan, the words a litany of surrender. You try to bite back the sounds escaping your lips, but the pleasure is too intense, the sensation of him filling you too overwhelming.

He swallows your cries with his mouth, one hand sliding up to cover your breast possessively, his thumb teasing your nipple. 

"Damn right," he hisses, watching your body bounce between the wall and his hips, his eyes dark and intense with lust. "Take my dick like a good girl," he growls out, his purple eyes darkening with desire.

You gasp, your muscles clenching involuntarily around him, a desperate plea for release.

He tosses his head back with a groan, feeling your walls tighten around his cock, the sensation almost unbearable. "Fuck, just like that," he praises breathlessly, squeezing your breast harder, eliciting another gasp from you. The steam from the shower fogs up the air around you, creating a hazy, sensual atmosphere, droplets of water mingling with your sweat, clinging to your skin like tiny jewels.

He leans in your ear, breathing heavily, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “You know what I would love to see?”

“What?” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse with passion.

"My gun down your throat. The one you so desperately wanted to take," he whispers, the words a shocking contrast to the sensual intensity that had been building between you.

You choke, your muscles clenching again, this time not from pleasure, but from a sudden, sharp wave of fear and confusion. 

What the fuck? The abrupt shift in tone leaves you reeling, your mind struggling to reconcile the brutal image he paints with the raw intimacy you've been sharing.

He smiles at your reaction, a cruel, knowing curve of his lips, his hips slowing down as he continues speaking into your ear, his voice low and dangerous. "You tried to steal from me and now I want to see your mouth stuffed full of something I own." He bites your earlobe, his tongue piercing digging into your skin, a small stab of pain that sends a jolt through you.

“You wouldn’t…” you hiss, the words a mix of disbelief and challenge.

"Try me," he laughs darkly, the sound sending a shiver of apprehension down your spine. "I might actually enjoy watching you choke on my gun." He pulls back slightly to look at your face, his purple eyes serious, devoid of any trace of the playful amusement from before. "You have such a smart mouth. I bet it'd look perfect wrapped around my gun." He tightens his hips again slowly, deliberately, the movement both a punishment and a promise.

“You’re serious?” You are speechless, the air knocked out of your lungs.

As a hunter, you held a gun everyday but use it for pleasure like this? Was he insane? 

The thought is jarring, disturbing, completely at odds with your understanding of the world.

"Deadly serious," he states firmly, his gaze unwavering. "I own you now, remember? Your mouth is mine to use however I want." 

He leans back and uses his evol to grab the gun from the counter as it floated in his waiting hand, holding it up so you can see it. The metal glints menacingly under the shower spray, reflecting the sharp angles of his face. "Open up."

“Caleb…” you gasp, shocked, the name a plea, a desperate attempt to reach the man you thought you knew.

"Now," he orders, his voice firm and commanding, brooking no argument. He presses the cold metal against your bottom lip, silently urging you to open your mouth, the contact sending a shiver of revulsion and a strange, twisted kind of excitement through you. 

His eyes blaze with possessiveness and triumph as he looks at your shocked expression, the power he wields over you palpable. "Be a good girl and open your mouth for me," he demands softly, the words laced with a dangerous undertone.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to breathe. Slowly, hesitantly, you open your mouth, a silent act of surrender.

He slides the gun into your mouth slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your reaction with an almost clinical detachment. "Good girl," he praises, his voice low and dangerous, sending a shiver down your spine. "Now suck it like you would my cock." He watches as you tentatively wrap your lips around the metal, your eyes wide with shock and arousal, the conflicting emotions warring within you.

You taste the cold metal, the lingering smell of gun powder filling your nostrils as you suck the barrel, a strange, forbidden pleasure tingling on your tongue.

He can feel your warm breath on the gun as you suck on it, his fingers tightening around the handle possessively, the weight of the weapon heavy in his hand. "Deeper," he growls, pushing the gun further into your mouth until it hits the back of your throat, making you gag slightly, the metallic taste intensifying.

You whimper, a small, involuntary sound of distress and submission.

The cool metal of the gun barrel presses against your lips, a stark contrast to the heat that’s been building between you and Caleb for what feels like an eternity. 

He pulls it out slowly, deliberately, the silver glinting in the dim bathroom light. A thin string of saliva stretches from your parted lips to the cold steel, a fragile connection in this moment of raw, untamed desire.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes, usually a vibrant, playful purple, are now dark pools of lust, focused solely on you, on the way your body reacts to his every move. He slides the gun back in, a slow, agonizing tease that makes your breath catch in your throat. Each inch is a deliberate act, mimicking the possessive thrusts of his hips from just moments before, etching the memory of his forceful claim onto your very being.

The sensation is shocking, forbidden, and undeniably arousing. You try to fight it, to pull away, but his grip is firm, his control absolute. He dictates the pace, the depth, the intensity of this bizarre, sensual dance. 

Your head spins, the world tilting on its axis as the pleasure and the danger intertwine, creating a potent cocktail that threatens to overwhelm your senses.

Soon, your eyes roll back in your head, the fight draining out of you as you surrender to the intoxicating wave of sensation. You’re lost in the moment, the boundaries between right and wrong blurring beyond recognition.

“Mmh,” he hums, watching your body go lax, your mouth open and accepting around the gun. A possessive triumph flickers in his eyes, a primal satisfaction at your complete submission. “You like getting mouth-fucked by my gun?” he growls softly, his voice rough with barely contained desire. 

He pushes it deeper again, hitting your throat harder this time, a deliberate act that makes you gag slightly, but the discomfort only adds to the intensity of the experience. The sound of wet, sloppy sucking fills the small bathroom, amplifying the intimacy, the transgression.

You can’t help it. You moan, a low, guttural sound that escapes from the back of your throat, a testament to the pleasure he’s inflicting, to the control he wields.

He feels your moan vibrate around the gun, the sound resonating through his body, igniting a fire that threatens to consume him. 

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound ripped from his chest, raw and desperate. He pulls the gun out and sets it aside on the shower bench, the sound of metal against tile echoing in the sudden silence. 

His other hand, calloused and strong, grips your throat tightly, not painfully, but firmly, possessively, reminding you who’s in charge. He slams his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly, desperately, his tongue invading your mouth in a blatant act of ownership. “You’re mine,” he hisses against your lips, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

You sob, a small, involuntary sound of surrender, as the overwhelming rush of sensation finally breaks you. You come, hard and fast, the orgasm tearing through you with a force that leaves you shaking, gasping for breath. Harder than before, more intense, more complete.

He swallows your cries, muffling the sounds of your climax, claiming them as his own. 

Your body convulses, your nails digging into his back as you cling to him, the only anchor in this sea of overwhelming sensation. He feels your release cover his thighs again, hot and slick against his skin, his eyes darkening with a mixture of possessiveness and raw, primal hunger. 

He lifts you up suddenly, wrapping your legs around his waist again, your bodies molding together as one. He pulls out and enters you roughly, a forceful invasion that makes you scream loudly, the sound echoing off the tiled walls.

His fingers dig into your bottom, gripping you tightly as he lifts you up and down on his length, fucking you hard and fast against the shower wall. The sound of slapping skin mingles with your screams, creating a cacophony of pleasure and pain, of dominance and surrender. His eyes, burning with possessiveness and hunger, seem to pierce through you, stripping you bare, exposing your innermost desires. “Who owns this pussy?”

You sob, the words torn from your throat, a desperate plea for release, for validation. “You, Caleb. You.”

He slams into you harder, deeper, rewarding your submission with a low groan that vibrates against your skin. “Goddamn right I do,” he growls, biting your neck possessively, leaving a trail of burning kisses in his wake. 

His hips piston relentlessly, driving you closer and closer to the edge. The shower wall steams up around you both, droplets of water mingling with your sweat and his saliva, marking your skin with the evidence of his claim.

You can’t hold out, the next orgasm building inside you, a tidal wave of sensation threatening to engulf you.

As if sensing your approaching climax, he reaches down and presses his thumb against your clit, circling it mercilessly, increasing the pressure, pushing you closer to the breaking point. “Come for me again, princess,” he demands harshly, his voice rough and possessive. “Show me who this pussy belongs to.”

The sweet pet name, spoken in this moment of intense passion, is a final surrender, a complete and utter relinquishing of control. It makes you come again, almost absurdly, the force of the orgasm even more intense than before.

He groans deeply as he feels your pussy clench around him, milking his cock with each pulse of your orgasm. “Fucking hell,” he growls, his hips moving faster and more erratically, his control slipping as he teeters on the edge of his own release. “That’s it, princess. Come all over my cock.”

“Caleb!”

He hilts himself inside you with a final, brutal thrust, biting down on your shoulder to stifle his own cries as his orgasm crashes through him, a cataclysmic explosion of sensation. 

“Mine,” he snarls possessively, flooding your pussy with his hot, thick release. His cock twitches inside you, prolonging your shared climax, holding you captive in this moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

“Holy shit!” You wheeze, gasping for breath as the last tremors of your orgasm subside.

Panting heavily, Caleb leans his forehead against yours, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “Holy shit is right,” he chuckles weakly, his cock still buried deep inside you, a tangible reminder of the connection you share. He squeezes your ass playfully, his earlier intensity melting into post-coital affection. “You alright there, princess?”

You are left panting, your mind still reeling from the intensity of what just happened, struggling to process the sheer force of his dominance, the depths of your own surrender.

He can see the dazed expression in your eyes, a testament to the power of the encounter. He nuzzles his face against yours, inhaling your scent deeply, savoring the taste of your skin. “Baby, you okay?” he asks softly, his fingers splaying out on your backside possessively, assuring himself that you’re still there, still his.

You nod weakly, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasms. “I think I broke my sweet Caleb.”

He lets out a low, satisfied laugh, his body still entwined with yours, his cock throbbing inside you. “You didn’t break me, princess. But damn, you wore me out.” He gently kisses your lips, his hands moving to support your weight as he slowly lowers you down, his cock finally slipping out of you, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“Oh god…” you gasp and wobble, feeling his cum leaking out of you, a visible reminder of his possession.

Seeing the look on your face, a mixture of shock and arousal, he grins mischievously. 

He reaches down and scoops some of his semen off your inner thighs, bringing his fingers up to your mouth. “Open up, princess,” he commands softly, his eyes locked with yours, daring you to resist. “Taste what you do to me.”

You don’t glare this time, the fight gone out of you, replaced by a strange mixture of exhaustion and a lingering desire. You melt and open your mouth, too weak to fight or argue, surrendering once again to his will.

He gently pushes his fingers between your lips, letting you taste his salty, musky release. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing your bottom lip as he pulls his fingers out, leaving a glistening sheen on your skin. He helps you steady yourself against the shower wall, his hands roaming possessively over your curves, claiming you as his own.

“I can’t believe you fucked my mouth with your gun.”

He chuckles darkly, turning off the shower and wrapping you in a plush towel, his movements gentle despite the raw intensity of the encounter you just shared. “I can’t believe you let me,” he retorts, his voice still laced with amusement and satisfaction. He picks you up bridal style, carrying you out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You were forcing me, you know?” You hiss, trying to regain some semblance of control, to remind him that there are boundaries, even between you.

He lays you down on the bed, a smirk tugging at his lips as he towels you off more aggressively than necessary, his eyes burning with a possessive fire. “Forcing you? Baby, you sucked that gun like it was your favorite fucking lollipop.” He leans in close, his voice low and teasing, his breath ghosting against your skin.

You swallow, not knowing what to say, caught between outrage and a shameful surge of arousal.

He notices your reaction, the flicker of desire in your eyes, and his smirk grows wider. “Did you like it that much?” he asks, his eyes shining with curiosity and something darker, something that both excites and terrifies you. Before you can respond, he gently spreads your legs and crawls between them, his face hovering just above your pussy, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh. “Let’s find out.”

“How?” You breathe.

He inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as he savors your scent. When he opens them, they lock onto yours with an intent gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he leans down and presses his mouth to your pussy, parting your lips with his tongue and dragging it through your folds.

“Oh shit!” The words are a ragged expulsion of air, a surrender to the intense sensations that are already threatening to overwhelm you.

He grins against you, the vibrations sending a shock of pleasure through you. “That good, huh?” He does it again, this time flicking his tongue over your clit, watching your face contort with pleasure. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open and exposing you fully to his mouth.

“Caleb…” Your voice is a dazed whisper, barely audible above the roaring in your ears. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, lock on his. You search for something, anything, in his gaze – a hint of mercy, perhaps, or maybe just a sign that he’s feeling this as intensely as you are.

"What baby? Want me to stop?" His voice is a rough whisper against your wetness, knowing full well that you don't want him to stop. He circles your clit with his tongue again, maintaining eye contact as he does so. "Does my tongue feel good right here?"

You moan, a low, guttural sound that comes from the depths of your soul. Your hands, trembling, reach up to grip his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer. “Caleb…fuck…”

He chuckles darkly, the vibrations against your sensitive nub making your hips buck up. He sucks your clit into his mouth, applying gentle pressure as he flicks his tongue back and forth. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you even wider as he devours you hungrily.

Your eyes roll back in your head, your vision blurring at the edges. You feel yourself losing control, spiraling down into a vortex of pure sensation.

"Fucking hell, you taste amazing," Caleb growls, releasing your clit momentarily. He dives back in, this time plunging his tongue deep inside your pussy, mimicking the motion of a cock. He curls it upwards, seeking that special spot to make you see stars.

You come without warning, a sudden, overwhelming surge of pleasure that shatters your control completely.

You scream out loud as a intense orgasm rips through your body, making your legs shake uncontrollably. Caleb holds onto your hips, keeping you place as he continues to lick and suck on your pussy, prolonging your climax. Your eyes flutter open, finding his intense gaze locked onto yours.

"I love watching you fall apart on my tongue," Caleb says roughly, giving your clit one last lick before standing up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pupils are dilated with desire, his breathing heavy.

You lick your lips, still tasting him on them, and your gaze lowers to his body. He is very much naked after the shower you just had, his skin flushed and damp, his muscles tense with barely suppressed energy.

Caleb follows your gaze and smirks, his hand reaching down to wrap around his thick, hard cock. He gives it a slow, languid stroke, his thumb swirling over the sensitive head. "You want this, don't you?" he asks, his voice a deep, seductive rumble.

You whimper, a small, involuntary sound of need that betrays your every thought. You lay in the bed, still with your legs spread and boneless, completely at his mercy.

He watches you, his eyes darkening. The way your legs are spread, the way your body is boneless and sated - it makes his blood boil, fuels the possessive hunger that claws at his insides. He wraps his hand tighter around his length, pumping slowly. "You look like you've been properly fucked," he comments softly, almost to himself, voice laced with dark satisfaction.

You choke a laugh, a weak, breathless sound that still manages to convey a hint of playful defiance. “And who was the one who did that?”

He groans, his eyes fluttering closed briefly as he continues to slow jerk himself off. You’re teasing him, laughing softly even though you’re clearly wrecked from their fucking. "Shut up," he mutters, his voice strained.

You find yourself watching. Each stroke is deliberate, a slow, sensual dance of hand against flesh. You see the flexing of his muscles, the tightening of his jaw, and the way his breath hitches with each movement. It's a raw, uninhibited display, and you find yourself captivated by the sheer intensity of it.

He opens his eyes, finding you watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. The way you're looking at him, like you're enjoying the show - fuck, it's hot. He picks up the pace, his hand moving faster over his length. "You like watching me touch myself?" he asks roughly.

You swallow, the word catching in your throat. "Yes," you whisper, the admission a release, a surrender to the moment.

A low groan escapes his lips as he hears your admission. He strokes himself faster, his grip tightening. "Do you want to watch me come?" he asks, his voice strained with desire. "Or do you want something else?" He looks at you, his eyes filled with lust and a hint of challenge.

"More..." you breathe, the word a plea, a promise.

His breathing grows heavier as he continues to stroke himself, his free hand balling into a fist at his side. "More what?" he growls, his eyes locked onto yours. "You want me to do something else?" He swirls his thumb over the sensitive head, his hand pausing briefly.

A moan escapes your lips, involuntary, a testament to the power he holds over you. You nod, unable to speak, your body trembling with need.

A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, a predatory curve that sends a thrill of excitement through you. He releases his length, leaving it throbbing, glistening, a beacon of raw desire. He comes closer to the bed, stopping at the edge,” Come here, baby.”

You obey, your body moving without conscious thought. You close your legs, knees digging into the mattress, and crawl towards him, drawn by an irresistible force.

As you crawl closer, Caleb reaches out, his large hands grasping your wrists gently. He pulls you the last bit, until you're kneeling right before him. His cock juts out, a pulsing testament to his desire, inches from your face. “I think you want a taste," he murmurs, stroking his shaft slowly.

You lick your lips, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. You nod, looking up at him with a mixture of lust and adoration. He's offering you a gift, a privilege, and you're ready to receive it.

Caleb's breath hitches as he watches you lick your lips. He guides his thick head to your mouth, painting your lips with his pre-cum. "Open up for me, sweetheart," he orders softly, his voice thick with desire. He wants to feel your warm, wet mouth enveloping him, to lose himself in the sensation of your touch.

You open your lips, a silent invitation, and he doesn't hesitate.

"Fuck," he whispers, the word an expletive and a prayer as you take him in. He pushes himself deeper inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat. Your gag reflex tries to kick in, but he keeps a firm but gentle grasp on the back of your head, holding you steady. "You're such a good girl," he murmurs, his voice laced with praise, the words a reward for your devotion.

Your eyes roll back in your head, lost in the sensation, the praise igniting a fire within you. You want to please him, to give him everything he desires.

Seeing your reaction, Caleb groans deeply, his hips beginning to move slowly. "That's it, baby. Take my cock so well," he praises, his voice husky with lust. He gently thrusts deeper, giving you time to adjust to his size, to the overwhelming sensation of his presence.

You moan, a muffled sound against his flesh, and almost choke, tears welling up in your eyes. You struggle to breathe, forcing air through your nose, trying to maintain control, to continue pleasing him.

Caleb's grip on your head tightens slightly, but he remains gentle, feeling your struggle. "Shh, baby, take a breath," he coos softly, slowly pulling back to give you a moment of respite. He watches as you gasp for air, tears streaming down your cheeks, your face flushed and contorted with effort,” Look at me.” he whispers.

You look up at him, your eyes pleading, vulnerable.

His heart melts at the sight of you looking up at him with those tear-stained cheeks. His pace remains slow and rhythmic, careful not to hurt you. Not this time. "You look so fucking beautiful with my cock in your mouth," he whispers, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

You whimper, a small, involuntary sound of pleasure, loving that he's so tender with you, so aware of your limits.

"My sweet girl..." he breathes out, continuing those careful thrusts. One hand stays on your head while the other gently strokes your cheek, offering comfort and reassurance. “You're doing so good, taking me so deep..." He watches you struggle, feeling both guilt and intense pleasure knowing it's him causing those sweet tears, that look of blissful torment on your face.

You try to open your mouth wider for him, a silent offering, a desperate attempt to give him everything he wants.

"God, yes... just like that," he encourages, his voice growing thicker as he feels himself nearing his limit. "Your mouth is heaven, sweetheart. So warm, so tight... I'm so fucking close." He bites his lip, trying to hold back, wanting to prolong this moment.

You moan around him, a garbled sound of pleasure and desperation, reaching up to cup his balls, your fingers gently stroking, teasing, adding fuel to the fire.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he curses under his breath, a tremor running through his powerful thighs, the muscles bunching and releasing under your touch. "Stop, stop," he warns you gently, the words a breathy plea, yet his hands, those strong hands that could crush bone stay firmly on your head, contradictory to his words. "You'll make me come if you keep doing that..." His breathing grows raspier.

You ignored him, or perhaps, he knew you would. The thrill of control, of pushing him closer and closer to the brink, was a heady aphrodisiac. Deeper, faster, you swallowed, your hand a firm, possessive grip on his heavy sac, the weight of his impending release heavy in your palm.

"Holy shit," he mutters, hips jerking forward slightly. He's trying hard not to face-fuck you, his self-control surprisingly good. "Your mouth..." He swallows hard, watching you take him deep. "Your hand..." He tenses again as you gently massage his balls.

You broke the rhythm, just for a moment, lifting your head, your gaze locking with his. The moan that escaped your lips was a primal sound, born of pure, unadulterated lust.

His face contorts with pleasure when you look up at him, your usual innocent eyes were filled with desire and hunger, and he finally loses control. "Fuck, I'm coming," he grits out, hands gripping your head tightly as he begins to pump his hips, face screwed up in ecstasy.

Your eyes roll back, the world fading away as the first taste of his release flooded your mouth. He was fire, molten and consuming, and you welcomed the burn.

He lets out a guttural groan as he releases into your mouth, his hot seed spilling out as you swallow around him. He holds you there, not allowing you to pull back as he continues to shudder and come, his body trembling above you. "Damn..." The word was a ragged whisper, a testament to the intensity of what had just transpired.

Seeing him undone, vulnerable, weak in the aftermath of his climax, fueled a deep, primal satisfaction within you. He was a god brought to his knees, and you were the force that had felled him.

Caleb's knees nearly buckle as the last waves of his orgasm course through him. Slowly, he pulls back, his cock slipping from your lips with a soft pop. He stares down at you, chest heaving, a look of stunned awe on his flushed face. "Holy shit," he repeated, the words a hushed prayer.

You swallowed, relishing the lingering taste of him, and licked the last remnants from your lips. The act was deliberately provocative, a silent dare. Your voice was hoarse, raw from the intensity of the moment. "How was that? Better than when you made me choke on your gun?" You grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light, the question laced with a playful defiance.

A low chuckle rumbles in Caleb's chest as he listens to your hoarse voice and teasing words. His eyes light up with amusement and something darker, more primal. He reaches down, gently lifting your chin with his thumb and index finger. "Mmm, definitely better." He murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Your grin widened, emboldened by his response.

Caleb's gaze drops to your lips, still glistening with his release. Without a word, he leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delves in, tasting himself on your lips and tongue. He pulls back after a moment, breathing heavily.

The words, the ones you had choked back in the shower, the ones that had been burning in your throat, finally escaped. "I love you..." The declaration hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable.

His heart skips a beat, emotions playing across his features - surprise, fear, love. "Fuck... don't you dare say things like that," he whispers, but there's no venom in his tone. Instead, he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, the contact grounding him.

You giggled, the sound light and airy in the otherwise heavy atmosphere. "Well... you told me to take my time."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, crinkling the skin around his eyes. "You did take your time," he admitted, his voice softer now. He sat back against the headboard, pulling you into his lap, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close. "Too much time." He paused, his heart pounding in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against your back.

You snuggled into his neck, inhaling his scent, the familiar aroma a comfort and a challenge. "You love me, so it's only right to love you back."

Caleb's arms tighten around you, his breath hitching slightly at your words. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know I do. More than anything." He pauses, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back, a silent language of affection.

"Mmm," you murmured, content in his embrace.

Caleb tilts his head, watching your smiling face intently. A playful smirk tugs at his lips as he squeezes you gently in his lap. "Was that an'mmm' of agreement or an'mmm' of trouble?" His eyebrow arches teasingly, clear amusement sparkling in his eyes.

You rested your forehead against his, peering up at him through your lashes. "Definitely agreement."

A warmth spreads across his face at your answer, his eyes softening as they lock onto yours. His hand moves to gently rest on your cheek, thumb stroking across your skin. "Smartass," he whispers, but the word comes out fondly.

You nuzzled his hand, pressing a kiss into his palm. You had missed this, these quiet, tender moments, the feeling of being safe and cherished in his arms.

He watches you nuzzle into his palm, his expression unguarded. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw possessively. "God, you're like a damn cat," he murmurs, his voice lower, almost tender again. He missed these small, unguarded moments with you too, the feeling of your warmth against him, the trust that flowed between you.

You giggled, the sound fading into silence as you settled back into his embrace. "What now?" The question hung in the air, a hesitant inquiry about the future, about where this fragile connection would lead.

Caleb's thumb continues to stroke your cheek, his eyes searching yours. "What do you want to do now?" he asks softly, giving you a small smile. He shifts slightly, making sure you're comfortable in his lap. "We could just stay like this for a while, or... we could talk."

"Or...you can bring me some snacks?" You countered, the playful request a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood, to avoid the weight of serious conversation.

Chuckles softly, the vibrations rumbling against your back. "Always so demanding, aren't you?" He kisses your shoulder gently before setting you back on the bed. "Fine, I'll get you some snacks. But only if you promise to stay right there and look pretty for me."

“How pretty?” You teased, batting your eyelashes as you watched him pull his boxers on.

Rolling his eyes playfully, Caleb ran a deliberately slow, appreciative gaze over you, from head to toe, lingering on the curve of your breasts, the swell of your hips.

"Prettier than a sunrise, dummy. Now sit tight before you ruin my carpet with your gorgeous self sprawled out naked."

You laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound that filled the room. "You think I would lay on the carpet?"

"With your lazy ass?" He teases, shaking his head as he turns towards the kitchen. "Knowing you, you'd probably decide the carpet is more comfortable than this king-sized bed." His voice carries a warm, affectionate tone that betrays his playful joking.

"Bring my favorite! Apple flavored!" You called out after him, the request laced with a sweet anticipation.

His low chuckle was the only response, a soft rumble that faded as he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of sex and the quiet hum of contentment.

taglist : @mcdepressed290

[phagodyke]

I still can't believe they're charging THAT much for the shadow of the erdtree dlc... for like 2/3 of the base game price there fucking better be 100+ hours of content in there 🤨

[fawniswriting]

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Dating in a Dream - Rook Hunt

SUMMARY: What would his dream be like, exactly the same as in the original story, but with the small detail that he is dreaming that you two are dating?

CHARACTERS: Rook Hunt x Reader 🏹🦐

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; In a Relationship (kinda)

WARNING: Spoilers from Book 7 and Rook’s dream (Eng Server)

WORD COUNT: 2.270 words

COMMENTS: This was written as a companion piece to the original dream story, so the parts that are the same as the game are just summarized.

I hope you enjoy 🏹

Dating in a Dream: Idia / Epel / (Rook) / Vil / Kalim / Jamil / Floyd / Jade / Azul / Jack / Ruggie / Leona / Deuce / ...

“Aether signal tracking successful.” Ortho says when you land in the new dream, along with Grim, Silver, Sebek and Epel. “We have arrived at the designated coordinates.”

After Silver checks if Epel is feeling okay after the trip from one dream to another, you all realize that you are in the Savanaclaw dorm. Which makes you wonder if you are in a Savanaclaw student's dream.

“AH! Mon amour!” You hear a familiar voice say.

You look and see Rook already by your side. One of his hands holds your waist to bring you closer to him, while the other holds your hand to kiss the back of it. But that wasn't the Rook you knew, he was wearing the Savanaclaw uniform, had freckles and messy hair tied in a ponytail under what looked like a cowboy style hat. You see the dreamer's bird flying over him.

“Any vision of you is a merveilleuse one! To what do I owe your and your friends' visit today?”

“ROOK?!” Epel says in disbelief, but then focuses on something else. “Wait... Doesn't ‘mon amour’ mean ‘my love’?”

“I have a bad and cringy feeling about this.” Idia's voice comments through the tablet.

“You're Epel Felmier, a Pomefiore freshman, I believe?” Rook says without taking his hands off you. “And you're in the Spelldrive Club, if I recall... Are you here to visit our housewarden Leona?”

“Can’t you have a conversation without clingin’ to my hench-human?” Grim complains and jumps into your arms to separate Rook from you.

“Hehehehe. I see I haven't been approved by you yet, Grim.” Rook says amusedly. “Very well, it seems that the journey to prove myself to you and have your blessing continues. Until then, a forbidden love this shall be. He he. Comme c'est excitant!”

“LO- Ugh! Why're you in Savanaclaw Dorm uniform anyway?!” Grim asks. “Your hair's all scraggly, and you've got stray leaves on your clothes... Vil would throw a fit if he saw you like that!”

“Vil?” Rook asks in astonishment. “You mean Vil Schoenheit, the actor?”

You all discover that, in this dream of Rook's, Vil does not study at Night Raven College, but instead at Royal Sword Academy. And he and Neige are like best friends. Rook, extremely excited, starts telling a lot of things about Vil and Neige to the point of quoting an interview with the two of them in full. Until he suddenly says something much louder than usual.

“Would you stop yelling?” Sebek says. “You startled me!”

“Oh, pardon me. I got rather carried away there... I just have so few people in Savanaclaw I can discuss Vil, Neige, and film in general with. Which also makes it a blessing to have someone like (Y/N) by my side.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Oh mon cher, you are as big a fan of Vil and Neige as I am. No one can match my adoration like you.”

“Thank you, Rook Hunt, this was fascinating.” Ortho says. “I'd actually like to learn more about them...”

“Truly?! Why, I would be delighted!”

The others show their discontent to Ortho, but he explains that the more they understand the differences between this dream world and the real one, the easier it will be for them to find a way to wake Rook.

Excited to tell them more about Vil and Neige, Rook suddenly runs into the Savanaclaw building. You and the others run after him because you can't get too far away from the dreamer. You run to the closed door of his room where you hear a commotion inside.

“How is it taking so long to fetch one magazine?” Sebek questions.

“D-don't worry, I'll be right out!” Rook responds trying to hide his concern. “Don't open that door, whatever you do!”

“Mrr! I'm hearin' weird noises comin' from inside.” Grim says.

“Apologies for the wait! I found more things I positively need to show you... Whoa!”

Fearing that Rook might be under attack by the darkness and ignoring his pleas for them not to enter, they break down the door and enter Rook's room. To find a room completely filled with Neige merch on one half of the room and Vil merch on the other half.

Rook laughs in a strange, almost threatening way and says that since they had seen his room they could no longer leave... without joining him in reverently watching DVDs of his favorite actors! So he forces everyone to sit with him to do it. And of course he makes you sit right next to him.

He made you all watch those DVDs for FIVE HOURS!

“The fact that they played arch-enemies just made those final smiles so... so... beauté!”

“Mrah... After marathoning all those movies and stage plays, I'm exhausted.” Grim says in a sigh.

Ortho thanks Rook for all that information and says that it is already very late and that everyone should go back to their respective dorms and get some sleep. Before they leave, Epel asks Rook about the SDC and he replies that Vil and Neige sang together and he just watched.

“We can have another watch party whenever you like. Perhaps we can put that show on next time. Bon nuit, everyone!”

As you all left Rook’s room one by one, you stayed behind to be the last to leave. Maybe you even did it on purpose to see if Rook would do something. And he did.

As soon as Epel leaves and you are about to leave next, Rook suddenly appears in front of you to casually close the door behind Epel.

“I wonder what I did wrong to receive such cold treatment from you, mon cher.” He tells you with a theatrically brokenhearted look. “I understand not getting a bisou de bonjour with so many people around you. But not even a small, discreet bisou d'adieu?”

He gets closer to you and caresses your cheek, looking you sadly in the eyes. Seeing that you don't back away from his touch, he continues.

“Oh, where did I go wrong? What mistake could I have made to receive such a cruel sentence as deprivation of your touch? Is it my bail conquer your love all over again?” He brings his face closer to yours with a seductive smile, and he sees that you don't move away, quite the opposite. “Or should I continue to claim innocence?”

“(Y/N)!” Grim shouts from the other side of the door. “What are you still doing in there?”

“Did something happen?” Silver asked.

“Stop wasting time human!” Sebek complains. “We all must go for now.”

Rook moves away from you.

“Ah... My diligent jailers. You must go with them so that their worries will cease. But I see that you are in good and capable hands.” He takes one of your hands and kisses the back of it before opening the door for you like a gentleman.

And if you thought about taking advantage of that moment to kiss him, you realized that he seemed to be... enjoying his... “punishment”. So you decided to save that possible kiss for later.

Outside Savanaclaw's dorm it was already night and you and the others talked about Rook's dream and how you could wake him up. Epel has the idea of recreating SDC's performance because it was the crucial moment that the darkness was trying to make him forget. Make him remember that Vil actually despises Neige to the point of doing what he did and Rook's betrayal. You, Epel and Grim taught Silver, Sebek and Ortho the dance steps of the choreography of Absolutely Beautiful so you could take the places of the remaining members of the original group.

The next day, you were the one tasked with getting Rook to go to the Coliseum. You sent him a message to meet you in front of it.

The time you had set was approaching, but you couldn't see Rook. He must have been getting ready to surprise you. You looked around as if you really believed you would be able to see him in time. Suddenly you feel a kiss on your cheek. You look, but you don't see anyone. You look back to the other side where he is right there next to you with a smile.

“Greetings and bonjour, mon cher. I'm here as you requested. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to show you something.” you say.

“Show me something?” Rook smiles. “Coming from you, I wonder with excitement what that might be.”

You take him inside the Coliseum so he can see the replica of the SDC stage up close. You go up on stage to dance with the others and Rook starts to get emotional because a part of him starts to remember that day. The dream begins to distort as if Rook were to wake up, but at that moment two darkness figures appear: Vil and Neige, both in RSA uniforms.

As if it were a real performance, the two of them take the stage after your group and start singing together, which moves Rook again, but in a way that makes him go back into his dream world.

Epel is angered by this and gives Rook a speech about what really happened that day and who they both know Vil really is. His Roi du Poison, their queen is way, way, WAY more poisonous and beautiful! And if he really believes that cheap copy comes even close to the real Vil, and he choosing him over the real one, that makes him more of a traitor right now that he was when he cast that vote for Royal Sword Academy!

And this is what makes the dreams shatter and Rook wake up.

Darkness Vil and Neige try to convince him to back down and accept singing with them, but Rook responds by preparing his bow and pointing an arrow in the direction of the two fake figures. Darkness Vil stands in front of Darkness Neige to protect him.

“What noble friendship you share...” Rook says with tears in his eyes. “And yet that very harmony is proof of my terrible betrayal!”

Rook and the others fight the fake figures and make them melt into darkness.

“Oh, dear pommette! To think I would be woken from my slumber by one bearing a poison that can put anyone to sleep.” Rook hugs Epel so tightly that he gasps for air. “Apologies...” he sobs “Oh, pommette, I can only beg you to forgive my betrayal.”

Epel tells him that he doesn't need to cry, but when he offers him a handkerchief, he realizes that he doesn't have one with him and the two comment on how Vil was right in telling him to carry one. The others talk about their own struggles in their respective dreams so that Rook knows that he wasn't the only one who forgot important things, that this was how those dreams worked to trap them.

“Merci! Oh, merci beaucoup! I cannot thank all of you enough. But there is one of you to whom I owe more than thanks, I owe an apology.” He walks up to you with an embarrassed and regretful face, and he kneels in front of you. “(Y/N), I'm so sorry for causing you so much discomfort. I never hid my love for you, so this part shouldn't have come as a surprise to you, but I can only hope that my behavior has not crossed any boundaries of yours. Please, forgive my shameless audacity. Whatever I can do to be worthy of your forgiveness, please tell me. I will do anything to redeem myself and have a fraction of your trust again.”

He was being so dramatic and still had tears in his eyes that it looked like he was trying to save himself from a death sentence for a horrible and unforgivable offense. The thing is... you like him too... and this was your chance to reciprocate the feeling.

Luckily for you, a simple, almost imperceptible smile from the corner of your mouth is enough for Rook to understand everything.

“Unless...” He stands up and looks you in the eyes with a smirk. “In truth, you enjoyed the experience of having me as your lover.”

You don't need to say anything. Your smile, whatever kind it is, is more than enough for him to understand perfectly. He holds one of your hands. That's how he saw, from the glove he was wearing, that he was still wearing Savanaclaw's uniform.

“In that case,” In the snap of a finger, Rook was back in his Pomefiore uniform and signature bob-cut. “Should we make it real?” he kisses the back of your hand. “Would you be so generous as to make my dream come true, my dear trickster?”

If you try to kiss him, he will stop you with a finger on your lips.

“Non, not yet.” he says despite the pity in his voice. The finger that interrupted your kiss slides to caress your cheek. “As much as I long to discover the wonderful feeling of your lips on mine, this must be something to be discovered in reality, not in a dream. I will wait impatiently for that moment. But sometimes it is this agony of waiting that makes everything so much more special... and intense.”

“ARE YOU DONE OR NOT?!” Grim complained. “Hurry up, we have another dream to go to!”

.

When you return to the real world, no matter what the state of Twisted Wonderland, Rook will find a way to lure you to a secluded place to finally taste your kiss.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[buckyalpine]

I LOVE what you wrote for the other ideas!!

This is kind of a dialogue prompt

Reader says something like, "do you know how many times I've imagined you fucking me on this desk?"

Maybe she's sitting on Bucky's lap while she works on a mission report or something for the team. Since Bucky hasn't seen reader in a bit, he is being needy and handsy trying to distract her. (Cue cockwarming?)

Eventually, reader slams the laptop shut and puts it away before she says that line. Bucky just like

Sweeps EVERYTHING off desk

(I'm so sorry for the long ask) much love❤️❤️

Not me answering this 2 years later but I'm weaaaak for the lip bite and this idea, immediate yes (and by immediate I mean I know I took forever, I'm so sorry, also I love you)

-

"I missed you so much baby" Bucky purred in your ear, hoisting you up by your hips to wrap your legs around his waist as soon as you stepped off the jet. You'd been gone for over a month in those 4 weeks, Bucky had been nothing but a pouty puppy, waiting for you to come back. None of the missions he went on were enough of a distraction, all he wanted was his perfect angel back in his arms and he finally had you.

"Missed you too, bub" You giggled at his scruffy beard tickling your neck as he nuzzled into your skin, carrying you off for some much needed cuddles. "I already showered and changed but I just have to finish my mission report and then I'm all yours"

You pecked the frown that made its way to his face, your thumb brushing over the crease between his brows.

"But I haven't seen you in so long" Bucky mumbled, reluctantly detouring away from your shared bedroom, taking you to the conference room instead.

"I promise I'll be quick-Bucky what are you-" You squeaked as you felt his cool arm effortlessly wrap around your waist, lifting you up so he could sit in the chair instead, plopping you onto his lap.

"I'll be patient" Bucky gave you an innocent shrug, not willing to wait for you to finish so he could spend time with you. You giggled at his clinginess, opening your laptop and pulling up the file you had to fill out; of course his patience lasts all of 10 seconds before his hands slowly slip under your shirt.

"Bucky, what are you doing"

"Nooothin'" he ignored the pointed look you gave him over your shoulder while he started to needily paw at your hips, slowly making his way up to your waist, caressing your skin. "Just feelin' you"

"I can see that" you shook your head, returning to your report, trying desperately to recall various details while your boyfriends hands continued to wander around. You could barely type out a sentence, squeaking when his cool metal fingers brushed near the top of your breast, tracing along the outline of your bra.

"Bucky"

"Y/n"

"You're distracting me"

"No, You're distracting me" He countered with another shrug, adjusting his hips, the movement causing you to shift right onto his-

"Bucky!"

"What" He gave you an innocent pout as if his thick erection wasn't about to pop out of his jeans.

"Your not so little friend there is about to stab my ass" You snoted, ignoring the way his hard length pressed against you made your stomach flip.

"Help him out then" Bucky smirked with a raise of his brow, "C'mon, it'll help me keep my hands to myself if he gets some attention"

"Bucky-

"Please baby, I promise I'll behave, just let me put it in you, I won't move, no more distractions, scouts honor"

"You're a little shit" You rolled your eyes, biting back a smirk as you got up to pull down your sweats while Bucky unbuttoned his jeans, pulling his cock out. He groaned as he swiped his thick cockhead through your folds, your slick already making a mess between your thighs.

"Looks like I wasn't the only distracted on, huh" He whispered against the shell of your head as he pressed inside, the both of you gasping at the feeling of him stretching you. He was careful to lower you slowly, inching his way until you were perfectly seated on his lap and entirely full of him. "Mpph, fuck you feel good baby, keep me nice and warm, that's it" He nipped on your earlobe while you took a moment to recompose, your tight walls fluttering against his shaft.

"I-have to finish this-" Your voice melted off into a moan, how were you going to get anything done, it had been so long since you'd felt your boyfriends fat cock absolutely rail you, making you cum and squirt till you nearly passed out, his length fucking your brains out until he was ready to fill you, his moans and grunts all just for you while his cock exploded with thick streams of cum that would drip out-

"You won't get anything done if you keep grinding on me princess" Bucky's strained, teasing voice broke you from your train of thought, not even realizing you'd been pushing your hips further back on him, trying to feel more. "You sure you gotta finish this right now?"

"Y-yes" You tried to fill out the next section, your eyes rolling back instead when Bucky adjusted himself, pushing himself till his tip kissed your cervix.

"You sure baby, I can make you feel really good"

"I-

"It's been so long angel, I need you, fuck, need you so bad" The neediness of his voice only set you off further, a gush of your arousal pooling out of you, getting the patch of curls at the base of his cock messy. It certainly wasn't missed by Bucky, his hands holding onto your hips so he could gently thrust his hips up just enough for you to feel the slightest movement. "Please baby, m'so hard, balls are fuckin' full, swear my cock's ready to burst there's so much cum for you-

All it took was you shutting your laptop for Bucky to swipe his arm and clear the table of its contents, bending you over the table while he was still deep inside you.

"Fuck, I needed this!" He growled, grabbing you hips and setting a brutal pace without warning, his head thrown back, the sounds of skin slapping on skin mixing with your moans.

"OH-FUCK-J-AMIE" You squealed feeling Bucky angle his hips to hit a spot that made a mess everywhere, your juices dripping onto his jeans, the material turning darker making him fuck you harder.

"That's it baby, make a mess on me, make a mess on my cock, give me what I've been missing so fuckin' bad"

You were nothing more than a babbling mess letting Bucky take what he needed, your legs nearly buckling from pleasure.

"Wanna see you" He pulled out and handled you with ease as he picked you up and placed you onto the table, throwing your pants off and tossing your legs over his shoulders. He didn't waste any time as he slipped in again, the both of you moaning and he started to move again, your tummy bulging each time he fucked into you. "Missed you so much angel, fuck you have no idea"

"Missed you-t-too" You hiccuped from a mixture of emotion and your building orgasm, a mix of everything making your vision blur with white spots and tears. "Missed you so much, Bucky"

"Cum for me angel, I want it, wanna feel my angel cum on my cock, please-" Bucky's pace stuttered as his cock squirted precum, his balls growing heavy, struggling to hold on, "m'gonna cum, can't hold it baby, give it to me"

"I-I-OH FUCK" You let out a silent scream as Bucky slipped his hand between your bodies, his thumb pressed onto your clit rubbing gentle circles. He continued to fuck you through your orgasm, his own ready to shoot from the base of his cock, the tip already dribbling-

"Good girl, good fuckin' girl, so pretty when you cum for me baby, fuck me I won't last, shit-I-FUCKK" The first burst of cum flooded and painted your walls, his cock throbbing so hard it nearly sent you into a second climax, "Hng, it's so much, mmph"

Bucky clung onto you with his face buried into your neck, shuddering as his body shook from the waves of his orgasm. He held onto you, keeping you wrapped up as he sat back on the chair, his lips pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you"

"I love you too but I need to finish" You sleepily mumbled while Bucky shook his head, carrying you off for some much needed proper cuddles.

"You can finish later after we get some dinner in you and two more orgasms and a nice long shower, maybe a massage and THEN you can-"

"You filthy animals" Tony's voice cut through Bucky's list as he stood at the conference door with an amused smirk on his face.

"Oh my god" You kept your face buried in Bucky's neck, the oversized shirt you were wearing covering up what was going on but there was no mistaking what happened with Bucky's jeans around his ankles.

"Couldn't wait 10 minutes, huh"

"Would you?" Bucky didn't even bother arguing back, raising his brow with a smug smile.

"Can't argue with that" Tony nodded with approval, walking off while Bucky cackled without an ounce of shame.

"You little shit" You stayed pressed against his neck, while Bucky carried you off to your shared bedroom, plopping you onto the bed.

"Now about those two orgasms-"

[hatethysinner]

hi mamas !!! I'm the one who asked when your reqs would be back open :) and be prepared, this is kind of... detailed. (again, no rush) anyways, I had an idea where remmick would kind of stalk the reader- like straight up BEGS the girl every night to be let in. but, reader lives with her mama and maybe siblings, so she's worried he'll hurt them and she says no every time. but then this MANIPULATIVE ASS HO gets in anyway bc he deep fries himself in sun like how he did in the movie, and reader's MOTHER lets his dumbass in. and reader's mom is all nice to him and trying to patch him up, and reader's worried af but maybe pretends to not know this burnt up white man in her mama's kitchen. and later, it's nightime and all, and reader's tryna sleep but is scared for her family. and ofc, remmick's crazy ass is watching her in the dark. but then he comes into her room, and they talk, which calms reader down a bit. eventually, she's comfortable enough to start getting curious abt remmick being a vampire, so she ends up in his lap while checking out his fangs and claws… all of which leads to thigh-riding while remmick teases and kind of taunts reader. then, it gets spicier (ofc) and they do whatever you want them to do. but PLEASE at least once, let that man's hand be around reader's neck. (again, for the like third time, there is no rush, and ik if you do write this it'll be AWESOME bc you're just that iconic <33 i hope this isn't too much btw and ty for taking the time to answer my first question :)))

ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏᴘᴇɴ

ᴡᴄ: 8.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: no because why is this song so delulu remmick coded. but don't give me such good requests yall because i will get carried away and completely twist the ask into absolute degeneracy. i also took some (many) creative liberties so i hope that's okay with you anon :3! please mind the warnings and do not interact if dark themes aren't your cup of tea (totally valid)!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!, shamelessly nasty smut, minimal plot all porn, dark themes, noncon, degradation, groping, fingering, p in v, rough sex, choking, breeding kink, dacryphilia, babytrapping, cockwarming, fantasies of exhibitionism, threats of violence, dom!remmick, creep!remmick, delusional!remmick, feral!remmick honestly, sub!reader, poc!reader and the 1930s suspicions that follow, stalking, manipulation of a sweet old lady, slightly excessive divider usage, i got addicted to italics again, overall depravity in every sense of the word

It started with flowers.

Wild ones, mostly—asters, cosmos, bluebells with tangled stems. Arranged without rhyme or reason, more a fistful than a bouquet. Always fresh. Always different. Always left somewhere you couldn’t ignore.

Tucked into the curve of your fence.

Balanced on your windowsill, pressed in place by a rock so they wouldn’t blow away.

Dropped just outside the screen door, nestled like an apology beneath your feet when you stepped out in the morning.

You never brought them in.

You crushed the first bunch with your heel, left the second to rot. The third, you flung into the weeds and didn’t even bother to look back. You knew where they came from. What they meant. And he knew you knew, because the next one came with a note.

“It hurts when you don’t look.”

You tore that one up before your mama could see it.

And still—he kept coming.

You never saw him outright. Not at first. It was always shadows. Footsteps. The soft rustle of leaves behind you on your walk home from the grocer’s. A shape moving just past your periphery when you passed the fields. A cigarette still burning in the woods across the road when you shut the gate behind you at night.

You told yourself you weren’t scared.

You told yourself he’d get bored.

But one night, after a long shift and an even longer walk, you turned onto your road and saw it.

Right there at the bend before your porch steps, where your shoes always scraped the gravel just so.

Your necklace.

The one you lost weeks ago. The one your mama swore must’ve slipped down the drain. The one you’d already stopped looking for.

It was laid out neat, untangled, gleaming under the moonlight like it’d just been polished.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Your mama called him a “godsend.”

Said it with a sweet smile and her hands buried in the laundry basket, humming as she folded clothes and made her neat little piles. You stood frozen in the doorway, the sun hot on your back, heart sinking as she said it again.

“He came ‘round again this mornin’, right before the sun came up. Said he was passin’ by and saw the yard needed work. Ain’t that somethin’? Didn’t even ask for nothin’ in return.”

“Mama…” You didn’t even know where to start.

She waved you off, smile deepening.

“I know that tone. And I’m tellin’ you now, you hush with that. Just ‘cause he’s a stranger doesn’t mean he’s bad. You oughta be grateful someone’s willin’ to help. The weeds were up to my knees out there.”

You gritted your teeth. Tried to keep your voice soft.

“What’d he look like?”

She thought on it.

“White boy. A little short. Lean, too. Pale as could be, no wonder he doesn’t like the sun. He’s got the sweetest face. Oh, and you should hear his accent. It’s so silly! He’s not a talker, but real polite. His name was... Remmick.”

You didn’t say a word.

Ran out the back door so fast you almost left your shoes behind.

And there he was.

Right outside the fence, crouched low by the overgrown roses, a pair of gardening gloves tugged tight over his hands.

Remmick.

He looked up like he didn’t recognize you.

Like you were just some stranger walking out into the yard.

And then he smiled.

God, that smile.

Soft. Gentle. Like sunlight on water. Like apology in the shape of a man.

You wanted to claw it off his face.

But your mother was at the screen door already, waving at him.

“He’s gonna finish up the hedges,” she called. “Ain’t that kind of him?”

“Real kind,” you murmured, eyes locked on him like you could peel him open with your gaze.

He dipped his head—humble, almost bashful—and gave you a nod.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because you saw it.

The glint in his eye.

The curl of his fingers around the shears a little too tight.

The way his gaze flicked back to your mother just long enough to remind you that he knew.

Knew who she was.

Knew where you lived.

Knew how to worm his way into her soft spots, the same way he’d been trying to worm into yours for months now.

And you couldn’t say anything.

Couldn’t call him out.

Not without seeming crazy.

Not without hurting the woman who still smiled when strangers offered help, who still believed there were good men just walking the streets, who still thought angels could come in the form of a neighbor with strong arms and nice teeth.

So you stood there.

You watched him trim the hedges.

You watched your mother bring him lemonade.

You watched him wave goodbye and promise to stop by again tomorrow if the weather held.

And when he looked at you—just for a second—he smiled again.

Not sweet this time.

Not bashful.

Just knowing.

Like he’d already won.

A week passed, and with it, your sense of control.

It started small. It always did.

Remmick became a fixture.

He came by each morning just before sunrise, long before you woke, and stayed through the overcast days. Always outside. Always busy.

If he wasn’t mending the fence, he was hauling brush or tending to the many, many gardens he’d set up. One morning, you caught him beneath the house, dragging out years of junk like it was his duty—like he belonged there, under your home, under your skin.

Your mother fed him like a stray.

Brought him biscuits and bacon wrapped in a dish towel. Let him take water from the pump, even gave him a chipped mug to keep so he wouldn’t have to drink from his hands. You never saw her treat anyone like that before. Not the neighbors. Not her own family.

Just him.

Remmick never took more than he was given. He always smiled, always thanked her with that soft lilt in his voice—like honey caught on something colder underneath. You saw it clearer every day. The way he shifted when she wasn’t looking. The way his posture changed when it was just the two of you in the same breath of space.

He started speaking more.

To you, not her.

Small things, tossed off like threadbare compliments.

“Mornin’. Pretty out today, ain’t it?”

“Must be hard carryin’ all that weight in yer shoulders. Want help with the bags?”

“Y’look tired. Ya sleepin’ alright?”

You ignored him the first time.

The second, you muttered something sharp, just enough to sting.

The third, he got bold.

Tried brushing past you in the backyard, even though there was plenty of space. His hand didn’t just graze your side—it pressed, firm at your hips, fingers splayed like he had every right. For a split second, he dipped lower, just enough to make your skin crawl.

You spun so fast he nearly lost his footing, but he only chuckled, soft and low.

“Yer awful jumpy.”

“You’re awful close.”

He lifted both hands like a preacher at the altar, all innocence and soft retreat. Didn’t matter. You still went to bed that night with your dresser shoved against the door.

Now it was Friday.

Too long since he first walked into your mother’s good graces with dirt on his knees and a saint’s smile. The sky hung low that morning, heavy and gray. Rain tapped soft against the awning, not quite steady—more a hush than a downpour.

The kitchen was dim but warm, lit gold by the bulb above the stove. Your mother stood at the sink, wrist-deep in suds, humming something low and wordless while the faucet ran. Steam curled from the dishwater. Her breath fogged the glass when she leaned toward it, squinting through the haze to watch him work.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded tight.

Remmick was out back again, kneeling by the raised beds he’d built himself. From the window, you could see him—shirt rolled to his elbows, sweat darkening the collar, hair damp against his temples. He looked up at the glass like he felt her gaze, and when he smiled and waved, your mama gave a little wave back with the sponge still in hand.

“Lord, he’s somethin’,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Boy works like he’s got a home here.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the way his hand settled at his waist. Right over the spot where he’d touched you.

“Mama,” you said, quiet but tight. “Don’t it strike you as strange?”

She blinked at you, then returned her attention to the dishes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You shifted your weight. Bit back the worst of it. “What business does a white man like him have hangin’ around here every day? Doing yard work? Building things for free? Doesn’t that sound off to you?”

She sighed, more tired than annoyed, but not without edge.

“You’re startin’ to sound like your auntie.”

You frowned. “I’m bein’ serious.”

“So am I,” she said, rinsing a plate with sharp swipes. “You think I don’t notice the way you watch him? The way you stiffen when he comes near?”

“He ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” she went on. “Not once. Been nothin’ but respectful to me. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t look me over. Doesn’t even take his eyes off the dirt when I’m speakin’. That’s rare, baby. I don’t care what color a man is—when you get kindness that steady, you don’t spit on it.”

You stared at the counter, jaw clenched. The hum of the faucet suddenly felt too loud.

“He feels wrong.” you whispered.

“Maybe you just ain’t used to good things.”

The words cracked through the quiet like a snapped branch. You looked up fast, but she wasn’t angry. Her eyes were soft, sad even, a little damp from the heat curling off the dishwater.

“It’s okay to be suspicious. I taught you that. Taught you to keep your guard up. This world doesn’t love girls like us.” Her voice shook the tiniest bit. “But if all we do is wait for things to go bad, we’re gonna miss when they’re actually good. And he’s been good.”

You almost told her then.

Almost grabbed her by the shoulders and said it plain—he touches me when you’re not looking. He says things with his eyes that I don’t like. He’s not here for you, Mama. He’s here for me.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d already tried convincing her, and all it did was make her dig in her heels.

At least now, he stayed outside. That much you’d managed. No matter how she fussed or insisted he ought to come in for supper or take a break from the sun, you always found a way to stop it. Quick lies. Fabricated errands.

“He said he’d rather eat out back.”

“He’s got somethin’ to finish before the light fades.”

You were always watching.

Because you had to be.

Now, your mother dried her hands and gave you a gentle look—the kind she used when you were little, when you scraped your knees and wouldn’t stop crying.

“We’re allowed to have good things, baby,” she said. “Even here. Even now.”

You didn’t answer.

Just turned to the window and watched him crouch again, hands in the soil, head tilted low. He wasn’t waving this time.

He was staring.

And this time, he didn’t stop when you caught him.

It was only a matter of time before Remmick got tired of waiting.

You felt it before you saw it. A stillness in the wind. A shift in the birdsong. The way the air hung heavy, too warm for the hour, too silent for how bright the sun was burning overhead. Even your mother felt it—her hands moved slower over the fabric she was folding, her eyes flicking to the window again and again.

He didn’t come that morning.

Not at dawn. Not by nine. Not by lunch.

He never missed a morning.

Not once in that long, crawling week. No matter the heat or the rain, he always found something to do. Always had dirt under his nails and a tool in his hand. Always checked in with your mother like he cared—“drinkin’ enough water today, miss? y’shouldn’t be out in this sun too long”—like he belonged there in her routine, like he had the right to speak to her soft and sweet like the son she never had.

His absence brought silence.

Sweet, golden peace.

You sat on the back steps with a cool drink in your hand, listening to the cicadas buzz in the trees. No shadow shifting behind the fence. No footstep just out of view. No eyes crawling up your spine.

It was the first time in days you’d been able to breathe.

Mama, though—she kept checking the window. Wringing her hands on the dishtowel. Muttering little nothings like “maybe he’s sick,” or “he said he’d be painting the tool shed today, didn’t he?” Her voice never rose, but the worry pressed itself into every syllable.

Then the scream came.

It was low at first. Hoarse. Animal. Like something dying slow just out of sight.

You were halfway up from your seat when it rose into a full, guttural shriek that made your skin crawl and your mother’s head snap toward the front door.

She didn’t even hesitate, already running before you could turn around.

You followed, legs stiff with dread, stumbling down the hallway behind her. By the time you reached the porch, she was already down the steps and into the yard. And there he was.

Remmick.

Writhing on the gravel like he was on fire.

Because he was.

The sun clung to him like acid, his pale skin bubbling and blackening in streaks, peeling back in sick, wet curls as he thrashed. His mouth was open wide, teeth clenched hard, and that scream—God, that sound—didn’t stop. You could hear the sizzle, the meat of him cooking under the light.

You froze.

Your heart leapt, not in fear, but—

Relief.

He wasn’t invincible.

“Help me!” your mother cried, dropping to her knees beside him, trying to shield his body with her arms like she could block out the sun with her shadow. “Get him inside, now!”

“Mama, no—”

“NOW!” she snapped, and that was it.

No room to argue.

No space to resist.

You clenched your jaw, grabbed him beneath the shoulders with shaking hands, and started dragging. His shirt came away in your grip, damp with blood and something worse. His whole body shook. The smell was awful—burnt skin and smoke and sweat and the iron-thick stink of his ruin. You gagged once, but kept pulling. Your mother had his legs. Together, you got him to the porch. Up the steps. Through the door.

And the moment you crossed the threshold—

He stopped screaming.

His back arched once, sharp and sudden, and then he slumped into your arms like a puppet with its strings cut. You almost dropped him right there.

Because he was smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth.

Like it had all been worth it.

Like you were the reward.

Your stomach flipped.

“Lay him down—careful, now, careful,” your mother barked, already dragging the cushions off the couch, already reaching for a towel to cover him with. “Get me the first aid kit. The big one. Under the bathroom sink.”

You hesitated.

“Go!”

You went.

But your hands trembled the whole time.

When you came back, she had a bowl of water ready, a stack of clean rags, bottles of aloe and burn salve and something else that smelled like alcohol. She worked like she’d done it a hundred times before, as though treating a man whose flesh melted under sunlight was no different than nursing a fever or bandaging a scraped knee.

You hovered by the doorway, clutching the kit like a lifeline.

“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “Hand me the salve.”

You moved toward them, each step heavier than the last. He was watching you. Of course he was. His eyes tracked you like a snake in the grass, lazy and slow and certain. One hand slipped from beneath the towel when you passed him the bottle.

Brushed your thigh.

Light. Deliberate.

You flinched so hard it nearly toppled the basin.

“Oh, stop bein’ dramatic,” your mother said, not even looking up. “He’s hurt. He ain’t thinkin’ straight.”

But he was.

You could feel it in your bones.

His fingers lingered every time you came near. When you handed her a rag, his knuckles brushed your wrist. When you brought over clean towels, his foot slid just close enough to touch yours. Always soft. Always gentle. Never enough to call out. Never enough to prove.

But you knew.

He was enjoying this.

Letting her see his ruin.

Letting you feel it.

You stood still, fists clenched at your sides, every part of you screaming to run—to scream yourself—but she looked so worried, so desperate to keep him breathing, and the only way to make sure she stayed safe was to play along.

So you passed the towels.

So you fetched the ice.

So you swallowed the bile rising in your throat every time he touched you.

And eventually, things calmed down.

The air settled. The heat broke. And the sun, as if it had seen what it had done and felt guilty for it, dipped below the trees earlier than you expected—leaving the house in the kind of dim amber that made everything feel quieter than it was.

Remmick sat upright now, stiff and still, perched in the worn armchair by the window like a doll someone had wrapped in gauze. His torso and arms were nearly mummified in clean white bandages, only his neck and the tops of his hands left bare. Every inch of him smelled like aloe and ash.

Your mother stood by his side, fretting with a teacup in her hands, eyes scanning him like she still couldn’t believe he was alive.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice low and hoarse but steady enough to carry. “Truly. For everything. I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if y’all hadn’t found me when ya did.”

He turned his gaze to you as he spoke.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Your mother, of course, just waved off his words with a hand to her chest, her voice tender with concern.

“Oh, hush. We weren’t just gonna leave you out there to burn. What kind of people do you think we are?”

“The good kind,” he said, smiling gently, even through the cracks of pain. “That’s rare.”

You almost scoffed.

But then she said it.

“Why don’t you stay the night?”

He blinked like it hadn’t occurred to him, like it wasn’t exactly what he wanted, like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing with timing so precise it turned your stomach.

“Oh—Miss, I couldn’t. That’s too much. I’ll be fine once the pain goes away—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted, her hand already reaching to straighten the blanket tucked over his lap. “You need rest. Proper rest. Not curled up in somebody’s barn or huddled on a porch. You’re stayin’. No arguments.”

He gave a sheepish little smile.

“All right,” he murmured. “If y’sure.”

“I’m sure.” She turned to you then, unbothered, cheerful even. “Show him to the guest room, baby. Make sure the windows are shut.”

You froze.

Swallowed so hard it hurt.

Biting back what you wanted to say.

What you needed to say.

That he wasn’t helpless. That he was a liar. That she’d invited the devil straight into their home.

But you bit your tongue. Hard. Bit it until you tasted copper. Bit it because if you didn’t, she’d see it. She’d see the panic. She’d see you crack.

So you nodded.

Gestured with a tight jerk of your head.

“This way,” you muttered.

He stood slowly, stiff but sure-footed, bandages rustling with each step. He didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t let his fingers drift or graze. Just followed behind you quietly, the floor creaking soft beneath his feet.

At the doorway, you turned the knob and opened the door, the guest room dim and still and far too welcoming.

He didn’t cross the threshold just yet.

He looked at you.

Not smiling. Not scheming.

Just looking.

And when he spoke, there was something strange in his voice. Something that sat too close to sincere.

“Thank ya,” he said again. “Really.”

It landed differently this time.

Less like a trick. More like… a confession.

It made your chest tight.

Made something flicker, weak and unwanted, at the back of your ribs.

But you didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

You just stepped back, eyes flat, and shut the door.

And then you ran.

Not fast. Not loud. Just swift enough to let your hands tremble once you reached your room. Just quiet enough that your mother wouldn’t hear the way your breath hitched as you closed your door, leaned against it, and slid slowly down to the floor.

Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Skin crawling.

You stayed there for a long while, listening to the creak of the hallway floorboards, the distant clatter of dishes in the sink, and the whisper of wind against the windows.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for the next move.

But eventually, you felt safe enough to sleep.

You woke with the weight of it already on your chest.

That sick, bloated heaviness of being watched.

It clung to your skin like heat, like sweat that hadn’t come from any dream. Your eyes blinked open into the dark, and even before you could move, before you could think or breathe or cry out—

You knew.

It was him.

The clock hadn’t chimed. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising. It couldn’t have been past four, the whole world still deep in its hush, but he was awake. He was here. You kept your eyes trained on the window, on the soft, pale square of moonlight pressed against the pane like a prayer. You didn’t dare turn around. Didn’t even blink.

Your fingers curled into the sheets.

Your throat felt sealed shut.

There were no footsteps. No breath. Not even the creak of a floorboard to warn you. But something shifted. The air itself felt startled. As though the house knew it too—he’s here—and recoiled.

The door opened.

You didn’t hear it.

You felt it.

The space behind you changed. The air moved, warm and sour with something that didn’t belong, and even though your back was turned, you could picture it perfectly. The door swinging inward with unnatural grace. The shadows folding back to let him through.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

He just stood there, watching.

You couldn’t tell for how long. It could’ve been seconds. Minutes. Hours. Long enough for your arms to numb beneath the pillow. Long enough for your heart to slam itself to pieces inside your chest. Long enough to know he was enjoying it.

And then—

He moved.

Silently.

Not walking. Not stepping.

Gliding.

Like something unbound by the rules that governed the rest of the world. You didn’t hear his weight shift. You didn’t hear the floor sigh. Just the soundless, aching knowledge that he was getting closer.

And closer.

And closer still.

And then—nothing.

Until the bed dipped.

So slight at first you almost thought it was your breath catching wrong. Then deeper, firmer. The mattress giving under a body that didn’t sound like it had one. Your spine stiffened, fingers white-knuckled in the blankets. You kept your eyes on the window. Don’t turn around. Don’t give him that.

The heat of him soaked into the room. Not warmth like a person. Warmth like breath in a crypt. Damp. Dense. Lingering.

And then he breathed.

Right against your shoulder.

A long, slow exhale, like he was savoring the shape of you beneath the sheet. His nose might’ve been inches from your skin. You didn’t dare flinch, though your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might vomit.

You wondered if your mama was still asleep down the hall.

You wondered what he’d do if you screamed.

You wondered how loud you’d have to be for someone—anyone—to hear.

But all those thoughts—every one of them—snapped like twigs under a boot the moment his hands moved.

One of them was already slipping beneath your nightgown, slow and certain, like he had every right. Like it was just something he did every night and you were just late to remember. The other moved to your chest—slow, deliberate—and cupped your breasts with such a terrifying familiarity it made your blood turn to ice.

You inhaled sharp, a scream already rising, raw and ragged, but before you could get it out—

His hand snapped up.

Covered your mouth in a single, practiced motion, calloused fingers pressing firm against your cheeks, his palm sealing the sound inside you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

You froze.

He leaned in.

Close enough that you felt the smile before you saw it.

Close enough that his breath hit your ear, still thick with the smell of your mother’s tea and something far too close to blood.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Ain’t no need t’be carryin’ on like that.”

You bucked once—jerked hard—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t even raise his voice. His grip didn’t waver. The hand under your gown simply kept climbing. Past your thigh. Your hip. Stopping at the soft of your stomach like he was praying over you.

“Been waitin’ on this,” he murmured, forehead pressing to your temple now, his voice pouring down your spine like molasses. “Waitin’ so damn long. Y’don’t even know, do ya?”

You tried to scream again, a muffled shriek choked back by his palm. He chuckled. God, he laughed—low and lazy like it thrilled him, like your panic was his favorite lullaby.

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed. “Ya been mine.”

His nose dragged along your cheek, slow as sin. His thumb found your jaw, pried it down just enough to make you feel helpless, open.

“Was mine the minute you saw them flowers,” he went on, voice deepening, almost cutting. “Knew it then. Knew ya felt it. Y’ain’t never looked at nobody else the way you looked at me. Not once.”

His hand under your gown was moving again, lower this time, but not hurried. Not frenzied. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought you ought to thank him for it.

“Y’don’t gotta act scared,” he said, and there was real pity in his voice now—something soft and condescending. “I know what ya been dreamin’ about. The way ya stare at me when y’think I ain’t lookin’. The way ya breathe when I walk past. Y’think I don’t smell that on ya?”

He pressed his face to your neck. Inhaled deep.

“I know ya,” he whispered. “Better than anybody.”

You whimpered—high, panicked—and he shushed you again, slower this time. Soothed his hand over your cheek like you were breakable and beloved all at once.

“No one else gets to touch ya like this,” he murmured, the words dragging wet against your skin. “Ain’t nobody else that deserves to.”

The hand between your legs slipped beneath your panties with a slow, sick grace—fingers sliding straight to your soaked folds, rubbing over them in lazy strokes.

“Ya feel that?” he asked, the growing smile present in his tone. “That’s how I know. Ya say y’don’t want it, but yer body don’t lie, sweetheart. Never has.”

You choked on a sob beneath his hand.

“I been patient,” he offered, like it meant something. “So, so patient. Sat out in the rain for ya. Burned for ya. Y’think I don’t deserve a little sweetness after all that?”

His mouth brushed your ear. Lips soft. Voice breaking open into something more desperate.

“Ya owe me.”

You bucked again. Harder.

Every fiber in you twisted toward the door, toward the window, toward anywhere that wasn’t here—beneath him, beside him. Your hips shifted with sharp panic, legs kicking, your whole body writhing like it could shake him off if only you could move fast enough.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just let you squirm beneath him like it amused him.

“That’s enough of that now,” he said. “Y’can give it sweet, or I can take it rough. Don’t make me choose, sugar.”

His voice—so soft, so measured—broke you more than his grip. It was the way he said you can give, like this was still yours to offer. Like he hadn’t already peeled your control off in layers and folded it into his pocket.

You twisted again anyway, but this time, he caught your wrists. Pinned them easy. His strength didn’t show in his arms—it showed in his patience, in the lazy drag of his breath against your cheek, in the way he settled over you like weight, like heat, like ruin.

His head dipped lower, breath hot against your jaw. “Y’think ya can lie to me? Lie to yerself? Yer drippin’ want all over these sheets, darlin’.”

You sobbed. Quiet. Helpless.

He chuckled again, deep and fond.

“Bless yer heart,” he murmured. “Still thinkin’ thissus about choice.”

His hands dragged down—slow, so slow—settling at your hips like he could feel your heartbeat thudding through the bone. His fingers twitched. Adjusted. Pressed.

And you flinched again.

“Mm-mm,” he tutted. “Y’act like I’m doin’ ya harm, but you and I both know you opened the door a long time ago. Ain’t my fault ya didn’t know what walked through.”

He shifted behind you, breath dragging ragged across your neck now, his hand sliding higher—hovering just beneath your chin.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Open that mouth, darlin’. Y’know what I want.”

You clenched your jaw.

Hard.

His breath stilled.

Then cooled.

Then turned mean.

“Oh,” he said, soft with danger. “Yer playin’ coy now...”

His fingers pressed firmer against your chin.

“Y’know,” he went on, voice shifting to something quiet and thoughtful and casual. “I reckon if yer mama walked in right now, saw her baby girl laid out like this—pantin’, sweatin’, shakin’ under me—”

You made a choked, guttural noise.

“—well, I’d have to kill her.”

He said it like a shrug.

Like a truth.

“Not ‘cause I want to. Wouldn’t be personal. But can’t have her knowin’. Can’t have her ruinin’ what we got here.”

You sobbed, letting your mouth fall open.

Just enough.

Just barely.

“There’s my girl.”

Two fingers pressed against your lips.

He didn’t shove. He waited. Waited until you gave a little more. Until your lips parted around them like instinct, like defeat.

He pushed in. Slow. Deeper.

Further.

You gagged.

He cooed.

“Shhh, now. Relax that throat,” he whispered, voice dipping low again, syrup-thick. “Gonna be puttin’ that pretty mouth to good use real soon.”

The room swam.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

And still, he smiled.

That same awful, patient smile. The kind that didn’t need teeth to be cruel. The kind that knew you. That had waited for you. That had earned this.

“Ya make a mess of things, y’know that?” he murmured, slipping his fingers free from your mouth—slick and shining in the dark. He dragged them down slow, trailing your chin, your throat, your sternum—like you were something he built. Something he owned.

His hand found your hips again.

Then lower.

And lower.

You felt him part you with practiced ease—no hesitation, no tenderness—and the sound he made when his fingers met your folds again was nothing short of triumphant.

“Well now,” he breathed, almost laughing. “All this trouble ya give me, all that hollerin’—and look at ya.”

His fingers moved, just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to make you seize up from the inside out.

“Drippin’ like honey in July.”

You shuddered.

Not from pleasure.

From shame. From helplessness. From the way he moaned at the feel of you, low and giddy and proud like he’d won something sacred.

“All them nasty little things y’said. All that runnin’. All that fightin’ me.”

He curled his fingers inside you.

You choked on a gasp.

“And here ya are,” he whispered, dragging his tongue against your ear. “Soakin’ my fingers like a bitch in heat.”

“Yer mouth says no, but this sweet little thing here?”

He fucked his fingers harder.

You bit back a sob.

“This part knows. Knows what she wants. Knows who she belongs to.”

He set a rhythm, brutal and unrelenting, fucking you on his hand like you were something empty he meant to fill. Every drag of his fingers was followed by his voice against your cheek.

“Gonna make y’come on my fingers, sugar. Gonna make ya fall apart just right. You’ll love it. Ya will. I’ll tear that pride right outta ya, piece by piece, till all ya got left is me.”

Then he added a third.

No warning.

No gentleness.

Just the hot, sharp stretch of it forcing you wider, making your back arch and your breath stutter out of your lungs.

“There she is,” he said, voice gone breathless with awe. “Takin’ it like y’were made for me.”

And you couldn’t stop the tears now.

Couldn’t stop the way your body betrayed you, over and over again, no matter how hard your mind screamed.

He leaned in closer.

Kissed the corner of your wet, trembling eye.

“Don’t cry, baby girl,” he whispered. “You’ll be screamin’ for more soon enough.”

But it wasn’t the words that broke you.

It was the sound of them.

Because he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t give you even a second to breathe, to blink, to vanish inside yourself. He didn’t let you have silence—not even that. Not the last fragile scrap of dignity you’d tried to keep folded between your ribs.

His mouth never left your ear.

If he wasn’t talking, he was kissing. If he wasn’t kissing, he was licking. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was just breathing—loud and wet and there, fogging up the shell of your ear until you couldn’t tell the difference between breath and spit and sweat and tears.

His voice was everywhere. His hands, his mouth—him—filling the room, filling you, dragging you to a peak you clawed to resist. But your body had already betrayed you, your muscles tightening around his fingers like they needed him, like you wanted this.

You didn’t.

You didn’t.

But that didn’t stop the sharp, harrowing bloom of pleasure as your climax hit, ripping through you like lightning in a bottle.

And though you clenched your teeth, though you bit your tongue till you tasted blood—

A sound escaped.

Just a whimper. A choked little moan. Barely a breath.

But Remmick caught it.

“Ohhh,” he purred, triumphant. “There she is. Knew ya’d sing for me eventually, darlin’.”

His fingers slid out slow, glistening in the half-light, and he moaned again, louder this time—for your benefit. His tongue flicked out, licking at his knuckles, then dragging between each digit like a starving man savoring a feast.

He slurped. Loud. Deliberate.

A wet, obscene sound that filled the air and made your stomach twist.

“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.” he murmured, licking the last of you from his fingers like a dog cleaning bone.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you.

His chest pressed to yours, hips pinning your spent thighs apart, his breath gone ragged and too fast, too hot against your throat. You tried to scramble back, but there was nowhere to go.

Then you saw his face.

Your heart dropped.

His eyes were near colorless now—bleached out, drained of anything human. Only a single, glowing dot of red burned in the center of each pupil, pulsing like fire in the dark.

And his mouth—God.

His fangs bared wide, lips split in a snarl, froth at the corners. He was drooling, shameless and bestial, saliva falling in thick, stringy ropes onto your chest, your stomach. Pooling in your navel. Smearing down the curve of your belly with every panting breath.

“Look at ya,” he rasped, voice full of awe and hunger. “All soft and shakin’ for me.”

He ripped off your nightgown like it was paper, shredding it in one swift motion until it hung in tatters beneath your back. Cold air met bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of him. He pressed in closer, the head of him nudging against your entrance, greedy and pulsing and there.

“This is mine,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, voice full of some manic, devotional tremor. “All this—you—it’s all for me. All this waitin’, all this work, all this cravin’—worth every second.”

He lined himself up, hand shaking, mouth slick and dripping.

“Gonna split ya open, sugar,” he breathed. “Gonna fill y’up ’til you forget who ya ever were without me.”

And he did.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease you in. Just thrust—hard, deep, to the hilt—without warning, without kindness, without a single goddamn thought for your whimpering body’s limits.

The air left your lungs in a ragged gasp, a cry caught on your tongue that would’ve broken every window in the house had he not slapped a hand over your mouth and held it there.

Too much.

Too deep.

Too fast.

You thrashed under him, body trying to squirm away from the stretch, the pain, the hot-sharp intrusion that burned through your gut like an inferno. He was bigger than you could bear, and he gave you no chance to adjust, no moment to breathe—just the deep, full pressure of him inside you, grinding bone against nerve until your legs spasmed and your head kicked back into the mattress.

And still he groaned.

Loved it.

“Fuck, yer tight,” he hissed, his breath shuddering out against your ear as his hips ground forward again, grinding at the very edge of cruel. “Like y’was built for me.”

He stilled a moment, just long enough for you to hope—just long enough for your body to start trembling toward that desperate reprieve.

He rocked into you slow. Once. Twice.

A lie.

Then he started to move in earnest—snapping his hips into you, one after another, hard and fast and mindless, losing himself in the wet clench of your cunt. His hand stayed locked over your mouth, muffling every sob, every scream, every choking little sound your body couldn’t stop from making.

He growled with every thrust.

Slick filled the air—his, yours, spit and sweat and drool all dripping down like rain. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed through the room, lewd and obscene, shaking the bedframe with every brutal stroke.

“Oh, listen to ya,” he rasped, pulling his hand away just long enough to let your broken voice slip through. “Cryin’ so pretty. Y’hear yerself, sugar?”

You did. That was the worst part. You could hear it—ragged and high-pitched and shameful. The kind of sound a body made when it was unraveling.

He leaned in.

Licked the tears off your cheek, lingering as if he was savoring the taste.

“Keep screamin’, baby girl,” he grinned against your skin, voice breaking with delight. “Wake the fuckin’ house.”

His hand slipped down again, caught your jaw, forced your mouth open as his tongue shoved its way inside—wet and invasive, tasting your throat like he meant to lay claim to your very breath. You choked against it, but he didn’t care. He devoured you like you were his last meal, grinding against you harder, faster, tearing groans from his own chest like he couldn’t help himself.

“Think yer mama can hear us?” he whispered when he finally pulled back, voice thick with spit and pride. “Think she’s sittin’ up in bed right now, wonderin’ what kinda sounds her little girl makes when she’s gettin’ her brains fucked out?”

You gagged.

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t mind an audience, if I’m honest,” he said, tone filthy with delight. “Wouldn’t mind lettin’ her see what a mess y’make on my cock. Wouldn’t mind lookin’ her in the eye while I make ya come.”

You nearly vomited.

The sound that tore out of your throat was nothing human—high, broken, wet with bile—and he shuddered, hips stuttering from the sheer joy of it.

He dragged his fangs down your shoulder, testing just how hard he could press before drawing blood. “Ya feel that? How yer clenchin’ on me now? Yer body’s greedy. Wants every inch. Don’t matter what that mouth says—this pussy knows who owns her.”

He snapped his hips again, harder this time—so hard your spine arched off the mattress, your heels dug into the sheets, your hands grasping for anything solid.

He gave you nothing.

Not reprieve.

Not mercy.

Only the low, maddened hum of his voice and the hot, relentless slam of him inside you.

“This is mine,” he whispered, low and ragged. “All of it. Every breath. Every sob. Every fuckin’ pulse of this sweet little hole. Say it. Say it’s mine.”

You couldn’t.

So he said it for you.

Again. And again. And again.

Fucking it into you like gospel. Breaking you open with every syllable.

Then his hand found your throat like it was always meant to be there.

No warning.

No question.

Just the sudden press of calloused fingers around the column of your neck, his palm hot and unforgiving. Not squeezing yet—just holding, like he was weighing something. Like he was testing the shape of you in his grip.

Then pressure.

Steady. Crushing.

Your mouth fell open on instinct, a gasp caught somewhere between shock and submission—and that made him grin.

“God, yer pretty like this,” he rasped, voice soaked in filth. “Eyes all wide. Mouth all quiet. S’like ya finally learned yer place.”

Stars burst behind your eyes. You clawed at his wrist without meaning to, hips twitching under his weight as he thrust deeper, harder, choking the sound from your throat like it thrilled him.

“Keep squeezin’,” he groaned. “God, ya feel divine when yer scared.”

And when your vision blurred, when your body went taut and fluttered around him—he loosened his grip just enough to let the air rush back in.

“Atta girl.”

He was close now.

You could feel it in the way his hips jerked, rhythm faltering—messier now, more desperate, like something inside him had broken loose and was tearing its way out.

“Fuck, fuck—darlin’—” he gasped, head falling to your shoulder as his thrusts grew frantic. “Y’feel that? Y’feel me throbbin’ in ya?”

You tried to answer, or maybe you tried to breathe, but neither came out right.

There was too much.

Too much of him, too much of this, of the thick, obscene drag of his cock in your aching cunt and the sound of it—slick and loud and soaking the sheets beneath you.

And he just kept talking.

“Gonna fill ya up,” he breathed, near mindless now. “Gonna knock ya up proper, sugar. Gonna watch ya swell with it—my baby. Keep y’like that. Forever.”

Your breath caught.

Your pulse spiked.

His words came like a punch to the chest, like a hand around your throat you hadn’t seen coming. Your legs tensed, body stiffening beneath him, but it only made him groan—low and guttural—like your panic excited him, like it drove him further off the edge.

“Don’t run,” he panted, licking at your throat, your cheek, your temple, leaving your skin sticky with spit. “Don’t fight me now, girl—y’already said yes. Ya begged for this. I’m just givin’ ya what ya asked for.”

You hadn’t.

Not this.

But he kept rutting into you like a man possessed, every thrust brutal with intention, like he could mold your insides to fit him. Brand you from within.

“Gonna keep ya all barefoot and full,” he growled, mouth dragging to your ear again. “Wanna see ya waddle through this house with my kid in your belly, cryin’ every night ’cause yer so fuckin’ needy for me. That sound good to ya?”

You shook your head, lips trembling.

But he only smiled and laughed, delighted.

“Y’don’t gotta answer,” he whispered, shoving his cock deeper, grunting when your body gave another helpless clench. “Yer pussy already did.”

You gasped, shuddering beneath him, helpless to stop the tears that slipped from your lashes. You were full—so full it felt like your ribs would crack from the pressure, your lungs too small to carry your fear. Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just grabbed your wrists and pinned them down beside your head, bearing his weight over you like a coffin lid.

He licked a tear from your jaw, shivering with something close to ecstasy.

“I’m gonna come, sweetheart. Y’feel that? Y’feel it buildin’?”

You did.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, trembling like he was on fire from the inside out, like he might burst.

And when he did—

God, when he did—

He didn’t stop.

Even after his body convulsed, even after that guttural groan tore from the depths of his chest and his cock pulsed violently inside you—he didn’t pull out. He only buried himself deeper, impossibly deep, like he could carve out your very soul with the head of it, like he could scrape you clean from the inside and replace it all with him.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

You felt it.

Every twitch.

Every throb.

Every thick, molten spill of him pouring into your womb like it was where he’d always belonged. You could feel the warmth of it pooling, the unnatural weight of it, like your body already knew it wouldn’t be able to hold it all.

And still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t so much as flinch.

His cock stayed nestled deep, buried to the root, like he wanted to seal himself inside you.

You couldn’t breathe.

Not under his weight, not under his heat. Not under the reality of it.

Remmick’s chest heaved against yours, damp with sweat. His breath came out in ragged little pants, fanning hot across your throat as he shifted only to press deeper—like he thought there might still be some hollow pocket inside you that hadn’t been claimed yet.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, broken by exhaustion and euphoria both.

“I know ya love me,” he murmured, words warm and wet against your jaw. “Even if y’don’t know it yet.”

You turned your face away.

But he only nuzzled closer, lips brushing your temple, sticky strands of his hair clinging to your skin like spiderwebs.

“S’okay,” he breathed. “You’ll see. Gonna be the perfect little family, you ’n me.”

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to shove him off, tear him limb from limb, claw your own skin off to erase the sensation of him still inside you. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t even move. He had you pinned—physically, yes, but worse than that, he had you trapped.

You were full of him now.

And you knew—somewhere, deep in your bones, in the trembling, ruined edges of your mind—you always would be.

Remmick tilted your chin back and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t even hungry.

It was complete. The kind of kiss you’d give a corpse before closing the casket, sealing it with a promise that no one else would ever touch what was inside. It consumed you. Smothered you. Left no oxygen in your lungs, no room for thought.

And then—

He sighed.

Satisfied.

Collapsed right onto your chest, cheek nestled over your hammering heart like it soothed him to hear it fight.

His cock softened inside you slowly, twitching one last time before going still. The slick warmth of his come leaked out in slow pulses, smearing your thighs and soaking the sheets, a filthy halo beneath your hips.

He was asleep before you could say anything.

Before you could even process it.

Just—gone.

Heavy and warm and content, like he’d just had a long bath. Like he hadn’t just hollowed you out and crawled inside.

You stared up at the ceiling.

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe right.

Didn’t even try to move.

The tears came quietly—just a shimmer, at first. A sting. Then a drop. Then another. Until they streamed down the sides of your face into your hair, salt soaking the pillow beneath you while your body lay frozen, trembling beneath his deadweight.

And that ceiling…

You swore it tilted.

That old plaster warped like heat mirage, curling in on itself. Suffocating. Crooked.

This was your life now.

This room.

This bed.

This man.

You would never be alone again.

You would never be free again.

And all you could do was sob, soundless, eyes wide to that sagging, silent ceiling—while Remmick snored soft against your chest, dreaming of forever.

[pizzaapeteer]

Succumb to the lust

On the eve of Halloween your three idiotic friends Mattheo Riddle, Lorenzo Berkshire and Theodore Nott invite you over for an evening of spooky fun watching horror films. However, they don't expect to release a trapped spirit, taking the night for a turn unravelling some longing desires bubbling in the pit between the four of you. Warnings: NSFW 18+, foursome, throat fucking, dirty talk, swearing, anal, double penetration, PIV, cunnilingus, f! orgasm, multiple m! orgasms, fem reader is possessed by a succumbs, a demon that survives on semen. The bold italics is her thoughts. I got vvv carried away in this 8k fic!! An: Apologises for posting this almost a month later 'halloween' fic. heads up i've never written a 4some before so I hope this is okay! <3

The thick lining of emerald covered walls do little to quieten the echo from the rowdy shouts of chatter, the sounds encapsulating around you ensuring you heard the group of boys well before you saw them. As usual, the expansive space of the Slytherin’s boy’s dorm accommodated by your three friends, greets you with the resident pungency of boyish charm. The three of them, congested and huddled like bunnies in a tight-knit burrow, are focused entirely on none other than a muggle computer.

Theo and Lorenzo hover closely behind Mattheo’s shoulder, their tall broad frames hunched with intense focus, their eyes glued to the screen, watching with excitement and a hint of fear.

Theo observes with an eagle’s line of sight, mentioning tactics of strategy to Mattheo, with his finger outstretched, pointing towards the pixelated scenery where Mattheo’s character depicted manoeuvres through the haunted maze. On Mattheo’s other side, Lorenzo presses a firm hand upon his shoulder, taking a more aggressive and chaotic tactic. Shouting bollock loads of commentary on the best way to attack the monster.

Which leaves the victim, Mattheo perched on the chair between them, his eyes flickering like a hummingbird’s wings, his brows furrowed frozen as if moulded in cement. His irritation spikes under the growing overstimulation he’s endeavouring, only resulting in another failure. Three loud shrieks fill the room when the monster jumps at the screen, it now flashing GAME OVER as the character succumbs.

A laugh unable to be contained, bellies out from you with pure delight, having watched Theo and Lorenzo almost knock Mattheo clean out of his chair in fright. The sound makes for an unconcealed alert of your presence, the extent of their swearing coming to a halt. “What’s going on here that’s got you three jumping out of your skins?”

They adjust their positions at your arrival, striking nonchalant relaxing poses, each giving you three gestures of hello. “Nothing, nothing, just playing a game.” It’s the eve of Halloween, a stormy night setting the spooky atmosphere - and what better way to spend it watching horror films. 

“Not the most feared guys in school scared of a little muggle game?” Instantly the tease in your tone replaces their once friendly expressions with the forming of three scowls and loud resorts of denial brushing off your taunt. 

“Uh huh.” You reply sarcastically, letting out a light giggle, shutting the door behind you with a click. The sound of your sweet laugh eases their original annoyance, each of their hearts swooning internally. It didn’t matter that you were making fun of them. It was so light and infectious it had even the toughest of boys’ hearts melting.

“So what movie did we wanna watch?” You ask, removing another layer, tossing it without looking onto one of their unmade beds. The room falls into a comfortable silence and you think nothing of it, assuming they’re deep in thought about your question. With precision, your focus remains entirely on neatly lining your shoes up by their door. Too caught up in the minor details of your perfectionism to notice the lingering brazen glances that follow the way you bend, showing off the fine curve of your ass.

Mattheo, lost in the hypnotisation of sinful exposure, relaxes himself with an overconfident lean on the back feet of his chair. The chair rocks with the unstableness of a stack of playing cards, collapsing out from under him in a sudden thud. The room crackles with the roars of laughter erupting from Theo and Enzo, breaking the peaceful silence. 

The loud antics snap your attention and you turn, assessing the situation of Mattheo’s clumsiness, him sprawled with a bitter grimace on the floor. Quirking a teasing smile, you offer a hand down to him. “Still spooked, Matty?”

He brushes off his embarrassment with a roll of his eyes and accepts your hand. The contact is gentle, showing his softened-down self saved for you before his face hardens, shooting a joking glare at his friends to knock it off.

“Very funny. I don’t scare easily, sweetheart.” He scoffs, shrugging off your minor hit, making the others snicker at his response.

“Sure ya don’t.” Giving a mocking nod, you stifle a laugh at his bitter defiance. “Anyway, imma pop to the bathroom. You guys sort something to watch, yeah?” Backing up towards their shared lavatory, emphasizing your words heavily while you point a finger at the three of them as if to address children. 

They give you a chorus “Yes ma’am!”, watching your frame vanish behind the wooden door. The second you’re no longer within hearing distance, an agitated sigh released from Mattheo. “Dude, what the fuck-.”

“Don’t look at me. You’re the idiot that fell out of his chair-”

“Please, I was stretching-.“

“-don’t play daft. Your jaw was on the fucking floor.”

Lorenzo’s gaze shifts away from the dispute behind him to the screen exiting the game. He takes the moment in charge to inspect around the muggle device - the three of them had stolen it off one of the pretentious muggle born Ravenclaw’s. Their plan originally to throw it off the astronomy tower for fun had switched when Theo had the curious idea to check it out first. Alas, they stumbled upon the game that had grabbed their attention for the last thirty minutes.

He continues to browse through internet explorer before his brows pull together, chuckling with intrigue. “Ooh what’s this?” Lorenzo interrupts the rambling ongoing behind him, his eyes drawn towards the blaring red picture of a busty girl with devil horns. A Halloween game advertisement that all too easily enhances his attention, luring him in with a magnetic pull. 

“Feeling lonely huh Berk, poor Ravenclaw couldn’t satis-oof-the fuck was that for, twat.” Theo releases a low grunt, his tease shut down by the sharpness of Lorenzo’s elbow jabbing into him. 

Mattheo smirks amused, leaning back against the four-poster beam, his gaze flickering over Lorenzo’s shoulder with a curious eye. “Don’t do anything stupid, Enzo.” 

Enzo grins, looking back at him, “Oh shut the fuck up, I’m the smartest here.” 

“I beg to differ.” Theo mutters. 

As if to prove Theo right, he’s already clicking on the ad with little to none rationality before the others can suggest better of it. “Enzo, what the hell did you do?!” Theo comments with frustration, watching as the ad fills up the screen, aggressively taking over control.

The computer once fully functional glitches and sparks shoot out the side, smoke ejecting out the back surrounding the machine. “YOU BROKE THE BOX THING!” “I did nothing!” “Bullshit, you fucking clicked that stupid ad-.” “Yeah! It was working perfectly before!” “don’t blame me! It was fucking tits-.” There’s a swat to the back of his head discipling Lorenzo’s greedy eyes, and he scowls bitterly. 

During the boys’ argument, electricity surges through the circuits, a powerful force traveling along the wires. Unaware to the boys, they’ve just released a deadly spirit trapped inside the confines of a pornographic ad. A wise and extremely driven succubus Mazien, banished to live out a 10000 years, advertising to sinners the luxurious pleasures of sex. A torturous punishment of watching hundreds, thousands of humans cumming over and over but forbidden to unlock the power of semen shown before her eyes.

As you move to exit the bathroom, you reach to flick the light off, but a surge of electricity vibrates through your body, shocking you. The current of electricity zaps with a powerful blast, hurling you backwards into the wall with a loud thud. The hardness of wood breaks your fall, the violent impact leaving you frazzled as you release a deep groan of achiness. 

Silence falls in the bedroom before three shouts of your name call out in panic. A multitude of concerned knocks rat on the door rapidly, wanting your attention, and seemingly only causing your head to throb harder. There’s a moment of weariness in your eyes before a dark glowing red blurs your vision and you pass out. 

Holy shit, it worked! It actually worked. Oh my god! I’m free!! A voice rings vibrating inside your head. The sound is so clear yet so distant. Must have hit your head pretty hard if you’re hearing voices. You try to shift and rub it, but the movement doesn’t happen. Your body acting on its own accord.

You lift your hands, examining them as if inspecting the delicacy of them for the first time. They look normal so far as you watch behind a tunneled vision, standing and stretching, your body cracks as though unmoved for a thousand years. The steps to the mirror feel daunting in your apprehension of what you’re about to witness. 

And then the voice rings out again, a sultry consciousness that’s loud and overbearing, a voice echoing, pounding around your membrane. Fuck me this girl is hot. I sure know how to pick ‘em. 

It’s a woman’s voice, you can tell. Watching with a hypnotized gaze at whose reflection glances back at you in the mirror. You recognize the familiarness of your features, though something lurks behind your usual humanized eyes, and then there’s your abnormal action. 

A wicked grin gleams, your tongue running along the line of teeth seductively as you check yourself out. Whoever she is, she’s clearly happy to have possessed you. Possessed right? That’s the only logical explanation for what’s happening. Though nothing about this is logical!

Her body is fuckin fit. Why are her tits not further out…I’ll just mmh uh huh yeah that’s better. With impatient hands, you pull down the fabric of your shirt, exposing far more skin than you would have preferred, fixing it the perfect way Mazien likes. Next your hair. Fingers that usually carry themselves with tender touches threads aggressively ruffling your hair into a disheveled but sexy mess. Observing peculiarly the tactical style Mazien alters your appearance, you lean forwards inspecting your lips, forming a cute pout reapplying the lip gloss found in your pocket. 

Another round of thumps slams on the door, stealing your attention, pausing the newfound vainness you’re showcasing. Listening to the murmurs, you register male voices, deep tones that lull your ears, a peaceful heaven. A strong whiff of testosterone fills your senses, the scent gliding under the door engulfing you like a familiar drug. It calls towards you like sweet temptation. Inhaling again with a deep breath, you’re able to identify the redolent of not one but three young oversexed guys. 

Gazing back at yourself in the mirror, the reflection projects a gorgeous, overconfident young woman. Beneath the eyes there’s a tinted guard, a hidden panel of glass creating a one sided window that allows a view of Mazien’s perspective of yourself. But deeper there’s an anxious girl watching with uncertainty, feeling as if your heart should beat with a rapid thump on the verge of stopping. Instead, your pulse spikes with ambition and excitement at what awaits. I’m in for a treat. 

You’re practically begging through the thickness of your thoughts to communicate and halt her ambitions with whoever the hell is in your body. She doesn’t appear to listen, moving confidently to unlock the door and greet your friends. 

They each turn to the door and it’s like a scene straight out of an 80s movie. Three boys stand aghast around a beautiful creation emerging from their wildest fantasies. As if a smoke of cloud had appeared behind you, effortless breaths of wind blowing your hair and a gleaming spotlight captivating your beauty. 

You appear normal enough. Flashing them an amused smile, Mazien knows her touch ups to your appearance have worked their magic. Holy fuck, aren’t these boys a sight for sore eyes!

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Cocking a curious brow, you step back into the cozy nest of boisterous chaos that now remains a quiet tension. Your tone is sweet, feigning innocence and obliviousness. 

They shrug nonchalantly, acting as if they hadn’t all just been drooling over you. Though you’ve always been beautiful, there’s something different about you they can’t quite put their tongue on.

Theo is the first to speak. Clicking his mouth with a low hum, he observes you with his usual intenseness, taking in every detail about you. His lips pull in a calming smile, finding interest in the newfound confidence you’re asserting. “You alright bella?” 

Nodding, you grin reassuringly, “yeah I’m perfect, just got a little shock. What happened out here?” Your lips shine under the illuminating lights, enticing their eyes to flutter, taking in the shimmer sparkling on them. Had they always been that pretty, that luscious and full? 

Enzo chuckles, brushing off the issue as no big deal. “nothi-“

“Enzo brought a virus onto the machine and broke it.” Mattheo states blankly, happy to shove his friend under the bus. 

Muttering a bitter motherfucker under his breath, he turns, defending himself with feigned innocence. “What! I did no such thing!” Looking directly at you with playful cuteness, hoping you’ll believe him. 

You’re used to their bickering antics and would normally roll your eyes, but Mazien controlling you is highly entertaining and releases a giggle unlike yourself. It’s not high pitched and cringe like you’d expect. It’s sweet and flirtatious? 

You didn’t even know your voice could break a pitch that high, but it grabs the boy’s attention in a new way as they consume the energy, you’re inviting them to match. “Enzo, what did you click on?” You ask with another teasing tone as you sweet talk him.

He bites his lip, trying to appear nonchalant, but he’s beginning to sweat anxiously. They never talk about their sexual desires around you. “Nothing, I just got curious.”

Oh baby boy I know exactly what you clicked on.

Theo, much like Mattheo, finds enjoyment in ripping the rug out from Enzo. “Curious, my ass. Fuckin horny shit.” Theo rolls his eyes, hiding the smirk at his friend. His tone is low, but you’re able to make out what he’s saying with Mazien’s heightened hearing.  

Pouting with feigned confusion, your brows crease, crossing your arms, projecting your tits to compress. “Horny? What did you click on?” 

A slight flush threatens its way up Lorenzo’s neck, and Theo and Mattheo snicker at his embarrassment. Mattheo speaks up, throwing an arm around your shoulder, “nothing to worry your pretty head about y/n, let’s just watch the movie yeah.” He speaks reassuringly with comfort that the usual you would embrace, but with Mazien inside your veins, she wants a little fun. 

“Oh, I don’t know if I’m feeling that anymore.” Your eyes linger on Enzo as if checking him out. “Not if Enzo’s feeling a little… hot.” 

Lorenzo’s flush finally breaks the surface, adoring his skin a deep red, and he laughs, stretching his arms awkwardly. He’s not entirely sure how to react, but one glance at your tantalizing gaze and he suddenly grins with an idea. “Oh yeah idk if I can focus on anything right now with all this going on.” 

Mattheo and Theo share looks of confusion, “dude wtf.” 

“It’s okay.. I don’t mind helping Enzie out. It is Halloween, after all. You all deserve a treat.” Grinning with satisfaction, you move in front of the three of them. Mazien inspects the difference in their sizes and yourself. It’s not extreme, but it still has your mind spiraling at the strength they could inflict on you, enthusing her of what’s coming.

“Treats?” They repeat their ears tuned in like dogs, the three of them tilting their heads with uncertainty, sharing curiosity with one another. There’s no logical explanation for how you’re acting right now and their minds tick like time bombs trying to unravel the mystery of your sudden change in behavior . 

Despite their brutal confusion, there’s something lingering under the surface, an itch desperate to be scratched. You’ve all been friends since first year, a strong friendship held together by the bonds of trauma, pranks and overall deep respect. The strings threaten to loosen with the suggestion, and their weakening control slips with sexual interest at the opportunity you’re possibly offering them. 

No way they’re actually buying into this? Course they are, sweetheart. These horn dogs may be your friends, but they want to fuck you all the same. Mazien addresses you suddenly through your mind. Is she on your side? 

“Yeah, something with a sweet kick.” Your finger taps lightly under each of their chins, walking past them individually, holding their undivided attention. “A little tang that will tickle my tastebuds.” Until you stop in front of lucky boy number one, Enzo.

His brows furrow at the delicate caress of your hand cupping his jaw, having no time to react as your lips press with an eagerness onto his. A small moan leaves your lips and Enzo’s shock melts instantly away, replaced by a hungry desire kissing back forcibly. His tongue is already diving greedily and getting lost in the sensation of this fantasy. The kiss is messy, and your hands roam over his sides getting excited at his lusted participation. 

Theo and Mattheo share a look with one another, not quite believing the sight presented before them. You’re making out with Enzo right in front of them. Their jaws are practically on the floor. You pull back grinning a seductive look letting out a flirtatious giggle. You look over at Theo and Mattheo. “Aw, are you boys feeling lonely?”

You move quicker than usual, the sexual endurance from Enzo’s kiss fueling your energy levels within. Colliding your lips against Mattheo, the energy eccentric with lust, your fingers threading into the depths of his locks with a force that entices a groan from his throat. Like Enzo’s, it’s messy, his hands sliding around your frame, pressing you up against him. You reach searching for the third boy, looping your fingers through Theo’s pant hoops and guiding him towards you with dominance as you switch to smashing your lips onto his instead. 

The initial shock vanishes as quickly as it arose, the three of them falling into their usual sexual confidence in the bedroom. Mattheo’s fingers skillfully meander, assimilating every nook and grove of your body, his lips finding their place opposite Enzo as they graze feverish kisses on either side of your neck. Both determined to taint the sensitive tissue with prideful marks, while Theo ensures you feel his dominance just with the force of his tongue. A mass of moans meshing amongst the three of you in sexual pleasure. 

This is too easy! I’ll have these boys cumming in no time. 

Tilting your head backwards from Theo, you relish the breath of air that fills you, releasing a satisfied hum at Mattheo and Lorenzo’s actions, forming goosebumps along your skin. Small moans stumble from your needy, enfeebled state, your heartbeat fluttering with rapid thumps down to your core. You close your eyes, caught up in the bliss caging both boy’s lips to your neck, Theo watching with a darkened look in his eye. The pure sounds you utter breathlessly send vibrations straight to their aching groins, the sultriness in your voice blurring their minds in a foggy cloud, a sight they never imagined experiencing. 

The way you carried your confidence in everyday life was nothing compared to the level of seduction present, hooking into their skin with a tight hold. Just like a fish limping out of water, there was no use in struggling for air. You already had your hand on their throats and they invited the feeling in. It’s unlike anything they’d expect from you, the total bliss adorning upon your face with poise, hypnotizing them lustfully. 

Their pants tightening doesn’t go unnoticed and you smirk arrogantly. “Aw, are we feeling a little tense, boys?” Rotating to align yourself in the center of their angled legs, you lower down onto your knees. Fingers lined with yearning graze up the lengths of Mattheo and Enzo thighs, inching up the innermost part towards their dark cravings. “Well, what are you waiting for? Whip out those pretty cocks.” 

The lewd words that glide from your pretty lips short-circuits their brains, a part of them convinced this is a weird connected dream the three of them are sharing. They all start speaking at once, revealing their reactions, looking hesitant, wondering who will be the first brave soldier to succumb. 

“Merlin sake…” “fuckin hell who knew you were such a slut y/n-“ “are you insane!? I’m not getting my cock out in front of these two idiots!” “Aw feeling shy huh Mattheo?” “Dont be such a puss-” “Hey! Shut the fuck up before I shut it up for you.”

“Ah ah ah boys!” Grabbing their attention with a few claps, the sound loud and commanding as you tut at them. Your hands climb their way up Theo’s long trousers, gazing with lustful wide eyes between the three of them. It’s an unholy sight driving Mazien mad while you watch paralyzed within your mind at the scene about to unfold. 

It’s alright baby, we’ll convince them to sit tight. 

Biting your lip, your head tilts innocently. “First one to show me their cock gets to fuck me. You do wanna fuck me don’t you boys?” The mocking undertone rolls of your tongue pleasantly, and your heartbeat spikes a heated desire growing within.

The silence is deafening, your promise hanging in the air within each of their grasps. With lightning speed, they quickly loosened their belts, synchronised and lower their trousers. You giggle, eating up their neediness. The more desperate, the better they’ll cum. 

Your eyes light up, analyzing the three different dicks presented in offering towards you. Theodore stands to your right and even with a brief look, it’s easily the biggest out of the three. The sight creates erotic images thinking about it filling you up. Mattheo standing in the middle pumps his own, his fingers gliding along the thickness, a protruding vein catching your eye. Last, Lorenzo’s pink tip gleams and your eyes take in the slight curve of his length, mouth watering at the view. 

The slow, excruciating moment of your appreciation is short-lived as they grow restless under your tantalizing gaze. Mattheo, never one to show patience, reaches first his hands, diving into your hair and tightly pulling you towards him. “You got what you wanted, so don’t get shy now.” Gladly, you open your mouth, allowing him to glide his cock inside. 

A deep sigh falls from his luscious lips, moaning a quiet, “f-fuck.” Your lips slide along his length, sucking with determination, hollowing your cheeks. Resting a hand on his thigh, you bob, inching further down causing your mouth to salivate. Pulling off, ignoring his protest, you spit the newly created drool in both hands, taking a hold of Theo and Enzo’s dick pumping them.

You can feel the way your pussy clenches, desperate for this fantasy coming to life. A surge of energy fills the air, like a switch being flipped, and you know you’ve lost control. Theo and Enzo rest their hands on your head, encouraging you to take Mattheo’s cock further. The force of their hold makes you gag around Mattheo’s dick, moaning out.

A shared degrading laugh falls collectively. “Aw look, she’s taken you so well Matt.”

“For such a small mouth she sure can fill herself well.”

“Fuck..cant wait to see her really stuffed.”

Mattheo’s hips thrust with vigorous strength, ensuring he grazes the back of your throat. “Oh-h yeah baby like that. Look at that a total fuckin slut taking me so well.” 

“Never thought I’d see the day she was choking on one of our dicks.” Lorenzo smirks, highly entranced by the tears pooling in your eyes threatening to spill with each buck of Mattheo’s hips. 

It’s only a few seconds later and oxygen is being welcomed back into your lungs before being stolen by the tight hold that Theo redirects your head towards his brightening, reddened tip. Mattheo releases an exasperated, audible protest. “What the fuck are you doing?!” 

“You’re fuckin hogging her.” Replacing where your mouth once occupied on Mattheo’s cock with your enthusiastic hands. Theo groans, enjoying the way your jaw relaxes in order to accommodate for his size. “That’s it baby, take it a little more.” 

Your hand falls from Enzo’s grasp as he retreats, moving around behind you, pressing the heat of his chest to your back. A desperate caress of his hands covers your body, sliding up to massage your tits from behind and he whispers grazing your ear, “so perfect. Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

Eyes still glued to Theo’s deepened frown, his low tone muttering curses in Italian, making you moan at the visionary sight. You give a small nod, lips still around his cock at Enzo’s words.

Your knees lift, assisting Enzo in ridding the tedious barrier of your shorts and panties before elevating your ass for him. “You two are missing out. This is the real treat.” Your mind flutters in a flurry as Enzo slides his tongue along your slit in one long, tortuous tease. His hands take hold of your thighs, pushing them apart with a nudge of his knee. 

Erupting a squeal, you moan around Theo’s cock. “F-fuckin hell bella, Enzo keep doing that she’s lovin it.” Theo commands his hand, pulling tighter on your hair. “Oh yeah..yeah like that.”

Mattheo, who’s still bristling at the stolen blowjob attention, releases a shaky breath, attempting to contain his jealousy. Antsy he slides a hand under the top of your tank, groaning when greeted by the bare flesh of your tit. He squeezes urgently, fingers swallowing your skin in his grasp, enticing breathless gasps. 

Waves of hot pleasure course along your veins under the weight of the boys’ touches and their vocal displays of gratification. The sensations enhance your arousal, greedily devoured by Enzo spreading your cheeks further apart to dig deeper, sucking at the new douse of wetness. 

Holy shit! I can feel how much you love this sweet girl. You wanna cum so badly, don’t you? Mazien laugh echoes inside your head. 

From your backseat position, you can feel the way your body is reacting to everything happening. It’s an insatiable feeling experiencing it all while being unable to control your body or actions. Every nerve heightened as if lit by the fires of hell. Your legs tremble under Lorenzo’s grip, weakening your stature, your head spinning with nauseating need.

You don’t have time to feel embarrassed when you are under the control of Mazien. If anything, you feel grateful. She senses that and releases Theo’s cock from your mouth, replacing it with your hand again, smirking at your thoughts. 

Holding both Mattheo’s and Theo’s cocks, you pump them, angling their tips towards your mouth, waiting with your tongue sticking out eagerly. They grunt, their shoulders touching, standing close in order to have the right position for you. You watch how their brows crease, frustrated with pleasure, both their hands holding your hair with iron grips for stability. 

You moan at Enzo’s relentless pace in eating you out, his tongue bringing endless attention towards your clit. The skillful flick of his tongue overwhelming the bundle of senses and your legs convulse, squeezing his head.

You can tell they’re both being stubborn, competing against one another for your praise at who can hold out the longest. You swirl your tongue, licking the tips of both their cocks as one, not caring if they find it awkward. “You’re close aren’t ya..come on boys cum for me.”

“Jesus mate, just fucking cum already.” Mattheo smirks between breaths and moans. 

“Be my guest Riddle.” Theo grunts, his breath equally ragged, “M-maledetto.” 

You roll your eyes at their bickering, continuing to press your ass up, grinding back on Enzo’s blissful face, his hands digging into your cheeks, likely bruising the skin. These boys are so cute, they wanna please us so badly. Deciding their competitiveness is starting to delay the process of Mazien getting what she needs, you give them a glorious offer. “Whoever cums first gets my ass.” 

Eyes widening with lust, Mattheo is quick to cum, the idea of getting to be the first one to fill your tight sacred hole, pushing him over. His hands grip your hair, tugging with a force to ensure your mouth envelops him once more, not allowing you to miss every shot of fluid that jets tainting your tongue. 

Instantly you’re hit with the nostalgic tang of salty cum. It coats your throat like a refreshing elixir hydrating your body after a drought. The taste satisfying glides with ease at your natural mechanism to swallow. Pulling back with a happy pop, you hum heavenly at the first batch. Oh yeah, this is exactly what I need. 

Theo scoffs a laugh, redirecting your focus back onto his aching cock. “God, Matt always has been an ass man, haven’t you?” 

Mattheo’s head still tilted back pants with a blissful expression coating his face, eyes still closed. “Of course it’s the best hole.” When he regains his breath, he squats down, pulling your shirt down and releasing your tit. “Sweet tasty of victory, god these fucking tits y/n.” He mumbles, taking a mouthful of your nipple, swirling his tongue around it, squeezing the other in a circular motion. 

Sensing the arrival of your orgasm, you squeeze Theo’s cock, needing something to grip, your eyes closing with pleasure etched on your face continuously muttering moans. Enzo increases his pace, diving his tongue further inwards, lapping with the intensity of a starved man. Mattheo and Theo hold you still, preventing your body from squirming as you try to both escape and embrace the pleasure.  

He moans, talking you through your climax. “So pretty for’me, that’s it sweetheart soaking my face.” The overstimulation pushes you over the brink, causing the sickly downpour of cum to drench Enzo’s sweet lips. A deep glottal groan ricochets against your clit spurring a high mew, making him chuckle, swallowing your juices with happiness, not bothered about himself not orgasming yet. 

Theo’s hips jut at the peak of his own orgasm, his hands felicitously press a hand to the back of your head, warranting you can’t pull back, making you take the entirety of him. Oh this boy has a load on him. I’ll swallow it all!

Your eyes prick once again, your throat constricting around the depth of his length, snuggly emptying himself with broken groans. You love it, eyes gleaming with a lively sparkle, being used exactly how you need to be. I can feel it working already! But they don’t look down, always have more room for semen.

Mattheo continues his attack, sucking along the tops of your cleavage, relishing in the coughs of air you take in Theo’s release. You clean the access of the drool from the corners of your mouth, resting your chin atop of Mattheo’s head for support. He eats up every gasped whimper you elicit as he plants hickies along the sides of the tissue.

Theo doesn’t hesitate to push him out of the way again. “Quit marking her like she’s yours. Move her on the bed.” 

Mattheo scowls at his scolding, frowning at Theo’s audacity. “Who put you fucking in charge?”

“I think I get a little credit for lasting the longest.” Theo smirks “isn’t that right, bella?” 

You lean back into the comfort of Enzo’s lap, his burly thighs acting in support for your feeble state. Enzo’s arms scoop under yours, lifting and pulling you up and onto the bed, letting you lay fully down. “No need to fight, plenty to go around.” Watching Theo and Mattheo advance you smirk with a desired appetite. 

Enzo hastily lifts you up to release your tits from the confines of your tank and a chorus of groans fills the room, watching with darkened eyes at how your tits bounce, recoiling from the action. Enzo peers overtop, muttering huskily mostly to himself, “Fuck me, she came over not even wearing a bra.” 

“Yeah figured that when I had my one out in the ope-” 

“Piss off Riddle I couldn’t fuckin see.” Enzo rolls his eyes with deep irritation at the amused smug Mattheo shoots him. He redirects his attention down to you, flicking his eyes over the relaxed state your breasts fall, rising with each shallow breath you release. 

He cups a hand under your jaw, tilting it backwards to capture your gaze, giving you a filthy cheek of a grin. Even upside down, he looks handsome as ever, adorned with the glistening remains of yourself on his pretty lips. His eyes hold contact with you, foreheads pressed together intimately as he lowers down, replicating the spiderman kiss. 

His lips move with rushed intensity, tongues tangling with one another, transferring yourself onto your tongue, dirtying your taste. It’s a filthy delicious flavour, rendering you weak with feeling. Mazien doesn’t mind either, relishing in the taste of yourself on your lips. Oh sweet baby you taste absolutely sinful. 

Her words only add to the heat scorching your body, an itch under your skin being scratched delightfully and you moan pressing further into Enzo’s kiss. Cupping his cheek, your nails scratch into his scalp, keeping him perfectly in place. 

Mattheo and Theo roll their eyes, watching Lorenzo’s seduction tactics and crawl up on either side of you, latching a mouthful to each one of your breasts. Their styles differ from one another, Mattheo’s tongue circling and grazing his teeth over the sensitive nipple. While Theo flattens his tongue with slowness, pressing thousands of tender kisses across the surface. The combination of three tongues on your body has you squirming, overwhelmed by such sensations. 

Oh sweetheart these boys are gonna wreck you and I’ll eat it all up deliciously.

The air is sultry with thick desperation, suffocating the room, creating tension and competition between the two boys. In the battle of ascending on who can reach your needy cunt begging for attention first, Theo and Mattheo butt heads, both of them groaning in frustration and pain. You close your legs, their useless coordination at working together irritating Mazien, making you pause pulling away from Lorenzo’s kiss, resting up on your elbows to scold them. 

“I think it’s time Enzo gets his treat and you two take a seat on the bench.” With a press of a heel planting onto each of their chests, the powerful shove tumbles them back off the bed, a look of surprise overcoming them at your sudden strength.

“The fuck-” “when did she get so strong?!” 

Enzo listens to their protests with a smug grin, his lips move, peppering your neck with starved kisses. Of course, his sweet boy antics of worshiping you instead of prioritising himself have paid off in the long run. 

“Stay down there and watch.” The command uttered out of your mouth has them feeling weak, the tone so dominant they feel no other option but to obey. Theo mutters, rolling his eyes irritably, “fottuta stronzata! Why am I being punished for his idiocy?” 

Mattheo scowls at him. “You were equally involved. It was your fat head that bumped mine!” 

Lorenzo lets out a raunchy wolf whistle, his eyes lighting up as you bend, leaning forwards, arching your back and ass up for his pleasure once again. The angle allows you to continue peering down at the two excluded boys in front of you, smirking as you gaze hungrily at their throbbing and erect cocks. Theo and Mattheo quit bickering, watching with sulky eyes, swallowing desperately for a taste they crave now made to wait for. 

“Which hole do you want, Enzo?” 

Enzo’s hands caress your backside, roaming over your heightened skin, putting in the effort to rub his hands captivatingly over the delicacy of your body boasting to the others. His eyes flicker from their pathetic faces, cracking a grin down to the way your body shivers under his teasing touch, unable to believe the alluring view before him. He leans pressing his chest against your back, whispering with a heated hoarse breath, “I wanna fuck that pretty ass of yours.”

Subconsciously you scream, feeling yourself panic, never having experienced anal before, but Mazien only laughs, getting excited about feeling your tight body stretched out by the attractive boy. Relax sweetheart, he’s gonna take such good care of us. 

Mattheo watches with a grumpy and unpleasant expression, groaning with disappointment at the current outcome despite your earlier promise. His fallen face makes you giggle at the trickery and deceptiveness played on the poor boy and you whisper to him, “Patience is a virtue, Matty.” The irony of your words having you mentally scoffing, coming from the sinful lips of the demon in control. Your attention redirects back to Enzo, moaning as you spread your legs for him, allowing him to settle with easier comfort between them. 

He grabs his wand and casts an extra lubricating incarnation, rubbing his thumb, circling it over your hole. Lightly pressing inwards, he applies bit by bit more pressure getting you ready for him. Wet, fervent kisses press urgently to your lower back as he continues to tease before sliding a finger in. The motion stalls your breath, short sharp exhales falling as you moan at the sensation. He grins, thrusting his finger slowly in and out, adding another digit mumbling, “good girl..that’s a good girl gettin ready for me yeah?”

He smirks, biting his lip, his eyes not leaving the way your hole expands and breathes him in, and he gives his cock a quick pump. His composure remains calm and excited, though he’s barely holding it together wanting to get a move on already. He slides his fingers out, gathering your slick along your wet clit, spreading it over his cock before rubbing it against your hole. He goes slow grunting, edging his tip in. 

Moaning at the burning stretch, you smile getting giddy as his length glides slowly but surely bottoming you out. You scream, but it’s only inside your head, never having encountered something so fulfilling before. Feels so good doesn’t it? Wait till we get him, filling us up with his load. 

There’s no air left for you to inhale, your stomach tight with suspense, every nerve prickling with a fiery sensation. Your muscles convulse and you grip the sheets with an iron grip, your eyes rolling back. A deep gasp finally leaves your mouth, staying ajar as you focus on the stimulation of Enzo’s cock inching further in. The sight is mesmerizing for Mattheo and Theo, who gaze with blown pupils, their own hands pumping their cocks. 

“F-fuck mate isnt that the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.” 

“Mi farà venire prima ancora di entrare dentro di leiiii.” Theo responds with a shaky groaning breath, his eyes not leaving your orgasmic face, his lip pulled between his teeth. 

Mattheos brows furrow both from pleasure and confusion, “dude I can’t fucking understand you-”

“Would you two shut up, the both of you are ruining my fuck.” Enzo grits out through his ecstasy. The last thing he needs when pounding your ass is their annoying fucking voices in his head. His grasps on your hips tighten with such intensity he’d break glass if holding it, his hips finally pick up pace continuously sliding in and out of your tight hole. “Fucking hell, you like that pretty girl?” 

He spanks your ass when you struggle to find an answer, and a sprawl of moans mumble tumbling out, blocking your efforts to think. Managing out some small words of affirmation, you answer “Holy shit!! Yes! Oh my god enzooooo.” 

It’s almost like your conscious self is slipping through to express the effect they’re having on you. Four gorgeous lustful eyes watch with parted mouths how your tits swing, bouncing with each thrust, their pretty cocks glistening swollen under the dim lights. 

God, you feel that! He’s going sooooo fast. He’s gonna cum soon. 

Enzo grunts, his head hanging slightly mumbling incoherent words, “fuck..oh yeah hmm.” He lands another smack to your backside, propelling you forwards by the force, your head smashing into the mattress. “godd, look at her. My cock looks so good pushin in your tight hole baby ugh.” His hands lather over your blushing ass and spread your cheeks, getting a clearer look. 

You whine erotically, biting your lip as the breath continues to be knocked out of you. Oh my god! Oh my god! The praise chants are around your mind and Mazien just laughs in response. You’re calling out to Theo before you can register what her plans are. “Theo honey c’mere.” He reacts, standing up quickly, entranced by the desperateness laced in your tone. Eager to escape out of timeout, that was definitely, in his opinion, all Mattheo’s doing. 

“Enzo lay back for a sec,” you pant out to him, sitting up as Theo approaches the side of the bed, your eyes gazing up marveling at the Italian hunk in front of you. Enzo moves, rocking back on his ass with deep restraint, having felt moments away from breaking. What are you doing? Why is Theo joining in already? Relax baby, it’s okay.. you can handle it. 

When you direct Theo to lie in front of you with the flick of your hand, Mattheo is quick to his feet too, protesting, “Wait hey what about me goddamit! Enzo, you’ve been in her enough.” Mattheo growls impatiently like a little brat. He maneuvers around to the side of the bed, shooting daggers at Enzo. 

Enzo gives him an incredulous look, “wait your fucking turn.” 

“I’ve been waiting!” He’s complaining as if you’re not even in the room, “dude just let me fuck.”

Theo, whose only focus is on you and receiving his turn, caresses your body with his touch of dominance, guiding you without a word to hover over him. He grips his cock with shaky breaths, lining it with your entrance, “Gonna fuck you so good tesoro.” A promised whisper for only you to hear. 

While he ignores Mattheo’s childish tantrum, he notices your attention averted and commands with a cool tone of authority. “Eyes on me y/n.” His hands cradle your head with a demanding force, the two of your eyes meeting, and he flashes that charming grin. He licks his lips, guiding your hips to lower, allowing your pussy sinking onto his tip. “That’s it..fuck.”

He rocks his hips up, edging in slowly, feeling the pulsing of your warm walls eagerly attempting to drive him in. Theo fills you completely, offering hoarse praises, “Yeah baby…yeah so good taking it all.” 

His thrusts become more erratic, fucking up into your cunt, making you release loud moans, your hands claw gripping exceedingly at his arms. The sweet movement of your hips roll, riding him as much as you can.Your ass aches at the emptiness while Mattheo and Enzo continue their bickering and a deep, wanton whine releases, alerting Enzo of your desperate need. 

Enzo growls at Mattheo’s bickering, redirecting his cock to slide back inside your ass. “Dude shut the fuck up I’m about to cum.” His voice is strained and broken as he continues his pace. “F-fuccck y/n this ass.” 

Mattheo, though irritated, can’t tear his eyes away from how you’re taking both of them, its pure filth. Your mind is a messy blur under the weight of ecstasy, the filling of both their cocks stuffing you. “Yeah yeah, you like taking both our cocks, baby?” Theo mumbles, groping a hand up at your tits, his other arm tightly wrapped around your waist to help guide you along his length. 

“Yesyesyesyes…oh my god.” Incoherent mumbles slip out amongst your breathless groans. 

Enzo doesn’t last much longer, his head falling, dropping onto your back and with a broken moan he cums. The hot jets of semen spurted deep inside your ass sends a static of power along your body, energizing you and making Mazien squeal. Oh fuck yeah! Fuck this is exactly what I need!

Lorenzo pulls back, resting against the headboard, and watches through lidded eyes as your movements on top of Theo grow quicker and faster. Mattheo, not one to wait around, moves laying down on the bed commanding Theo. “Move her on top of me, Nott.” 

In one swift motion, Theo rolls effortlessly, lifting your body up with the ease of a feather, shifting you on top of Mattheo, letting your ass bottom out once more by his throbbing, aching cock. “Salazar fucking shit-“

You moan at his girth, stretching you out before Theo readjusts himself, finding his comfort back inside your pussy. Mattheo shifts, wrapping an arm around your throat as he whispers in your ear, “fuck- ah - thought you could cast me aside sweetheart?” A low throaty chuckle vibrates against your back and you squirm as Theos pace picks up. “I’m gonna bury Enzo’s cum in you so deep it’s going to be dripping out of you for weeks to come” 

The combination of both their cocks stuffing you make your body quiver, shaking with desire, your hands scraping, gripping Theo’s arms. Mattheo’s hips hardly move, but he doesn’t need to, as just the fulfilling feeling of his cock buried inside your snug ass is making your mind a fuzzy blur. He uses his free hand to play with your tits, squeezing, pinching at the nipple, making your head lean back into the crook of his neck. 

Enzo watches lazily, his mind going in and out of consciousness, feeling drained. He rubs his cock tiredly, enjoying your sweet whimpers as he closes his eyes. Body slick with sweat, the air hot with lust, your eyes squeeze shut tightly, the sensations overwhelming you and you know you’re on the verge of breaking. 

You’re the first to cum for the second time, squeezing and drenching Theo’s cock with an almighty force, your body shakes pressing further down onto Mattheos’ cock and he groans a deep guttural sound in your ear that reaches the depth of your soul.

Theo is next but not without making you experience a new sense of pleasure, leaving a lasting impression as he bends your legs driving hard before he releases staining your stomach in his cum. 

Gasps of panting echo around, and while the real you feels wrecked completely mentally, your body feels alive. It’s thrumming, stimming with sexual energy as it absorbs the large ejaculations of cum. It seeps into your body and you giggle excitedly. Oh god, those boys sure know how to fuck. 

Mattheo’s ears pick up on your too relaxed giggle for someone who was just whimpering from overstimulation and he grabs your waist, thrusting up from underneath you, as the last one left inside you. He reached a hand, rubbing at your clit, needing to make you cum just once, for his ego. “Come on baby..give me my fucking treat.” 

The sensation is so overwhelming, having both Theo and Enzo still watching with greedy carnal eyes as Mattheo makes you fall apart again so quickly, squirting with a high-pitched squeal. Back arched, ass pressed down harder on his cock, you whine moaning, “omg omg omg.” Even Mattheo is struggling to keep his composure and cums shortly afterwards. He gently lifts you off him before pumping his cock, squirting his cum over the curves of your ass. 

The room is hot, filled with the smell of sex and sweat, sin tainted everywhere, as your body lies exhausted on the bed. Dirty, sticky heavenly semen sprayed over your body like art on a canvas. The three boys pant, sharing a look amongst each other at what the hell just happened. 

A crossing of your friendship, their eyes tainted with temptation and lust despite their exhaustion. And yet Mattheo speaks up again, noticing your spent expression as he leans down closer to you. “Don’t think next time you get to stay in charge sweetheart” Fuck again!? Might just have to keep this girl. 

tags: @romantasyreader28 i gotchu bb! also tagging some muts who have been hearing me yap about this for a moment appreciate you all and the sweet sweet support! @amongemeraldclouds (thanks wifey for proof reading!!) @papercorgiworld @leona-hawthorne @mattyriddlesbitch @finalgirllx @thatdammchickennugget @slytherinslut0 (thanks for the vote of confidence pookie!) @sylviaonyx. pretty divider from here. ⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen. ©️pizzaapeteer 2024. Thank you for reading if you got to the end here!! Appreciate your support!

[moonlight-joy]

The One Who Changed Him

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: At Jack’s soccer game, Aaron laughs—truly, freely—for the first time in years. Haley sees the change in him and realizes it wasn’t for her. When she comments, his quiet response is firm: “I am.” As he takes your hand and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, it’s clear—he’s not just with you. He’s choosing you. Always.

Pairing: Reader/Aaron Hotchner

You had always known that being with Aaron Hotchner meant stepping into a life filled with complications—his job, his past, his carefully guarded emotions.

But none of that had ever scared you.

Because the man you fell in love with wasn’t just FBI Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner—he was Aaron. The man who made sure you never had to walk on the outside of the sidewalk. The man who rubbed slow circles into your back when you couldn’t sleep. The man who never failed to kiss you goodbye, even at four in the morning when he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open.

You had learned early on that Aaron wasn’t a man of grand romantic gestures. He wasn’t the type to stand in the rain and make declarations of love, nor did he flood your life with flowers and jewelry.

But he was present.

And for a man who had spent most of his life disappearing into his work, that meant more than anything.

Today was Jack’s soccer game, and just like every other Saturday, you stood by Aaron’s side, bundled up in your coat, watching the game unfold.

The moment had started like all the others—Jack running across the field, Aaron standing tall and serious, arms crossed in that FBI stance he probably wasn’t even aware of.

But then, feeling mischievous, you leaned up and whispered something in his ear. Something teasing about his ridiculously intense “Hotchner focus” being way too much for a kids’ game.

And then—he laughed.

Not just a smirk. Not the rare, quiet chuckle you had come to treasure. But a full, warm laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, the kind of laugh that softened him in a way most people never got to see.

And just as you were reveling in the sound, you noticed her.

Haley.

Standing just a few feet away, watching.

For a moment, she just stood there, unreadable. Then, something flickered across her face—something quiet but heavy.

You knew what Haley had meant to Aaron.

Their past was long and complicated, full of love and heartbreak. She had been his first everything—his first love, his first wife, the mother of his child.

You had never been naive enough to think Aaron didn’t still carry the weight of it.

Late at night, when he thought you were asleep, you had felt it in the way he held you—like he wasn’t sure he deserved to have this again.

I failed her.

Aaron never spoke about his regrets in detail, but you knew.

Still, when Jack came running up, his excitement breaking the tension, you pushed those thoughts away.

“Did you see that goal, Dad?”

Aaron crouched down instantly, ruffling Jack’s hair with pride. “You were amazing, buddy. That was a perfect shot.”

Jack beamed, but then his bright eyes turned toward you, waiting.

“What do you think, Y/N?”

And this moment? This mattered.

Not just for Jack. Not just for Aaron. But for Haley.

Because she was watching. Waiting.

And she was expecting you to hesitate—to stumble into the role of outsider, to be unsure of your place.

But you didn’t.

You smiled warmly. “I think your dad is totally right. That was an all-star move. I might need your autograph before you get famous.”

Jack giggled, puffing his chest out proudly before running off again.

And Aaron?

When you turned to him—oh.

His gaze was already on you, soft and certain, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Your fingers, still lightly gripping his arm, squeezed gently.

I see you.

His response was silent but just as clear.

I know.

But Haley?

When you glanced at her again, she was looking away—quickly, as if she couldn’t stand to watch any longer.

Jack came bounding back over, gathering his things, and Haley finally turned to Aaron. Her voice was light, but there was an edge to it.

“You seem… different.”

Aaron’s response was simple. Immediate.

“I am.”

There was no hesitation in his voice.

And that was when you knew.

Haley had never believed Aaron would change.

That he would ever learn how to laugh without restraint, to exist in the moment without always waiting for the next case, the next tragedy.

But he had changed.

And he hadn’t done it for her.

He had done it for you.

Haley stared at him for a moment, as if trying to make sense of the man standing before her—the man she had spent years trying to reach, only to find that someone else had finally pulled him back to shore.

Trying to mask her emotions, she forced a polite smile. “Jack, grab your things, okay? We should get going.”

Jack nodded, running off.

Aaron shifted beside you, and when you looked up, his eyes were already on you.

And in front of everyone—Haley included—he reached for your hand.

Your breath caught slightly, not because he had never done it before, but because he had never done it like this.

Not so openly. Not so deliberately.

His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady.

Haley’s jaw tensed, just slightly. But she said nothing.

As she and Jack walked away, you felt Aaron’s thumb brush against your knuckles—a silent reassurance.

Then, just as effortlessly, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

And it wasn’t a performance.

It wasn’t for Haley, or for Jack, or for the dozens of parents milling about.

It was just him.

Loving you.

Choosing you.

Always.

Please support my work with like and comment

[purplereina11]

Last Part

You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.

Word count: 2k

18 Months Later

The suite is sunlit and airy, full of open windows, the faint sound of waves crashing far below, and the occasional shout of someone reminding someone else not to forget the rings. The energy? Pure chaos but the happy kind.

You’re in a robe, standing in front of the mirror, silently staring at yourself.

The nerves aren't the kind that come with doubt, you know what you want, who you want, but the build-up, the journey, the fact that you made it here after everything feels surreal. You grip the sides of the vanity and try to breathe.

The door clicks open. “Please tell me you’re not freaking out,” Alexia says, stepping in.

You catch her reflection in the mirror before turning, she’s stunning, hair in soft waves pinned just behind one ear, makeup subtle and elegant, wearing a tailored dusty rose gown that hugs her athletic figure effortlessly. Somehow she still walks like a captain in it cool, steady, assured.

“Wow,” you murmur.

She rolls her eyes, walking over. “Don’t do that. You’re the bride. You’re supposed to say wow about yourself.”

You chuckle. “You’re in a dress.”

Alexia raises a brow. “It’s my sister’s wedding. I figured I could give up shorts once.”

You smile softly, eyes glancing down to your robe. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Alexia stands behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “You’ve been ready for a long time. You just didn’t believe it.” She adjusts your necklace gently, brushing your collarbone. “I’m proud of you. For choosing love. For choosing her. For letting us all in.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m still scared.”

“Good,” Alexia shrugs. “Means it matters.”

There’s a knock, and Eli pokes her head in, all business. “Time to dress her. No one touch her with food hands.”

Olga enters behind her with her usual dramatic flair, already holding a mimosa and announcing, “You’re not allowed to pass out from anxiety. We don’t have time to resuscitate you today.”

Alexia smirks. “That’s fair”

You all laugh the kind of laughter that softens everything.

The dressing begins Eli zips you up with practised care, smoothing the fabric and fixing the off-shoulder sleeves. Olga clips in your earrings while Alba complains the suite is too warm for her curls to hold. Alexia fixes your veil with a focused expression, like it’s a job she doesn’t want to mess up.

You sit as the makeup artist applies last minute touch ups, and the silence becomes charged but comforting. These women, your family they know your scars. They’ve carried you, annoyed you, held you, laughed with you. You feel safe, as your reflection forms with every added detail hair done, makeup flawless, dress falling just right you catch Alexia staring.

“What?” you ask.

She hesitates, “You looked so small in that hospital bed. I didn’t think you’d ever… I didn’t think we’d see this day.” You blink away tears. “You’re here,” she adds, more firmly. “You made it.” And now you’re the one nodding, because if you speak, you’ll cry and your makeup just got finished.

Alba, ever the wildcard, breaks the emotional tension with, “Do you think they’ll kiss with tongue?”

You nearly fall off your stool laughing, Eli swats her. “Alba!”

“What?!”

Olga, sipping her mimosa: “I hope not. Alexia will have an aneurysm.”

Alexia holds up a hand. “One tongue flick and I’m walking out. I’ll launch myself into the ocean.”

The room dissolves into laughter again, but then the coordinator returns.

“Five minutes.”

You stand and suddenly the air shifts, Olga hands you your bouquet, Alexia fixes your veil one last time, Eli smooths your waist, eyes glossy but proud, Alba clutches a tissue and mutters something about needing a shot.

And when you walk toward the door, toward the beginning of forever your sisters form a wall of love around you.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri waits at the altar, wringing her hands behind her back, nervously bouncing on her feet. Cata and Pina whisper something that makes her smile, but her eyes never leave the aisle.

She’s waiting, you’re coming and Alexia walks just behind you, as a quiet promise.

In case your legs give out, in case your heart races too fast again, in case anything tries to stop you from getting to where you’re meant to be, but nothing will and as you begin the walk, you hear Alba whisper behind you “If she faints, I’m catching her by the boobs.”

Mami gasps, Olga cackles, Alexia sighs, “This is why I drink.” You smile because it’s not just your wedding day.

It’s your life, finally yours and it’s beautiful.

The music begins soft, orchestral, a gentle arrangement of strings that makes your heart ache in the best way. The kind that builds, not just in sound, but in meaning.

Your hand is looped through Eli’s arm, your Mami beside you, holding you steady. She whispers, “You’ve got this, sweetheart,” just as the chapel doors open.

Light floods in, everyone rises and you begin to walk.

Just behind you, Alexia, Alba, and Olga are your bridesmaids dressed in coordinating shades of rose and dusk, they fan out gently as you pass through the arch. You feel their presence like an anchor strong, grounding, familiar, but it’s her you’re looking for and there she is.

Patri’s standing at the altar in a tailored white suit, subtle satin lapels, her hair tucked behind one ear, not a single piece of jewellery except the simple chain you gave her on your first anniversary.

Her head is bowed slightly probably trying to keep it together then she hears the crowd stir and looks up, she sees you, her whole face softens. She blinks rapidly and then the tears come, real ones Patri lifts her hand not to wave, not to gesture just to press it briefly against her mouth like she’s trying to physically hold back the emotion that’s crashing through her.

You feel your throat tighten instantly, your eyes water on reflex, you’re not going to cry. You are not going to cry and ruin your makeup. You will not sob and snot your way down this aisle, not after everything your glam team just went through, but God, she’s beautiful and she’s crying like she’s seeing a miracle.

You glance at Eli, who’s misty eyed herself but smiling like she’s never been prouder. “Breathe,” she murmurs, squeezing your hand.

Your steps stay slow and measured, every one of them deliberate. Alba sniffs dramatically behind you already sobbing. Olga is quietly whispering, “Don’t trip. Don’t trip.” And Alexia cool as ever is watching Patri with a knowing, emotional grin.

Halfway there.

Patri’s eyes haven’t left you once. She’s still crying, gently, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand as if she forgot there were people watching, as if there’s only you.

Your heart pounds like it might bruise your ribs, she mouths something as you reach the steps. You can’t hear it, but you know what she said.

Hi, amor.

And somehow, you smile through the threat of tears, because this is what you've worked so hard to get fit for since your heart surgery a year ago.

The room quiets as you reach the front.

Eli kisses your cheek and slips your hand into Patri’s. Her palm is warm, a little trembling, but when your fingers thread through hers, her grip steadies. She lets out the tiniest breath of a laugh like she still can’t believe you’re real, that this is happening.

The officiant welcomes everyone, but you barely hear it because Patri’s eyes are on you and yours are locked on her. “I thought you weren’t going to cry,” you whisper, trying to tease.

She lets out a soft laugh, voice cracking, “You look like that and expected me to stay composed?”

You squeeze her hand tighter. “You look okay too.”

She smiles fully at that eyes shining, the corners of her mouth twitching like she might laugh or cry again, maybe both.

The officiant begins the ceremony gentle, sincere, acknowledging what you both went through to get here. There’s mention of second chances, of hearts healing, of love as a choice, not just a feeling one that you both have chosen, every day, again and again.

When it’s time for vows, you go first, you take a slow breath, steadying your voice.

“Patri…” You pause, smile, then continue. “I never thought I’d end up here. Not because I didn’t love you, I always have. But because I didn’t know I could be loved like this. Fully. With all the broken pieces I thought made me hard to hold.”

She’s already crying again.

“But you held them. You held me. You made my heart a home again literally and metaphorically.” You pause as a chuckle ripples through the crowd. Even you can’t help but laugh through the tears threatening. “I didn’t just survive with you… I came alive. I don’t know how we got so lucky, but I know I’m never taking you for granted again.” You bite your bottom lip, tears threatening, but your voice remains steady. “I choose you. Over and over. Forever.”

There’s not a dry eye around you, not even Alexia, who subtly wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, then Patri takes a breath. Her voice is quiet at first.

“I thought I loved you the day I met you.” A pause. “But that wasn’t love not really. That was awe. Real love came later. After the spiders and the sarcasm. After watching you fall apart and come back stronger every single time.” You blink hard. She continues, her voice cracking beautifully, “Loving you has been the most natural thing I’ve ever done. Even when I was terrified. Even when I didn’t know how. You made it feel like breathing. You still do. I want to hold your hand every time you’re scared. I want to celebrate with you every time you’re brave. I want to be the reason you believe in softness again.”

She wipes a tear off your cheek before you even realise it’s falling.

“I don’t just want to marry you. I want to grow with you. I want to age with you. I want to spend my whole life reminding you how worthy you are.”

Your breath catches. Your heart hurts with how full it feels, the officiant steps in gently. “Do you, Y/N Putellas-Segura, take Patricia Guijarro Gutiérrez to be your wife?”

You smile. “I do.”

“And do you, Patricia Guijarro Gutiérrez, take Y/N Putellas-Segura to be your wife?”

“I do,” she says, instantly voice firm through her emotion.

The rings are placed, fingers shake slightly, but it doesn’t matter, everything is still, then “I now pronounce you wife and wife. You may kiss—"

You don’t wait for the rest. You kiss her, cupping her face as her arms wrap tight around your waist, and there’s applause, cheers, some loud whistling from Olga, and a shout of, “Finally!” from Alba.

Patri pulls back only slightly, her forehead resting against yours. “You okay?” she whispers.

You nod, laughing softly, overwhelmed. “Yeah. Just really happy.”

“Good,” she whispers. “Because this is it. No take backs.”

“No take backs,” you repeat, heart pounding. “Forever.”

You turn to face the crowd as a married couple and everything else fades.

This is your forever now.

--

A very short but sweet ending chapter for this one, blown away by how much people loved this considering it was only ever meant to be a one shot! ❤️

[theonottsbxtch]

MILLION DOLLAR WOMAN | OP81

an: i head to france tomorrow guys, today is my final day of freedom rip. this was so fun to write because imagine just finding out your partner is a millionaire fr, based off of this request

wc: 2.5k

Oscar could see her sitting at the dining table through the floor-to-ceiling windows as he parked his car. The quiet of their home in Monaco always took him by surprise—no revving engines, no buzz of the pit crew. Just her typing away on her laptop with her usual cup of tea. She looked up as he walked in, gave him a quick smile, and then returned to her screen. Always so relaxed, even as he walked in carrying the tension of a bad training session.

"Good day?" she asked, barely looking up. He nodded and mumbled something about a corner he'd taken too fast. She listened but didn’t pry. She never did. That's how she was. She was more interested in weekend hikes than race standings, in cooking simple meals than joining him at fancy team dinners. It was a refreshing kind of simplicity, though sometimes a little mystifying. She didn’t ask about the sport or his schedule, never got jealous over the fans, and didn’t seem to care about the lifestyle that came with dating an F1 driver.

In a way, it was...perfect. He didn’t have to worry about her growing tired of his schedule, or about her expectations getting out of hand. She worked her 9-to-5, met him after, and never asked for more. The fact that she paid for her own things when they went out had caught him off-guard at first, but she’d laughed and shrugged it off when he offered to take care of the bill. "I’m used to it," she’d said. And that had been that. No strings, no expectations.

Tonight, she must’ve been finishing something for work, because she was typing away with focus. He walked into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, glancing over his shoulder at her every now and then, content. The glow of her screen was the only light in the room; the apartment was quiet but comfortable, like this was all they’d ever need.

“How’s work?” He asked as he shut the fridge.

She briefly looked up, “Long” she sighed but smiled at him.

As he walked past her he placed a brief kiss on her forehead and slid onto the sofa, stretching out and letting the quietness of home sink into his bones. She was already back to her typing, nodding to herself as she worked through whatever was in front of her. It was one of those things he found himself both fascinated by and grateful for—she didn’t need him to fill the silence. She seemed just fine with her job, her laptop, her little rituals that didn’t have anything to do with him.

Oscar watched her for a moment before pulling out his phone, scrolling through emails and messages. A lot of them were about his upcoming sponsorship deal, a whirlwind of numbers and logistics. He thought about calling his manager to check the final figures but decided against it. Just thinking about it wore him out.

He read email after email as he heard the scrape of a chair, he looked up to see her stand up and take a call in their terrace, something he adored about this house.

Then his phone rang, Mark, he picked up automatically. “Yeah, hey,” he said, voice still soft from the calmness of the evening. As he talked through the details with him, he realised he needed to jot something down. With no pen or paper in reach, he glanced over to the dining table where she always kept a notepad beside her tea.

Oscar rose, walking over to her seat, quietly picking up her pen. But as he did, his eyes fell onto the screen of her laptop, where her banking app was open.

It was one glance, just a flicker of his eyes, but enough for him to catch sight of the balance there. He paused mid-sentence, his own words catching in his throat.

That number didn’t look right.

Surely it was missing a decimal.

Wrapping up the conversation with Mark, he wrote down what he needed, and looked at the screen once more. In that time, she’d walked back into the room, her feet padding on the cool granite of their dining room floor.

Oscar couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

"Hey," he said, voice a little strained, still trying to process what he was seeing. "Uh…how much money do you make?"

She blinked, the corner of her mouth lifting in that effortless way of hers. "Enough," she said with a little laugh. "Why?"

Oscar blinked, struggling to wrap his head around it. This was his girlfriend—quiet, low-key, not a trace of the usual high-gloss life he’d always associated with wealth. He’d seen people obsess over money, hover around him just because of it, make a whole lifestyle out of it. But her? She was the woman who insisted on bringing packed lunches to work, who chose thrift shops over boutiques, who still wore her decade-old watch without a second thought. She was content. Comfortable. But this…

"That’s…a lot of ‘enough,’" he said, pointing at the screen, unable to mask the amazement in his voice.

She just shrugged and closed her laptop, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I guess I don’t really talk about it, huh? Not exactly first-date conversation."

He leaned back against the table, watching her with a strange mix of awe and curiosity. "Not even, like, fourth-date conversation."

"To be fair, I didn’t ask what you make, either," she pointed out, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Money’s not really…our thing."

He felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. She was right, and yet, here he was, dumbfounded. She’d been living in his world all this time, never asking him for anything, never trying to claim any part of the lavish life he could provide. Now, he realised, maybe she didn’t need it at all.

"So…why not mention it?" he asked, still trying to understand. "I mean, I just assumed…" He trailed off, feeling a little sheepish.

"I know," she said, her smile turning gentle. "I guess I liked that you assumed. It made things easier. It let me be just…me. No expectations, no need to fit into any box."

Oscar nodded slowly, taking that in. It made sense, but it still felt surreal. Here was someone who, from the very beginning, hadn’t wanted anything from him other than his time, his company. She wasn’t here for his lifestyle or his status, things he’d been conditioned to believe were a part of every relationship he’d ever have.

He glanced at her laptop again, unable to stop himself from wondering. “So, wait—what exactly do you do? Something like…senior management?” he asked, half-joking, his tone teasing.

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head as the absurdity of it all settled in. He was still trying to wrap his head around the whole idea—his girlfriend, his laid-back, thrift-shop-loving girlfriend, was apparently not only financially secure but really well off.

She raised her eyebrows, a sly smile creeping across her face. “Something like that,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea.

He squinted at her, suspicious. “Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging. How high up are you, really?”

She glanced away, as if considering her words, and then said it, almost like a casual aside. “I’m the CEO.”

He blinked, the statement hanging in the air like a punchline he hadn’t quite caught. “Wait…CEO? As in, like, the CEO?”

She laughed, shrugging it off like it was nothing. “Just of a mid-sized company, Oscar. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Darling,” he said slowly, realising dawning. “What company?”

She paused, her eyes darting away, and he could see the hint of mischief there. “Ever heard of Catalyst?”

“Catalyst…wait, as in Catalyst Dynamics?” he asked, his voice growing louder with shock. “The same Catalyst Dynamics that sponsors my team?”

She pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile. “Do they?”

“Oh, you are kidding me!” he exclaimed, grinning in disbelief. “You’ve been secretly spoiling me this whole time!”

She shook her head, looking away as though he’d accused her of something scandalous. “Oscar, it’s a sponsorship, not a…spoiling thing. Besides, that’s business. I keep it separate from…this.” She gestured between the two of them, clearly trying to play it cool.

But Oscar wasn’t buying it, not for a second. “Oh, no you don’t.” Before she could say another word, he leaned down, scooping her up and carrying her toward the sofa.

“Oscar!” she yelped, laughing, half-protesting, but she didn’t resist.

He set her down on the cushions, pinning her playfully as he hovered above her, grinning with that spark of mischief that usually only showed up on race day. “You’ve been keeping this a secret, haven’t you? The big boss lady, looking out for me, pretending you’re just this regular 9-to-5 woman…”

“Oscar, I’m not spoiling—”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” He grinned wider, fingers finding her sides as he started tickling her, his hands relentless. She burst into laughter, twisting and squirming, but he didn’t let up.

“Okay, okay!” she managed between laughs, her breath coming in gasps as he kept up his assault. “I admit it, I admit it!”

“Admit what?” he asked, pausing, a playful gleam in his eyes as he waited for her to say it.

“Fine!” She was breathless, cheeks flushed from laughter. “Maybe I had a tiny bit of a hand in sponsoring your team, maybe. But it wasn’t to spoil you! It was just…good business.”

He chuckled, finally letting up, settling beside her on the sofa. “Good business, huh?”

She took a deep breath, still smiling as she nudged him. “I mean it. I didn’t want you to feel any pressure…or obligation. This—us—is different.”

Oscar looked at her, his heart feeling fuller than he’d expected. “Different is right.” He slipped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Guess I’m just lucky to be dating a CEO with a secret soft spot.”

She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder, content. “And I guess I’m lucky to be with someone who never needed me to be anything but…me.”

As they settled into a comfortable silence, Oscar’s mind was still spinning, pieces clicking into place one by one. He glanced around their beautiful apartment—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleek, minimalist design. The place had always felt like an oasis, calm and understated, like Anna herself. But something new was nagging at him now.

“Wait…” He looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. “That’s why you won’t let me pay rent, isn’t it? You said this place was your dad’s, but it’s not, is it?”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile, but the faintest hint of a smirk gave her away. “Well…okay, maybe it wasn’t technically my dad’s. He…may not have anything to do with it.”

“Sweetheart!” he said, laughing as he sat up, staring at her in mock betrayal. “So you’ve just been letting me think I’m staying at this family-owned place when all this time you’re the one paying for it?”

She shrugged, looking at him with playful innocence. “It’s already been paid for. Besides,” she added, her smile widening, “I like the idea of you feeling at home here without any pressure.”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m onto you now. You may be this relaxed, low-key CEO, but you’ve secretly been spoiling me this entire time. Admit it!”

She laughed, a bright, carefree sound. “Fine, I admit it—I may have bought this place. Technically. But it’s still your home, too.”

Oscar pulled her close again, marvelling at how effortlessly she balanced everything—her high-powered job, their quiet, easygoing life together, her uncanny ability to make him feel like the luckiest man in the world. “You know what?” he murmured, looking into her eyes. “I don’t care if you own half of Monaco. You’re still my love.”

She grinned, leaning her forehead against his. “Good,” she whispered. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

They stayed like that for a moment, her nestled into him, the quiet warmth of the room settling around them. But Oscar couldn’t resist one more question, the thought gnawing at him.

He tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, one last thing, Miss CEO.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “Is your net worth bigger than mine?”

She tried to stifle a laugh, her eyes darting away as if avoiding the answer itself. “Oscar…”

He gasped, leaning back in exaggerated shock. “Oh my god, it is, isn’t it? You’ve got me beat!”

“I’m not answering that,” she said, biting back a smile as she pressed her lips together stubbornly.

“You don’t need to,” he replied, grinning even wider. “The silence says it all. Here I thought I was the big shot, and my girlfriend’s out here just quietly sitting on an empire.”

She laughed, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Well, maybe I just like watching you think you’re the fancy one.”

He pulled her close again, laughing softly. “Alright, fine. But don’t think I won’t bring this up anytime you try to sneak the bill.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Deal.”

Oscar chuckled, still shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as if he’d just pieced together some incredible mystery. “You know, our kid is going to be spoiled,” he said, the words slipping out with a grin.

He felt her shift beside him, and when he looked down, her expression had softened, her eyes faraway, a little spark of excitement in them. “They won’t,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Humble start, just like we both had.”

“Oh, so you’ll be the strict parent, then?” he teased, arching an eyebrow. “The one laying down the law?”

She laughed, giving him a gentle shove. “So I’m the bad cop?”

“Absolutely. I’m not budging on this.” He grinned, taking her hands in his as he leaned in close. “You’ve been lying to me for four years about practically everything. I think that officially makes you the bad cop in this relationship.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was warm, even a little shy. “Fine, I’ll take ‘bad cop’… but only if you’re ready to be the softie who gives in.”

Oscar laughed, wrapping his arms around her, feeling that sense of joy settle in even deeper. “Deal, I was already planning on it” he whispered, his voice full of promise. And as he held her close, he realised he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Oscar pulled her even closer, his hands resting gently on her cheeks as he took in the warmth of her gaze, her face illuminated softly in the low light. The playful edge between them softened into something deeper, and the laughter faded into quiet, shared breath.

Slowly, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a soft, lingering kiss that held all the words they hadn’t said. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling there as she melted into him, and for a moment, everything—the teasing, the surprises, the whole world around them—faded away.

the end.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Private, Not a Secret

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x mom!teammate!Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Dallas Wings

Summary: Three-year-old Eliza accidentally exposes your relationship with Paige

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @let-zizi-yap , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav

Flashback: UConn – 2024

Before Eliza. Before the Wings. Before our lives bled into press conferences and highlight reels, it was just me and Paige.

Teammates. Best friends. Roommates.

And, secretly, something more.

We didn’t call it anything then. We were still sorting through the mess—my breakup, her uncertainty, the heavy weight of my world as a young mom and her world as the face of UConn basketball.

But there were looks.

Glances too long.

Fingers brushing.

Late-night study sessions that turned into me curled into her chest on the futon. Whispers in the dark.

People talked. Of course they did.

“Y’all got that best friend chemistry,” fans would say with side-eyes.

“Paige don’t even look at the rest of y’all like that,” Azzi teased once.

Even Coach had given us the look.

But we never confirmed anything.

Not when Paige kissed my forehead during Senior Day.

Not when fans spotted her helping me carry Eliza’s stroller out of Gampel Pavilion.

Not when she showed up every time Eliza had a daycare performance, even during away stretches.

And definitely not the night I called her crying.

March 2023.

One Year Before the Drafts, well mine, Aaliyah and Nika’s.

“Paige,” I sobbed, my voice shaking over the phone. “I need you. I need you now.”

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t wait for the details.

She just came.

She showed up outside my apartment at 2:14 a.m. in a hoodie, slides, and a fire in her eyes I had never seen before.

“Eliza’s asleep in the room,” I whispered when I opened the door. “He—he didn’t hit me. But he… he got close.”

Paige pushed past me. Scanned the living room. Saw the overturned lamp, the shattered glass, my shaking hands.

“We’re leaving,” she said. “Right now.”

She packed my stuff in silence. Cradled Eliza so carefully you’d think she was made of glass. Took me to her place. Tucked us both in her bed. Held me all night.

She never made me say it. Never made me explain.

But that night? That was the beginning.

Present Day: May 27th – Dallas vs Connecticut (Away)

Fast-forward to now, and life looks a whole lot different.

I’m a rookie on the Dallas Wings. Eliza is almost four, and insists on wearing her “Game Day Glitter Bows” no matter where we are. And Paige?

Well, Paige Bueckers is still Paige Bueckers—but she’s also mine.

Quietly. Carefully. Comfortably.

She’s still got the same handle, the same clutch gene, the same habit of chewing on her jersey when the game gets tight.

But now she’s got Eliza on her hip during walkthroughs. She’s got juice boxes in her locker. She’s got a daughter who—though she didn’t birth—adores her with her whole tiny heart.

And tonight? The whole world’s about to see that.

We’d just pulled off a tough win against Connecticut.

A blow out.

Gritty.

And both Paige and I were tapped for media post-game.

Eliza, high on fruit snacks and sleepy from the late start, was attached to my hip as I walked into the press room.

“Y/N,” the media rep whispered. “She coming too?”

I gave a look that said, when is she not?

“She’ll be good,” I promised.

Good was subjective.

Eliza spent the first six minutes of the conference crawling between me and Paige.

One second she was in my lap, head resting on my chest.

Then she’d hear Paige’s voice and reach out like she was being pulled by gravity.

“She’s got two favorites,” I joked into the mic.

“And neither of them are Arike,” Paige added, grinning.

Eventually, she landed on Paige’s lap and stayed.

Head tucked under Paige’s chin.

Thumb in her mouth.

Fingers clutching the sleeve of Paige’s jersey.

And that’s where she stayed.

Right until the very last question.

I barely made it through the gym doors next practice before DiJonai was in my ear.

“Lookin’ like a lil’ happy family in that press room,” she sang.

“Oh my God—”

“She had her thumb in her mouth, Paige rubbing her back—y’all were one white picket fence away from a Hallmark movie.”

“Please,” I groaned. “Let me live.”

But they didn’t.

Aziaha had screenshots.

Arike had GIFs.

Someone made a TikTok slideshow with the caption: “When Mommy and Mama hoop professionally 😭💍” and it had 1.2 million views.

“Could’ve been worse,” Paige whispered during stretches, leaning down beside me. “She could’ve called me mommy.”

I snorted. “One day. Just you wait.”

She winked. “I’ll be ready.”

June 17th – Home Game vs Golden State Valkyries

The moment Paige faced grimaced first quarter, I knew she’d been hurt and I was right once she walked over to me during the time out. Deep gash on her forearm—nothing serious, but enough to warrant tape and attention from the trainers.

She didn’t even flinch. Of course she didn’t.

Paige was all poise and sharp edges when the whistle blew.

But off the court? She was a puddle where Eliza was concerned.

So after we won—and media duty hit again—I didn’t even bother asking if Paige would come to the presser.

Eliza curled into my side as we sat down.

Paige leaned over, ruffled her curls gently. “You sleepy, baby girl?”

Eliza nodded. Barely.

She didn’t even move until a reporter asked, “So—Paige, Y/N—how does it feel seeing so many fans ship you two together? Especially since that Connecticut game almost a month ago. There’s even talk about edits, baby names, the whole fantasy family vibe…”

I opened my mouth.

To speak.

To come up with a scapegoat, til.

“Mommy,” Eliza said softly.

Paige and I both looked at her.

“Yes, baby?” I answered.

But Eliza was looking at Paige.

“Mommy hurt,” she whispered, pointing at Paige’s wrapped forearm.

Paige blinked.

So did I.

“Oh,” she said, smiling softly. “Yeah, baby girl. I got a scratch. But I’m all better now, okay?”

Eliza frowned. “Mama and I kiss it better for yous, Mommy.”

She leaned forward and pressed a sleepy kiss to Paige’s bandage, right over the gauze.

I felt the room shift.

Reporters stared.

Cameras zoomed.

And Paige?

She just melted.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered to me, voice low, warm.

But Eliza turned to me, her eyes already drifting closed. “Mama kiss it better. Mama kiss make things better.”

So I did.

I leaned forward and kissed Paige’s arm—soft, lingering.

Paige flexed it playfully, grinning. “See? All better now.”

The reporter, flustered, coughed. “W-Well. I guess that answers that question.”

Paige chuckled. “Yep. I’d say so.”

Eliza, of course, had fallen asleep again in Paige’s arms.

Later That Night.

The internet lost its mind.

“Mommy Paige” trended. So did “Kiss It Better” and “WNBA Family Goals.”

Clips of me and Paige at UConn resurfaced.

Paige holding baby Eliza after one of our games.

Me wiping sweat off Paige’s forehead on the bench.

Us sharing the same water bottle while sitting on the bench during an intense game.

Paige whispering something in my ear after I dropped 20 on senior night.

Speculation turned into timelines.

People tried to figure out when we started dating.

When Paige became Eliza’s second parent in all but name.

But we said nothing.

We didn’t need to.

Because Eliza knew.

Our team knew.

The people who mattered already saw the way Paige reached for me in quiet moments.

How Eliza lit up when Paige walked into a room.

How I looked at Paige like she hung constellations every night just for me.

“Think we’re gonna have to say something soon?” I asked Paige as we curled up on the couch that night, Eliza snoring softly between us.

“Nah,” she murmured, kissing my temple. “Let ‘em wonder.”

I smiled.

Because Paige wasn’t just part of my story.

She was our story.

And Eliza?

She had two mommies.

Whether the world knew or not.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[httpsxarien]

THE BEST FRIENDS TO LOVERS TROPE

✰ pairing: clark kent x (y/n) (l/n)

sypnosis: clark kent as your best friend! and maybe something more…

warning(s): slowburn | mentions of abuse | toxic relationship (not with clark!) | comfort | healing | mild angst | slight suggestive content

xari's diary: author’s note: so i just started reading better than the movies as well as watching smallville for the first time & was inspired to write this !! gosh tom welling is so dreamy i might faint. reader is liz coded cus i love liz smm !!

"i just can't come between them, they've got their own thing!"

⌜ ⌝ ılı.lıllılı.ıllı. ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ; in between by gracie abrams

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who you were inseparable with from childhood. You were always there for each other, whether it was climbing trees, sneaking into each other’s rooms, or just sitting on the front porch talking about your day. No matter what, you could count on Clark to always be by your side, the best friend you could never imagine life without.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who watched every romcom with you, pretending to hate rewatching Pride and Prejudice but secretly loving the smile on your face as you explained the hand touch for the thousandth time 

“It’s not just a touch, Clark. You don’t get it!” You'd argue, and Clark would roll his eyes, but he’d always listen intently, enjoying your passion for the smallest of details. Those were the moments he cherished the most

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who loves you for the way you carry yourself, the way you were just so... you. He had always admired you. Not t just for how you looked, but for the way you walked through life with such grace. You didn’t need to try hard to be noticed, because you naturally stood out. The ribbons in your hair, the soft colors in your wardrobe, the little things that made you, you. They were a part of you that Clark had loved for as long as he could remember. Every time he saw you, those ribbons were like a small piece of his heart, tethered to the memory of the girl who had always been there for him, no matter what.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who melted the first time you ever called him sweetie, thinking it was just a one-time thing. He tried to brush it off like it didn’t mean anything… but felt his heart clench every single time the nickname slipped out of your mouth like it belonged to him. Now he wholly believes that his middle name is Clark ‘Sweetie’ Kent.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who has fallen deeply in love with you… It wasn't just friendship anymore. Every laugh, every touch, every look felt different. Clark’s feelings for you had evolved in ways he couldn’t ignore, but he was too scared to admit it. Every time you looked at him with those soft eyes, his heart raced. But he stayed quiet, always the loyal best friend, never wanting to mess things up.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who noticed how you started drifting away when you started dating your ‘boyfriend’ It was subtle at first. You’d still laugh with him, still talk, but there was this unspoken distance that seemed to widen the more you became involved with him. Clark couldn’t help but feel left behind, watching you change into someone else to please your boyfriend.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who sees you change yourself just for a boy... How you changed everything about yourself, everything you loved about yourself, just for a boy. He watched as your wardrobe transformed from those pretty pastel dresses and ribbons in your hair to a more “mature” style, more fitting for your boyfriend’s tastes. It hurt him to see you lose parts of yourself, parts that used to make you, you.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who hated seeing you become someone you weren’t. Dulling your colors, dimming your light, turning down the volume of your heart just to please someone unworthy.ghed less and hung out less because your boyfriend didn’t like your “girly” side.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who despises your boyfriend but never says anything so he could keep your friendship. Every time you’d talk about him, how great he was, how you were so in love, Clark had to force a smile. He hated the way your boyfriend treated you, the way he made you second-guess your own self-worth. But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He wanted to be there for you, even if it meant swallowing his pride and watching you go down a path he knew wasn’t right.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who is forced to see you distance yourself from him just for your asshat boyfriend. It was painful to watch, seeing you pull away, less and less time spent with him. You didn’t need him anymore. You had him, the boyfriend who didn’t deserve you. And Clark? He was left in the shadows, the friend who always would’ve been there for you, but it felt like you didn’t need him anymore.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who bit his tongue when he overheard that same boyfriend brag to his friends, “Yeah, she’s totally my type. Chill, lowkey, not into all that love stuff.”

And Clark—Clark had to physically stop himself.

Because (Y/N) (L/N), unromantic?The girl who daydreamed entire love stories in class? Read and wrote fanfiction every time she watched a film with a conventionally attractive man? Who made scrapbooks for her dream wedding before turning 15? Who had polaroids of her friends and her dog taped to her wall like a shrine to every person she’s ever loved? Gosh, He must’ve gotten the wrong (Y/N)!

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who knew something was wrong the second he heard yelling outside your house.

He hadn’t even meant to stop by. He was just driving by — muscle memory from all the times he used to pick you up, walk you to your porch, wait until your light turned off just to be sure you were safe. He shouldn’t have been there. He told himself he was over it. That you had chosen someone else.

But then he heard your voice. Cracked. Shaky. Not you.

And then the thud.

Clark’s feet were already moving.

He saw it happen: your boyfriend’s hand against your face. Too fast. Too real.

You stumbled back, gripping your cheek, eyes wide. And the worst part? You didn’t even look surprised.

Clark didn’t think. He didn’t have to think.

His fist connected with your boyfriend’s jaw so hard the boy went flying into the lawn. Clark stood over him, eyes dark, fists clenched. “You ever touch her again—”

"Clark!" you cried, running up to him, grabbing his arm. "Clark, stop!"

Your boyfriend coughed, blood at the corner of his mouth. “The hell, (Y/N)? You letting your boyfriend handle your problems now?”

You froze.

He scoffed. “Guess you’ve been screwing him behind my back the whole time.”

And that’s when your voice broke.

"I never cheated on you," you whispered, eyes shining. 

Clark took a step forward, ready to hit him again, but you pulled him back — voice trembling. “Clark. Go.”

“What?” His voice cracked.

You looked at him, tears threatening to spill. “Please. Just go. I—I can’t do this if you’re here.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you and at the bruise already forming on your cheek, at the way you held yourself like you were trying not to fall apart. And he hated that he couldn’t fix it.

But he listened. Because he always did.

He nodded. Quietly. Left you standing on the porch as the rain began to fall.

And even though he left, he didn’t stop watching from the truck until you went inside, locked the door, and turned off the lights.

Because he couldn’t leave you completely.

He never could.

BEST FRIEND CLARK!  who lost you slowly. To phone calls you didn’t answer. To texts left on read. To polite smiles instead of bright ones.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who almost gave up hope… until one night, long after midnight, he woke to the sound of knocking and the soft patter of rain.

And there you were.

Soaked to the bone. Hair wet, leather jacket clinging to your frame. Looking small and broken on the Kent porch.

You whispered, “Hi,” then blinked up at him “Hey.” He smiled softly and god - did you miss that smile. He mentioned for you to enter, bringing a towel to cover your wet frame. It didn’t take long until.., “I’m sorry.”

You cried – sobbed – as you apologized for pushing him away. Told him how stupid you felt. How you let someone change everything about you. How it started when you were fourteen, and you thought it was love, but it was manipulation. Loneliness. Fear.

“He made me think I was too much. Like being me was something to fix. And I just… I didn’t want to lose anyone else. So I let him dim me. I let him turn me into someone I don’t even like.”

And you looked up at him, expecting him to be angry. Or disappointed. But he just-

He just pulled you into his chest, letting your soaked hoodie stain his shirt, and whispered: “I’m just glad you came home.”

BEST FRIEND CLARK! whose heart broke the night he heard your story. how you were only fourteen back when you met the guy and he was seventeen, turning eighteen that year, how that boy made you believe love meant shrinking yourself to fit inside someone else’s pocket, how he taught you silence was safer than honesty and that being chosen meant enduring instead of being adored, how you had to earn kindness like love was something to suffer through, how he never even gave you the dignity of a label and always said he was “waiting for the right time,” and Clark just sat there, fists clenched and throat burning, thinking how the girl who used to dream of love and fairytales had been tricked into thinking it had to hurt and all he could do was wrap you in his arms and whisper that none of it was your fault, that you were never supposed to bleed just to be loved.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who never let go of you that night. Who sat with you on the couch, wrapped in blankets and safe, and let you cry until you were emptied out and finally fell asleep on his shoulder.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who finally let himself hope again when he saw you the next morning - barefaced and blinking in the sunlight - whispering, “I missed you so much.”

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who went still when you reached for his hand and held it. Not like a friend would. But like someone remembering where they belonged.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who helped you fall in love with yourself again, little by little. who told you he missed the smell of your perfume, the click of your heels on the driveway, the way your laugh used to echo across the barn when you told him about your latest crush.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who wasn’t ready when you started calling him sweetie again, the way you used to, so soft and warm that it made his entire body go still.

“Sweetie, can you hand me the screwdriver?”

He fumbled it and nearly dropped the whole toolbox.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who couldn’t stop thinking about the way your shirt rode up when you reached to change the lightbulb in the kitchen, the sliver of your waist exposed. He thought about it way too often.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who laid in bed that night, hand in his hair and somewhere else..  sighing your name like a sin, whispering, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

BEST FRIEND CLARK!  who daydreamed about how your skin would feel under his hands, how you’d sound whispering his name in the dark. How you’d look underneath him, flushed and smiling.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who stared too long when you changed into one of your floral dresses again, the ribbon tied delicately in your hair.

“You look like… you again.”

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who can barely breathe when you start wearing your sundresses again. Who nearly passes out the day you show up with a yellow ribbon in your hair again—like it never left.

BEST FRIEND CLARK! who wanted to kiss you so badly it hurt. Who held back when you patched up the gash on his brow, your fingers gently brushing through his hair.

“You scared me, sweetie,” you whispered, dabbing at the dried blood.

His whole body tensed. That word again.

His name in your voice made him feel like Clark — not the alien, not the outsider, not the Smallville freak. Just Clark. Clark who still can’t believe he gets to wake up next to you. 

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who finally gets to tell you the truth, realizing he can’t hide his feelings anymore It was one of those walks in the farm and you were wearing a yellow cardigan under your white dress. And as he looks at you, he just can’t help but love you.. And in that moment, Clark couldn’t hold back anymore. He confessed. “I’ve been in love with you for years, (Y/N).”

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who watches you look at him in shock, then smile softly, finally realizing what’s been there all along For the first time, you saw it. The yearning in his eyes, the desperation for you to finally see him, not as your best friend, but as the one who’d been silently loving you for so long. And when you smiled, his heart soared.

“I’ve loved you for years,” he told you, voice hoarse. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you laughed, blinking back tears. 

“Because you were happy… or I thought you were.” 

“Clark,” you whispered, stepping closer,

 “I am at my happiest when I’m with you.”

BEST FRIEND CLARK! Who feels you kiss him for the first time, his world crashing into itself with the force of it. The second your lips met his, all the years of longing, of silence, were gone. It was like he was breathing for the first time, drowning in you, in the taste of your lips, in the way your hands cupped his face like you’d always been meant to.

BEST FRIEND CLARK WHO BECAME BOYFRIEND CLARK THAT NIGHT.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who was your first real boyfriend, he said it a hundred times. Called you his. Made sure you knew it, made sure to reassure you.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who couldn’t get it through his head that he got to kiss you now. That he could touch you, hold you, worship you, and never have to pull away.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who still fumbles and blushes whenever you flirt with him.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who whispers your name into your neck like a prayer every time you fall asleep in his arms.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who’s still your best friend. Who still watches Pride & Prejudice with you, who still kisses your hand like it’s sacred. Who still smells the soft floral perfume lingering in his room and smiles, because you’re back. You’re really back.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! now stands beside you as Chloe and Lana tease you both for being such a cliche. “A living romcom” they’d tease. the quarterback and the cheerleader, the slowburn everyone saw coming, the angst-ridden pining,  undeniable love story that bloomed from long nights on the farm to whispered confessions and inside jokes only you two would understand to intimate conversations that only the two of you could hear. The both of you were like a matching heart necklace, the one where it’s another half of the heart and it will only connect once the other piece is there, as if the universe had always planned it this way.

“I saw it coming from a mile away!”

“You owe me 10 bucks, Chloe.”

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who takes you out on dates all the time, whether it's pretending to “study” at the Talon while sneaking glances at you over his textbook, driving you out to the barn just to stargaze in quiet comfort, or showing up outside your house with flowers and that crooked smile just to say, “I missed you, (N/n).”

BOYFRIEND CLARK! Who takes you in his arms again and again, unable to stop making up for all the lost time. Whether it was in his room, in the barn, or just in the middle of a quiet evening, Clark didn’t care. All he knew was he had you now, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who pressed you into the wall, lips hungry and hands curling around your thighs, lifting you up effortlessly

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who moaned your name like he was starved for you, whispering, “You don’t know what you do to me”

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who paused just long enough for you both to laugh in between kisses because god, you were still best friends, and you always would be

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who couldn’t stop kissing you.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! Who makes love to you tenderly, slowly, letting you feel how much he cherishes you. The first time you made love wasn’t rushed or frantic. It was soft, full of tenderness and reverence. Clark treated you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! Who laughs with you, still best friends, even as lovers. As the two of you lay together, breathless and tangled, you couldn’t help but laugh. You were still you, still the same goofy best friends who watched movies and got into trouble. Only now, everything felt different in the best way possible. “Can’t believe we waited this long,” Clark said, and you grinned. “Yeah, well, I guess we were a little slow.”

BOYFRIEND CLARK who knows he didn’t save you but helped you save yourself.

BOYFRIEND CLARK! who made you believe in love again, as the two of you lay in his bed, you never belonged anywhere else but here,with him. He was daylight, the boy who had always been your home; he was warmth, he was daylight,and then he leaned in.. 

“I love you."

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

Leona flood incoming!

Leona with a f!reader who can read people super well, very gifted in body language and reading between the lines.

So, hear me out ...it's cannon he likes to work for his success, not just have it easy or instant. There's no fun in that. Make him sweat dear reader!

He is getting away with nothing. Nada. Poor lion has met his match. Talks a big game, he's a strategist, used to being the one who can see between the lines. And boom, he's blind sided and suddenly He's the one stumbling. He's met his match. And worse, she's subtle about it. Checkmate. 💘

So, this took me way too long to get to. . .SORRY!!

Anyway, love this idea! Leona doesn't talk a ton, so someone who can read him is a perfect match!

Synopsis: Leona mentally kicks himself as he finds himself becoming more and more partial to the prefect with the piercing gaze he swore to avoid. The Prefect thinks he's just terrible at flirting (he is).

TW: Leona yells at one point but it's quickly glossed over (his anger is quelled by a lil smooch)

Pairing: Leona Kingscholar x Reader Who Can Read Him

It started just before Leona's overblot. Your friend had been taunting him but just as he was on the verge of snapping, you, out of nowhere, dragged them off. That wasn't all that odd, what was; however, was the look in your eyes. He only made eye contact with you for a brief moment, but when he did, it felt like your eyes saw into the very depths of his soul.

Leona DIDN'T like that.

The Next time it happened was as he was overblotting. Just as the viscous black ink began to surround his body, he made eye contact with you.

There was that feeling again.

After his overblot, he decided it'd be best to avoid the little magicless prefect with the unsettling stare.

That didn't happen.

In fact, he was forced much closer to you when your dorm was seized by Octavinelle and that left you to have to stay in the same room as him.

You seemed to predict every movement, change in emotion, and even thought. It's not like you were using this ability maliciously, quite the opposite actually. You used it to help him out more than anything else.

But Leona wasn't used to being seen. Not like this at least. As a prince he was used to being looked at, but never truly seen.

One evening the two of you were sitting in his room doing your own things when he started to feel hungry. Just as that feeling struck you walked into the room (when had you left?!) with snacks. You handed him one. It happened to be his favorite.

A shiver jolted through his spine.

"You good?" you look up at him.

He just huffs and rolls in bed to face away from you.

He thought he had gotten rid of you when you got your dorm back, but it appeared the gods simply hated him.

Crowley instated you as the spelldrive club's manager.

And, of course, you somehow managed to always carry out his orders before he could even give them.

It was after a spelldrive game that the next incident happened. The team had won an overwhelming victory. Everyone was in high spirits and Leona's smirk was cockier that ever.

You approached him in a moment when he was away from the rest of the team and gave his a detailed record of the game. That was pretty normal. What was strange was what you said "The team we face next week will be much tougher than the one we just faced. If we go in with this game in mind we'll be crushed. I set up a practice match with a team on a slightly higher level than the team we face next week so we don't get too comfortable."

And with that, you walked away. You just casually walked away after telling Leona exactly what was on his mind.

A chill.

This continued to happen over and over again. It was to the point that Leona was now questioning his lifelong dream of becoming king. Being seen by someone was just too unsettling.

It was family day at NRC and while Leona's family had promised to come, there was royal business they had to attend to last minute.

Most assumed Leona was elated as he wasn't exactly shy about expressing his distaste for his relatives. His face didn't show any clues that the assumption was false either as it was as stoic as always.

So why was it that when he came back to his room from begrudgingly greeting all the families who came to see his dormmates he saw you? Why did he see you sitting on the edge of his freshly made bed with freshly fluffed pillows, his favorite meal, and a set up chess board?

Why did the chill feel less unpleasant this time?

This was Leona's nightmare. No, not being up at 1:00 in the morning unable to sleep. Leona realized he liked you romantically. Out of all people, why did it have to he the one person he knew he couldn't hide anything from?!

For weeks after this realization he did his best to avoid you. When you greeted him he just gave a short huff. When you sat next to him during joint lessons his tail would flick and he would refuse to look at or talk to you. To everyone else, it looked like Leona had finally had enough and was shunning you.

It all bubbled up when he was leaving the locker room after spelldrive practice and saw you waiting for him on a bench. "Ah, you're done-"

"Would you just leave me alone?!" you weren't sure if it would be more accurate to compare his tone to a roar or a growl, but whatever it was, it sent all the nearby birds careening out of the trees.

Leona panted as he watched you agitatatedly.

Sure, you winced a little when he yelled, but you didn't run. In fact, after the initial shock, you didn't look scared either.

You casually stood up, stretched, and approached him. You stopped a few feet away before speaking: "Why would you ask me to do that if you have a crush on me? Is this some new weird confession tactic?"

He froze.

"What?"

"Whaddya mean 'what?' You've been really obvious, you know."

Leona started pacing, his tail flicking violently as he muttered to himself. "Why didn't you say something!?" he finally paused his ranting and pacing to yell.

"I thought you were just bad at flirting."

His eye twitches at that comment.

However, as he's about to open his mouth to speak, you grab his collar and pull him down to your level. Before he can react, he feels soft lips meeting his. He only realizes what's happening when you begin to pull away and he tries to chase your lips.

"Well, that's my confession" you yawn. You YAWN. You just kissed him and now you're yawning.

He's not even surprised when you read his shift in mood instantly "It's late and chasing someone playing hard to get is tiring."

Leona's eye twitches once more before he throws you over his shoulder and starts marching towards his dorm "I guess we should take a nap then, shouldn't we?" it wasn't really a question as much as it was a passive aggressive remark.

"Sure."

From that position, you couldn't see the blush rapidly creeping onto his face.

"So, we're dating now?"

"The h*ll do you think, Herbivore" the lion grumbles into your chest as his tail swishes agitatedly. You might have even thought he was upset if it wasn't for the way his arms wrapped tightly around you and his face pressed deeply into your chest. Just to test it, you slowly began removing your hand from where it was tangled into his unruly locks only to have him growl at you until you put it back.

Sure, sometimes it was impressive that you could read him, but other times he really was just too obvious.

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[nottslove]

THE OTHER GIRLS (part one) → part two

Pairing: theo nott x malfoy reader 5.7k words

Warnings: VERY VERY VERY LONG!!!!! 18+, mdni, smut, some fluff, a little angst, draco's little sister, brother's bsf, choking, nipple play, fingering, heavy cursing, drug use (theo smoking), corruption kink, degrading, praising, google-translated italian, porn with plot, obsessive/possessive theo, innocent reader, inexperienced reader x very experienced theo, lowercaps intended.

Summary: you're draco malfoy's younger sister by a year, and you've had a crush on theo all your life. you and theo were close childhood friends, but when he went to hogwarts, he forgot all about you. you joined hogwarts a year later, and unfortunately got sorted into gryffindor. as a result, theo and you only drifted apart further. he was always surrounded by girls. as the years go by, you try to get theo's attention in every way, but he never notices you. as a last resort, you end up taking advice from the girls that theo hangs around, in hopes that maybe... maybe it might finally work...

Author's note: WARNING: VERY VERY LONG! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!! (sorry but i tend to get carried away with the details). This is my first time writing smut, or posting it here on tumblr... Please be nice. Also, many many apologies that this is super, super long... Kinda got carried away.. Enjoy :))

THEO always spent Christmas at Malfoy Manor. Ever since his mother's death, and his father always having some sort of 'business trip,' Narcissa suggested that Theo resided with the Malfoys for the whole Christmas break, and some of the summer.

You had always loved him. Since you were three years old, you used to follow him and Draco around, tagging along after both of them, much to your older brother's annoyance.

Even during your Hogwarts years, you always tried to attract his attention, trying to show him you were all grown up, that you were more than Draco's little sister. But he never saw, he never once acknowledged you as anything other than a sisterly figure.

During your fifth year at Hogwarts, you realized that Theo was never going to reciprocate your feelings, so you decided to try and get over him. You weren't allowed boyfriends. Draco always beat up any guy who dared to ask you out, and Theo did the exact same. Any guy who talked to you, or said something about you behind your back, or even looked at you, would end up in the hospital wing. As a result, you had been stood up many times, wondering why your date never showed up, only to realize he had either been beaten up, or scared away by Theo and Draco. That night always ended up with you crying.

You were never allowed to go to parties, or drink either. Draco and Lucius were always very, very protective over you. You were the Malfoy princess, the youngest child, the favorite, the spoiled little girl...

Yet somehow, right before the Christmas break, you gave in to your little rebellious streak and your friend's persuasion to sneak into one of the Slytherin parties.

The moment you got to the party, you were completely shocked. This was nothing like what you had in mind... Your outfit, a pretty, dainty, little white dress with a skater skirt felt far too modest, and the whole room smelt of weed, sweat and alcohol. People were publicly making out, the girls dressed in the skimpiest clothing you ever saw, and at the center of it all, next to Draco and his friends, you saw him.

Your breath hitched. He was sitting on the couch, legs slightly spread, surrounded by girls, one was even on his lap, and he was holding a cigarette. Smoke surrounded him as he blew it out from his mouth, laughing as his hand trailed up and down the girl's thigh.

All at once, you felt jealous. All the feelings for him you had tried so hard to bury came surfacing, and your blood boiled with anger, hurt, betrayal... What did Theo see in those girls that he never saw in you??

You quickly turned around, before Theo, or your brother saw you, and accepting the firewhiskey your friend had gotten for you— even though you'd never drunk before.

One sip became one glass, and before you knew it, you were intoxicated enough to dance to the loud music, and you were soon surrounded by a small group of boys, who simply couldn't believe you, of all people, were actually at the party.

Theo had managed to catch sight of you, and he dragged you out of the Slytherin Common room after beating up all three boys to the ground, jaw ticking and fists clenching with anger.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he growled.

Tears pricked your eyes as you stared up at him, but you didn't let them fall. You clenched your jaw, angry at him. He always, always ruined your fun.

"Partying, of course," you replied, a little too sharply for Theo's liking. But then again, you were drunk, after just one glass.

"Does your brother know?" Theo asked, ripping the almost empty glass of firewhiskey from your hand and tossing it aside lazily. "Do you want me to tell him you're here?"

"I don't care," was your reply, you sounded sullen. "You're not my dad, or my brother."

The answer was enough to send Theo into a rage, and he angrily grabbed your wrist with a grip slightly too harsh. "Go," he ordered, his dark blue eyes ablaze. "Go back to your dorm."

That had been the end of it.

Yet somehow, you still couldn't get over the memory of seeing Theo with a girl over his lap, and somehow, you wished that that had been you instead.

After that, you started to slowly eavesdrop on those Slytherin and Ravenclaw girls that usually hung around Theo, and you had managed to learn a few things from them...

One, that Theo loved short skirts, two, that he liked low necklines and tight blouses, and three, that he liked having girls sitting on his lap.

Which is why you were currently wearing the most revealing outfit you'd ever worn in your life, at the moment.

You always gave Theo a present for Christmas, every year, since you were very young, and this year was no different. The only difference was, that instead of leaving it under the tree, you'd be giving it to him in person, this time.

You'd made him some brownies— muggle style. It had been your first time ever baking something, and you were rather nervous of the outcome. Theo loved brownies, since he was young, and for someone who had everything in the world, you felt like something handmade would definitely be seen as more heartfelt.

The little white box of brownies sat on your dresser, wrapped with a pink ribbon— your signature style as you stared into the mirror, scrutinizing your outfit and applying all the finishing touches.

If your parents, or your brother ever saw her in this outfit, she knew she would forever be banned from doing your own shopping.

A baby pink, short, pleated mini skirt rested around your hips, just covering your ass. If you bent over, your ass would most certainly be on full display. You paired it with a lace, white, bralette top, with a deep, plunging V-neckline. It exposed your entire midriff, ending just short of your ribs, the lace transparent enough to see the milky skin underneath.

Your blonde hair was tied into a high ponytail, a few tendrils framed your face. You applied your waterproof mascara and a final layer of lip gloss.

You had never felt so bare. And yet, you felt so confident that you looked pretty.

Grabbing the box of brownies, you glanced at the clock. Ten past midnight. It was officially Christmas. Everyone was in their own rooms, and Theo's was conveniently just down the corridor from yours.

You were completely silent as you left your room, closing the door behind you, and headed to Theo's.

You gently knocked on the door, softly enough for anyone else not to hear.

"Come in," came Theo's lazy drawl.

Cautiously, slowly, nervously, you stepped in, closing the door behind you, the box of brownies held behind your back.

"Hi Theo," you whispered shyly, balancing on your heels.

He hadn't been expecting you. He had probably thought you were Draco.

But God— did his eyes rake your figure when he saw you wearing that tiny fucking skirt. The sight of you standing there, looking so goddamn shy and innocent was refreshing, to say the least.

He was seated on the couch, legs spread slightly, smoking a cigarette. Just like how he had been sitting at the Slytherin party—an empty bottle of whiskey rested on the side-table. The only difference? This time, his shirt was fully unbuttoned, tie draped around his shoulders.

You couldn't help but let your eyes wander down his chiseled abs, his bare muscular chest, and your fingers had the sudden urge to travel down his bare skin.

His hair was tousled, as if he had been running his hands through it... It looked so soft, you wanted to touch it. His dark blue eyes bored into yours with a hint of wickedness. God— he was so attractive.

"Baby Malfoy. I didn't expect to see you," he purred, lips curling into a smirk. "What brings you here at this time of the night?"

Oh, he knew of your feelings for him, he wasn't that oblivious. He knew exactly why you were here.

"I..." He always made you nervous. You couldn't help but stutter. "I came to give you your Christmas present..." you said softly.

"At this time?" he drawled, motioning for you to come closer with two fingers.

His hands.

His fucking hands.

They always drove you insane... Perfectly manicured, long fingers, veiny, defined, smooth... On numerous occasion, you had imagined him holding you with those hands, touching you...

But those were all fantasies.

Slowly, you moved closer, hesitantly, tentatively, cautiously... You didn't answer his question, you merely set the box in his lap and waited for him to open it.

He was quite surprised to see the brownies, to say the least. He had been expecting something else, something... bought.

He raised his eyebrows, looking at you carefully. "You made these?"

You nodded.

"By yourself? The muggle way? For me?"

You nodded again.

Once again, he smirked, and he grabbed a piece, gently biting into it, maintaining eye-contact with you the whole time.

Your heart was beating madly. Your stomach was full of fluttering butterflies, and goosebumps erupted all over your skin, making you feel cold.

Of course, it was winter, and you were dressed in practically nothing.

He chewed it, slowly, still holding your gaze. "It's good," he finally said, licking his lips and placing the box full of the rest of the brownies on the side table. "Good job, Baby Malfoy..."

He spared you no second glance as he went back to reading his book, and once again, you felt a sinking sensation fill you, and disappointment in your heart.

Obviously, he had expected you to leave. But when he still saw you standing there, he raised a brow. "Is something the matter?"

Tears pricked your eyes, but you blinked them away. You shook your head.

He went back to reading.

Until you could stand it no more. He hadn't mentioned one, single thing, one single comment about your outfit. You felt hurt. Hurt that you had put in so much effort, taken so much time to get ready for him, and he hadn't even smiled.

The words slipped out before you could control them.

"Do you like my outfit?" you blurt, sounding a little bit offended. "Don't I look pretty?" you continued, shyly biting your lip.

"You look like a whore," Theo replied coldly, without even looking up from his text.

This time, you couldn't help welling up at his harsh, hurtful words. He never said anything to those other girls when they dressed up like this for him.

"Th-there's no need to be mean," you whimpered, evident hurt in your beautiful silvery gray eyes. You were on the verge of tears. "I.. I spent hours dressing up just for you... and... and then you say—" You broke off, unable to finish your sentence.

That was enough to snatch Theo's attention. His eyes snapped back up to meet yours.

"You dressed up for me?" he echoed, his tone commanding, yet smooth, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

The way you blinked and looked away was enough to tell Theo your answer.

"What gave you the idea I'd like your outfit?" he asked, setting his book aside and putting out his cigarette, leaving the end in the ashtray.

Your cheeks turned red, and you averted your gaze back to the floor. "D-Daphne Greengrass and the other girls," you whispered shyly, very, very softly.

"Is that so?" Theo mused, taking in your every expression.

Slowly, you nodded.

"What else did you hear Daphne Greengrass and the other girls say?" he mocked.

You couldn't catch the irony in his tone until it was too late. Somehow, the answer slipped out before you could catch it. "Th-that you like it when girls sit in your lap," you mumbled, your voice sounding troubled, still very hurt by his words.

He really was mean.

You wanted to go back to your room and never see him again.

"Hm," said Theo thoughtfully, before he slid his tie off his shoulders, crumpled it into a tiny ball and flung it across the room, where it landed directly onto his bed.

"And? Aren't you going to follow their advice?" he asked, inching his legs slightly further apart.

Your eyes slowly slid up to meet his, utterly shocked he would even suggest it when he didn't like you that way.

Tears clung to your eyelashes, and you stood frozen, right there, unable to move.

A dry chuckle rumbled through him, and you hated the way it sent shivers down your spine. "Aren't you? Go on, I'm waiting..."

You blinked, a small whimper leaving you as you took a small step back, ready to go back to your room, but when he patted his lap, as his eyes bored into yours, challenging you, you realized he was being serious about this.

You wanted to leave, but part of you wanted to stay. Your eyes fell down to look at his lap.

This might be your first and last chance to sit on his lap, and before you knew it, you gently perched your bottom on his knee, avoiding his gaze, hands in your lap.

The moment you made contact with him, you felt his breath hitch the slightest bit, but otherwise, he remained composed.

"Like this," he ordered, both hands grabbing your waist and pulling you harshly towards himself, until both your legs were on either side of him and you were straddling his lap.

Fire danced on your skin, especially with the frigid metal rings he wore burning into your skin.

You let out a soft, yet audible gasp and your breath hitched.

Having no clue what to do, or what to say, you shied away from meeting his gaze, nervously chewing on your lower lip, unaware that Theo's eyes were burning into you.

"Good girl..." his praise rumbled in his throat, and once again, those butterflies returned in your abdomen.

His praise sent shivers down your spine, and slowly, tentatively, your eyes slid upwards to catch his gaze.

"Such an obedient whore," he murmured in a low tone, and once again, tears began pricking your eyes. No one had ever spoken to you this way, no one ever dared to.

"I'm... I'm not a whore," you whimpered, your teeth sinking harder into your lower lip.

"Well, you're dressed like a whore," Theo replied, faux pity lacing his tone. "Aren't you?"

You blinked, trying not to cry, but the tears only clung to your lashes and threatened to trail down your cheeks any moment.

"Answer me," he demanded, hands pressing your waist harder, cold rings searing your skin.

"Y-yes," you whispered, your teeth attacking your lower lip once more.

"So since you're dressed like a fucking whore, I'm gonna treat you like it... la mia puttana," he purred, lightly swatting your thigh.

That was all it took for you to break.

"Y-you're being mean," you whimpered, a single tear sliding down your cheek, tears swimming in your pretty gray eyes.

"Aww, poor baby," Theo scoffed. "Never had anyone talk to you like this? Never been treated like a whore before?"

He was breaking you, and he was succeeding. You had always gotten what you wanted, since birth. All you had to do was smile and flutter your eyelashes, maybe pout and fake a few tears...

Theo treated you differently. He didn't treat you like royalty, like you were used to... He treated you like... like a whore, and he seemed totally unaffected by your tears, which were real.

"I.. hate you," you cried, your voice breaking. "I.. I put in all this effort, trying to get you to notice me, and you..."

You broke off, choking a sob, pushing his chest in an attempt to get off his lap, but he only gripped your waist harder, setting you down on his lap and preventing you from moving.

"Sit fucking down," he growled, and you couldn't help but obey. "You're not leaving until I say you are, are we clear, amore?"

You nodded, another small sob leaving you as you gulped.

"I need words," Theo demanded.

"Yes," you whispered, sniffling, refusing to look at him, stubbornly glaring at your lap with your lip stuck between your teeth.

"Good girl," he praised, before his gaze softened slightly, realizing that you had probably learned your lesson. His demeanor shifted, becoming less harsh as he gently lifted his hand to your face, gently caressing your jaw.

Surprised as you were by his tender touch, you still refused to look at him. His thumb gently brushed your tears away, from both eyes.

"Look at me," he requested softly, tone low and very, very gentle.

You slowly lifted your gaze up, as if you expected him his sudden gentleness to be a trick your mind was playing on you. Your eyesight was slightly blurred by the tears you had shed, but as you looked at his face, you could see the softened look in his eyes.

"Shh, don't cry now, Principessa," he murmured softly, thumb gently caressing your cheek bone as he looked into your big, vulnerable gray eyes, full of innocence.

"Pretty girl," he murmured, thumb tracing soothing patters on your cheek.

Your stomach flipped at the praise. You couldn't believe your ears— Did he just call you pretty after calling you a whore??

"You're such a pretty girl, so fucking gorgeous," he continued. "You don't need to wear such revealing clothes, show off your body to look pretty..."

You were silent, yet your sniffles subsided. You were now staring at Theo with rapt attention, his praises slowly bringing back your confidence.

"Those other girls..." he murmured softly. "They're not as beautiful as you, that's why they need to show off their bodies... That's why they dress like whores..."

His voice was soft, delicate around you. "But you..." He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "You're not a whore, you're a fucking princess..."

One of his hands rested on your cheek, the other at his side, on the seat of the couch, next to his pocket. "Why would you listen to the other girls, hm? Why would you want to be like the other girls?"

"I..." you began, finding your voice. "B-because you like them," you whispered. "You notice them.. I thought.. I thought maybe if I become like them, you'd like me too.. You'd notice me too..."

You couldn't hide the pain in your voice, the longing in your tone. And somehow, as the words slipped out, you realized you had practically confessed your obvious feelings for Theo, the feelings you tried so hard to hide.

Once again, you bit your lip, an irksome habit that you'd had since you were young.

Slowly, Theo's thumb gently trailed down your cheek and landed on your lower lip, and he softly tugged it free, away from the grasp of your teeth. His touch was cold against the warmth of your lip, and his thumb lingered there for a while, as if he did not want to pull it away. "I've always noticed you," he confessed, his voice a low mutter.

Your breath hitched, and he chuckled slightly, gently running his thumb across your lower lip.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and your cheeks turned slightly pink at how good Theo's touch felt, even though it was just a little bit.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured softly, and you nodded singly, just once.

"Use your words, Baby," Theo cooed.

"Theo," you whispered, accidentally blurting out his name.

Once again, he slowly moved his hand back to your bare waist, rings pressed into your skin, and his thumb resting just at the hem of your bralette top, underneath your ribs.

His other hand remained on your cheek as his thumb continued caressing your lower lip, coaxing your mouth to open slightly, before he slipped his thumb through your parted lips.

A small whimper left your lips, and you opened your eyes, your gaze locked on his.

Slowly, without even realizing it, your tongue accidentally brushed against the pad of his thumb, and Theo bit back a low groan as he pushed the entirety of his thumb into your mouth.

Your heart was beating thunderously in your chest, and you had no idea what Theo was doing, but whatever it was, you liked it. You didn't want it to stop... You had his attention, and you wanted it on you forever.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you enjoyed the way his thumb fit perfectly in your mouth, until you got carried away, tongue tracing the length of his digit.

Theo suddenly lost it. All his control snapped as a growl escaped him. "Does my dumb little whore want her mouth filled?" he drawled, pulling his thumb away.

Hot. You felt hot with the way he spoke, with the way his words drove you insane. Even though he called you a whore, this time, you liked it. Because he called you his pretty little whore.

A whimper left you when he pulled his thumb away, disappointed at the lack of contact.

A smirk curled across his lips and he let out a small chuckle. "Mm, that's what I thought," he whispered, more to himself than to you.

Before you knew it, he had pushed the tips of two of his fingers into your mouth; his index and middle, fingertips pressing down on the pad of your tongue.

"Let's see how long you can suck on my fingers without gagging, shall we?" he cooed, pushing the rest of his fingers deeper into your mouth, until they were all the way in.

A small groan left you, but it was muffled by his fingers, and slowly, you started sucking on his long digits, your eyes fluttering shut as you lost yourself in a rhythm.

Theo pressed harder on your tongue, activating your gag reflex, and he only chuckled when you gagged.

"Just my fingers, I know you can handle it— such a good girl..." he praised, his other hand tightening around your throat, blocking your airway.

You choked, a huge wad of saliva dribbling down your chin, tears filling your eyes because you couldn't breathe.

The thought of his very large, veiny hands manhandling you like this only turned you on, and he had barely even touched you. You could feel yourself grow wetter between your thighs, and the fact that you were on his lap, barely clothed, only caused your heartbeat to quicken.

He only pulled out his fingers when they were covered in your saliva that dribbled down your chin, and gently wiped them on his lap.

Once again, you were disappointed. It was like he was playing with you. One moment he was all over you, the next... he was gone.

"Theo, please," you whispered, your voice hoarse from being choked.

"What?" he asked, waiting for you to tell him what you wanted. He had expressed it very clearly that he wanted you to use your words, and that was only when he would give in to your desires.

"Please kiss me," you breathed shyly.

He did not hesitate. Both hands gripped your face gently as he kissed you.

He started off gentle, his lips gently brushed against yours, just barely. Then, when he felt your hands gently rest against his bare chest, he dove right into your mouth.

His lips collided with yours, his mouth devouring yours like a man starved.

You moaned softly, whispering his name, and that was all it took for Theo's other hand to roughly grasp your waist and slide you forward, pulling you closer, until your hips were flush with his. "Fuck," he gasped. "Such a pretty little moan—"

His teeth harshly grazed your lower lip, and he took advantage of your parted lips to slide his tongue into your mouth, engaging with yours in a fierce tango.

Once again, you felt needier and needier between your thighs, and you were filled with a mixture of fear and anticipation of Theo finding out exactly what effect he had on you.

He pulled away, and your mouth opened to protest, but the sound was drowned out when he attached his lips to your neck. He took a little bit of skin between his teeth, biting your flesh and eliciting a gasp from your lips as he sucked a mark there, his tongue running soothingly over the spot.

When he pulled away, a red spot had already began to bloom against your skin.

He didn't stop there.

His lips began trailing lower and lower as he left hickeys everywhere. Every sensual caress of his lips, every nibble of his teeth sent you into overdrive. His spicy, citrusy cologne kidnapped your senses, only heightening your pleasure.

His lips traveled all over your neck, all over your collarbones, trailing down to your chest. He was leaving hickeys all over the exposed swells of your breasts, your nipples hardening underneath the thin fabric to the point where they were reduced to aching pebbles.

"Wanna feel these perfect tits in my mouth," he murmured, his hands on both your boobs as he squeezed the soft flesh— they were the perfect size to fit into his palm.

You couldn't control your hands as they harshly gripped his hair, your thighs tightening around his hips. Involuntarily, your hand dragged his head down, until his lips came into contact with your clothed nipple.

"So fucking perfect..."

His hot mouth closed over the little nub, saliva dampening the white, lacy fabric. His other hand slowly caressed your other breast, squeezing the soft mound, thumb tracing gentle circles around your nipple through the thin cloth.

He sucked on your tit, before he grabbed the clothed nipple between his teeth and tugged, causing you to yelp.

At last, you could hold back no more.

A loud moan escaped your lips, and you cried out sharply, begging for him. "Theo, please," you whined, begging him to touch you where you needed it most. "I need you— please..."

That was all that was needed for him to unlatch his mouth from your clothed nipple with ragged breathing as he brought his hands to your back and shifted your position.

Now, you were lying down on the couch, and he hovered above you, leaning down to gently kiss you again.

"Tell me what you want, amore," he murmured, lips brushing against yours. He wouldn't push you, he wouldn't do anything you weren't ready for.

Your chest heaved, and you looked up at him pleadingly, your nipples aching underneath the damp fabric of your bralette top and your panties soaked.

"I... I want.. I want.." words failed you, so instead, you took a deep breath and swallowed thickly, gently grasping one of his larger hands in yours, and sliding it from your waist, to your thigh, above your skirt. "Anything," you whispered. "Please, please... touch me..."

Slowly, not wanting to rush you, Theo allowed his hands to gently travel down your bare midriff and your thighs, smoothing down the material of your tiny skirt, the hem barely reaching your mid thigh.

"Gods— so fucking sexy..." he murmured, allowing his hand to slowly slip underneath your skirt and caress your upper thigh, his thumb inching closer and closer to your heat, settling in the split between your thighs, right where you needed him most, resting above your clothed cunt.

"Is this okay?" he whispered softly, thumb gently tracing soft circles over your clit, through the thin, lacy fabric. He did not look underneath your skirt— he kept his eyes trailed on your face, on your flushed cheeks and your pretty eyelashes that kissed the chub of your cheeks every time you blinked.

"Yes," you breathed, nodding softly.

On feeling how soaked your panties were, a hitch blistered in his throat. "Poor baby," he cooed. "You must be so needy..."

You whimpered at the sensation his words sent through you, and you found yourself nodding.

"Let me help, yeah?" Theo murmured, his fingers sliding underneath the waistband of your panties, hand somewhere underneath your skirt.

He groaned loudly the moment his fingers came into contact with your wetness, and he couldn't help the curses that tumbled past his lips.

His index finger ran up and down your leaking slit, accompanied by his middle finger, whilst his thumb continued rubbing your clit in circles.

He balanced on his knees as he looked into your eyes, his other hand gently sliding the straps of your bralette down, exposing your breasts to the cool air, and to his gaze.

He was hard. So fucking hard.

No one had ever gotten him this hard before, and the sight of you, spread on the couch underneath him, so willingly almost caused him to cum in his pants.

So many times he had envisioned you like this, unbeknownst to you... So many times he had jerked off in the bathroom, imagining what you looked like underneath your clothes.

But he had to hide his desire for you, his obvious need— he couldn't face the wrath of Draco, let alone Lucius.

You were the best Christmas present. The best sight he had ever seen.

"Shit, shit shit—," he rasped, completely speechless, his fingers still playing with your folds underneath your skirt. "You're so fucking gorgeous," he praised, bringing his mouth to one of your nipples as his fingers teased your hole.

You were a whining, moaning, leaking mess for him. You were so wet, you felt like you would explode any moment, yet you needed him— more, more, more.

He seemed to understand, because the moment he licked a long stripe over your nipple, he gently eased the tip of his middle finger into your hole.

"So tight— so perfect," Theo groaned, as your virgin walls fluttered at the invasion, clamping tightly around his finger. He slowly eased it all in, gently pumping it in and out, his eyes watching your reaction for the first time.

Your chest heaved, and your moans grew more frequent at the blissful sensation of having something fill you.

You were content, until Theo eased another finger inside you, pumping both fingers faster into your hole, stretching it. Your eyes widened, and you gripped his hair, tugging on his roots harshly, eliciting a string of muttered curse-words.

"Fuck, fuck— Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo—"

You never realized you could feel this good, and Theo only heightened your pleasure when his two, long fingers curled up inside you, pressing against that fleshy spot.

"Such a tight little cunt," he grunted, words slightly muffled as his teeth attacked your nipple, with roughness that bordered on assault.

You could feel the knot form in your lower abdomen. You spread your legs slightly more as your climax approached, and you made it awfully clear that you were close as your moans grew louder.

"Oh my God—" you gasped. "Theo— ah— please, more... I'm... I feel.."

Theo quickened his pace, his fingers pounding into you as he watched your eyes roll back, your chest heave, your boobs bounce slightly with the way you moved your hips to seek more friction to get you to your climax.

The sound of him sliding his ringed fingers in and out of you was drowned out by your ecstatic moans, as Theo pumped his fingers faster and faster, thumb pressing against your clit. His biceps flexed, the veins popping out as he fingered you, curling and scissoring his fingers to hit that sweet spot over and over again.

His rings were cold against your heat, serving to bring you to your climax faster as they added friction when his fingers pistoned in and out of you.

"You're gonna cum for me—" he promised, hand pinching your nipple harshly, whilst he tugged the other one between his lips, your hips bucking into his fingers.

Her hands were clenched, fingernails digging into her palms as you cried out his name like a prayer. "Theo— ah— fuck... I'm so close... argh—"

That's it, cum for me, lia mia piccola puttana... Cum all over my fingers like a good little slut," he muttered. "Make a mess on my hand..."

With a deliberate force of his hand, he drove his fingers upwards one more time, thumb pressing roughly on your clit to draw out your climax.

With a shudder, and an arch of your back, your walls clenched around his fingers, you finally orgasmed, your body spasming and contorting in pleasure, and there was nothing else on your mind but him.

"That's it, my pretty girl, moan for me," he praised. "You sound so fucking pretty when you moan for me like that..."

Your juices soaked his hand, trailing down his fingers and curling around his wrist, and it was only when your orgasm ended that he stopped thrusting his fingers.

He slowly eased them out of you, blindly sliding your panties back into place with his other hand under your skirt, bringing his long fingers up to his mouth to taste your essence, groaning at how fucking delicious you tasted.

"So fucking sweet," he murmured, licking his fingers completely clean. His dick was hard under his pants, straining against his zipper, but he did not let the attention waver off you.

You watched him, eyes transfixed on his as he slowly slid your bralette back into place, covering your boobs.

"Merry Christmas, Principessa," he whispered softly, gently kissing you.

A smile formed on your lips as you stared up at him, still so shy as you thought about what you had just done. "Merry Christmas, Theo," you whispered back, unable to hide your joy.

You returned to your room a few hours before dawn, before anyone else could catch you. Changing into your pajamas, a constant grin was plastered on your face as you drifted off to sleep.

It lasted for the rest of the Christmas holidays too.

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