#from below the opposite of light

[shadow-of-the-eclipse]

on my death note crusade, tried to tone their colours and reverse the lighting but it turns out lighting is hard

[whateveriwant]

The 141 getting you to stay in bed

It gets a little spicy towards the end so 18+ please

Soap

Waking up to the feeling of a numb arm is extremely unpleasant, but you suppose it comes with the territory when trying to cuddle 200+ pounds of rugged Scotsman

You manage to free your trapped limb and roll to the other side of the bed, but that space behind you remains empty for only about three seconds before Johnny's pressing himself flat to your back 

Now with his arms around your waist, he holds you tight to him, mumbling unintelligibly against the back of your head

He drifts back to sleep quickly enough, his grip on you starting to loosen, only for it to tighten again when he feels you try to wriggle out of his hold

The incoherent grumbles from his throat grow increasingly displeased the more you try to shift away from him, until finally he huffs a grumpy, “Quit it,” into your scalp, hooking his leg over yours 

If you still don't listen, he'll have no choice but to take drastic measures to keep you still. Fed up with your squirming, he simply rolls on top of you, pinning you to the mattress below him

You can try beating on his back, telling him that you can't breathe, but he just shrugs and says, “Use my breath.”

Don't even bother trying to explain how oxygen doesn't work like that, because he doesn't care. “Tough,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck. “‘Cause I'm no' movin’.” And by extension, neither are you

Gaz

Kyle is also a stage 5 clinger, but he's less boa constrictor and more baby koala

So when your alarm goes off at 8am precisely, it's no surprise that the man behind you grumbles in protest

“It's Saturday,” he bemoans. “Why you getting up so bloody early?” When you tell him you like to keep your routine even on the weekends, he just groans and mutters, “Five more minutes.”

You can try to squirm and wrestle out of his hold, but he'll just tighten his arm around your midsection, keeping his front firmly glued to your back

But you need to get up! You have to pee for goodness’ sake! 

“Use the empty bottle on your nightstand,” he mumbles into your hair, peeking an eye open as you crane to look back at him. The look you give him at such a horrid suggestion has him sighing. “Alright, fine,” he relents and releases you. “But be quick. Bed gets cold without you.”

Once you've answered the call of nature, don't be surprised to find Kyle waiting for you directly outside the bathroom. He's wrapped up in your comforter like an oversized burrito, only his face and feet visible as they peek out from under the plush cover

With a sleepy pout, he holds his hand out for you, tugging you back to bed with him. Oh, he’ll make sure you get those five more minutes alright. Even if he has to drag you kicking and screaming

Ghost

First of all, don't even kid yourself into thinking you'll stand a chance of waking up before him or sneaking out of bed without him knowing. This man is the epitome of a light sleeper, whenever he does sleep, that is

So when you do finally wake up, it comes as no surprise to see Simon already up too. But just because you're both awake now doesn't mean you have to immediately be productive; quite the opposite, in fact

With how busy and stressed he is all the time, Simon loves nothing more than to just lie in bed with you and do nothing for hours

If you try to get up, he's stopping you with a gentle hand on your wrist, his voice quiet but firm as he commands, “Stay.”

You'll lay back down for a bit to appease him, but it won't be long before you feel guilty since you have so many things you should be doing instead

But actually, no, you don't have  anything to worry about. He's already taken care of everything before you woke up, he humbly informs you

The cat's been fed, the bin’s been taken out to the curb, he's even gotten your breakfast typed up on his phone – just give him the word and he'll place the order

So now when he opens his arms for you, having you bury your face in his chest, you've got nothing to worry about except savoring this moment with him 

Price

John is also a very light sleeper, so it only takes .02 seconds of you trying to stand from the bed for his bear-like snores to cease and his eyes to flit wide open

He'll grab you by the shirt hem, mumbling, “Where’re y’ goin’?” But it doesn't really matter what your answer is because his response is always the same: “No y’r not.” And pulls you back down. “Y’r stayin’ right here.”

He'll lie on his stomach, face smushed in the pillow, a big, warm hand tucked under your shirt resting against your belly

With nothing better to do, you scroll through your phone, catching up on your socials, the news, etc., but it's not long before you hear him grumble, “Put that away, will ya? ‘S too early to be meltin’ your brain with that thing.”

Well, what does he expect you to do? Lie there and stare at the ceiling for an hour? “Expect you to be good,” he tells you. “Don't make me get the handcuffs out again.”

Now that you have to laugh at. If he thinks it's too early to be on your phone, it's definitely too early for that

He smirks, opening his eye just a sliver, and the hand on your stomach begins to rub soft circles. “Is that so?” he taunts, his touch sneakily edging downwards. And when he slips beneath the band of your shorts, well…

Let's just say you're not leaving that bed anytime soon

[houseofhyde]

last train home.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. thunderbolts + tfatws flashbacks synopsis. hours after the void swallows half of new york city, bucky barnes finds himself breaking his #1 rule: don't show up at your door. warnings. no use of y/n, ex!reader, exes to ???, angst, suggestive, hurt with comfort that is proceeded by more hurt, pining, bucky is lowkey down bad and pathetic, descriptions of bruises, injuries, and choking (not the sexy kind, unfortunately), bucky is also kinda serving stalker realness (but its okay bc he's hot and in love), flashbacks via bucky's time in the void. thunderbolts spoilers!!! word count. 4k. hyde’s input. thunderbolts reawakened something dormant in me and threw me back into trenches i thought i'd clawed my way out of. idk if this can even be considered a serious fic because i wrote this like it was the ramblings of a madwoman, i can't even lie. no editing, we die like real (dumb) men. in true me fashion, i already have two more parts planned for this couple, including eventual sloppy sad smut bc why write about a man if i don't get to whore him out? read on ao3.

Bucky knows he shouldn’t be here.

Knows that his will not be a welcome face.

Knows that he’s around two years and a sincere apology too late.

The hour is late, the dials of his wristwatch already encroaching on midnight. The city’s starless sky is a darkness that pales in comparison to the heavy shadow he’d watched infect Manhattan earlier. A void of pain too many had vanished beneath, before he and his ragtag team of false heroes had no choice but to dive into it, one last ditched effort at bringing back the light. The madness truly began when the darkness spat them back out onto the chaos of the streets.

The relief of seeing the sun. The shamble of a press conference. The new Avengers. 

And all he could think about was making it to this street. This door. You.

Bucky wishes he could say that the last time he saw you was last week, struggling beneath the weight of grocery bags. But that’s no longer true, because the last time he saw you was merely a few hours ago, trapped inside a time loop of his own making, his own memories, his own pain.

The room was colder than he remembered as he stepped in through a balcony door, sheer curtains billowing around him as a storm gathered outside.

At first, he wasn’t sure what memory this was, what new room he’d stepped into. All Bucky knew was he had made his way through the hell of Hydra’s experimentations, picked himself up from those traintracks, let himself soak in the scene of fighting Steve. Whatever haunted him in this bedroom of silence and sin, he was sure he could move through it and make his way to the door on the opposite side. Until a figure stirred beneath the sheets and he found himself frozen at the end of the bed.

Because there you were, eyes closed and head buried in the warmth of his own chest, blissfully unaware of the waking nightmare that awaited you.

He’s not used to crossing this street.

Not anymore.

Nowadays, his place is somewhere just across from you, two steps behind and a head hung low in hopes that you don’t notice him. Because he knows that it’s wrong, and he knows there are boundaries that have been drawn, but he just can’t seem to fall asleep at night if he doesn’t hop off that train a few stops early just to watch you come home safe.

He hadn’t meant to make it a habit. At first, it was just routine, muscle memory. He spent months making his way home to you, he needed more than a few weeks to get used to his new commute. But then he got in his own head, found himself sat in a train cart, knee bouncing out his stress as his mind tortured him with all the what ifs and nonexistent threats you could encounter on your way home alone. Who else could he trust but his own eyes to watch over you? So he let himself indulge, wander out from the subway below just in time to watch you turn a corner. Told himself it was okay, so long as he kept his distance. So long as he only observed, even when it killed him. The days it would rain and he’d fight the urge to shelter you beneath his umbrella. The times he’d notice a smiling stranger getting too close for comfort and remind himself it was no longer his place to ward them off with an arm around your waist. The way he’d catch the polished shine of a necklace resting at the base of your neck and suddenly remember why he could no longer call you his.

He should have noticed sooner. How the room smelt of your delicate perfume. How remnants of your clothes lay strewn across carpeted floors. How the scene before him was plucked perfectly from that trip.

A getaway of his own doing, heart swollen with a little more pride than he’d care to admit over simply figuring out how to book a vacation online. There was no real rhyme or reason for it, no birthday to celebrate or anniversary to commemorate. Bucky had simply felt happy. Blissfully, wholly, perfectly happy, for the first time in too long. In retrospect, that should have been the first warning sign.

But those razor sharp senses of his seemed to go blunt with the brightness of your smile, the tenderness of your kiss, the warmth of your voice. He believed you made him good. Made him right. Made him whole. He’d never stopped to wonder what he made you.

Until he made you hurt.

He’s standing outside your door.

Time seems irrelevant when everything is the same as he remembers it.

The lopsided apartment number. The faded welcome mat outside the door. The chipping paint you insist you don’t mind, all in the hopes of stopping Bucky from chewing out your landlord about another thing that needs fixing. Suddenly, it’s like he can feel the weight of your key in his pocket, waiting for him to fish it out and welcome himself home to the smell of burning incense and the taste of your skin.

His heart’s beating a little faster now. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should start learning to leave well enough alone. Maybe he should be trying to move on. But how can he move on with a life you made him want to live?

He’s fought battles, drawn blood, turned to dust and come back again. Yet this is a bridge he cannot seem to cross: knocking on your door.

All Bucky had registered back then was the soul-crushing weight of waking up to find what he’d done. Standing at the edge of the bed, a voyeur to his own harm, The Void granted him a full perspective of the events.

It began with muttering, foreign words falling from his sleeping lips. Then his head tossed, his leg twitched, his voice raised. You, eyes blinking away sleep and limbs untangling from his, woken up suddenly to his heart racing beneath you. He watched you watch the other him, a few seconds of his nightmarish sleeping, before finally you did what you thought was best, what any caring person would do if their partner was being haunted in their sleep.

You whispered his name, soothed a palm over his cheek, coaxed him out of whatever hell he was trapped in. But when his eyelids snapped open, there was no summer sky or calming river living in the iris but a steely blue, winter cold.

Metal clutched at your throat.

“James?”

Echoes of a past life sing in his ears as he feels himself freeze. His gaze meets the ground, where he spots an open door and a familiar pair of fluffy slippers, looking a little worse for wear than he remembers them being on that Christmas morning, sitting across from you with a stiff jaw and nervous eyes, watching you pull apart layers of wrapping paper. Now time has left its mark on them and Bucky can’t help but wonder how much longer until you replace them with something newer, something softer, something that’ll bring more comfort to your aching feet as you slip into them after a long day at the firm.

The firm. Your workplace. Two blocks down from the building that once stood as a symbol for everything Steve and the rest of the Avengers — the real Avengers — had achieved, a home still haunted by its previous owners whose footsteps Valentina expected him to tread over. 

Bucky had stopped believing in God somewhere between the torture and the war against genocidal aliens but as that cloud of darkness rolled over the Manhattan skyline, vanishing people into shadows, he caught himself praying to someone, something, anything that you were okay. That you’d caught a stomach bug or the flu and had called in sick. That you’d been called out of state, sent to work elsewhere on a client’s case. That you’d been anywhere but trapped beneath the weight of The Void’s darkness; lonely, and scared, and reliving the cruelest memories your mind could conjure. 

But as he finally looks at you, your face says it all. The troubled eyes, the weary smile, the trembling hands. The Void may have spat you back out alongside the rest of the city — he may have been able to save you from the looping pain, at least — but it left its mark all over you, whispers of fear still clinging to your skin.

Like a wave meets the shore, he crashes over you.

At first, Bucky couldn’t watch.

Eyes squeezed shut, back turned on the scene taking place upon the bed, he tried to block it all out. But then a door slammed, his eyes reopened, and the memory had started all over again. Your head on his chest, his tossing and turning. You waking him up, his hand around your neck. With an ache in his bones, he forced himself to bear witness.

To the way he looked right at you like you were a stranger, a threat, a mission. To the way the metal twisted and screamed as he tightened his grip. To the way your hand found his face. Not to scratch, not to push, not to fight back. But to mollify, the warmth of your palm resting on his icy cheek, tender in your touch even as he robbed you of breath.

And then he snapped out of it. Came to his senses. Ripped himself away from you and stumbled out the bed, hands — metal and flesh — scrambling for the scattered pieces of the same clothes he’d let you peel off of him only hours before, your eyes alive with the buzz of too much wine and his cheeks burning from too much sun and you. Undressing like every layer was an offense, just one more obstacle getting in the way as you both tumbled back into the hotel bed.

You are hesitant.

Arms glued to your side, you stand frozen in the unexpected embrace. He can’t find it in himself to blame you, not when he thinks of how scared you must feel with a weapon wound around your body once more, holding you close to him. The action is not only protective but possessive, too. An antidote to an unwarranted need that took root in his chest the moment he returned to the mania of Manhattan, freshly haunted by a visceral unpresent presence, desperate to confirm with more than just a glance from across a street that you were home. That you were safe. That you were here, even if he shouldn’t be. 

Bucky just needs you to give him a moment. A second. To feel the slow rise of your chest against his, and to take in the fading scent of your perfume, and to caress his right hand over the back of your head. To hold you like he still has any right to your heart. Then he can go. Pull away, set you free, stagger back to his apartment. Collapse onto the familiar comforts of creaking floorboards, muster up the guts to return Sam’s fourteen missed calls and sink into a different layer of guilt to distract himself from the fact you’re not sleeping beside him, breathing beside him. That you haven’t been his for two years, no matter how much he’s still yours.

He pulls in a deep breath, tightens his arms around your frame, prepares himself for the inevitability of him pulling away and feeling the much deserved sting of your hand slapping his cheek and your voice spewing venomous words.

Any minute now, he’ll let go.

“Bucky…” it’s barely a whisper, but he hears it — feels it, as the ice in your bones thaws away and you melt into his embrace.

How could he possibly let go?

Bucky remembered struggling to breathe.

Ignoring your weak calls of his name, he dressed himself with so much haste half the buttons on his shirt remained undone. On the bed, you choked on heavy breaths of air, tears welling like the threat of an incoming downpour that was sure to drown him further beneath waves of guilt, shame, hatred. The vibranium virus attached to his left side seemed to mock him as he struggled to pull on his shoes, too blinded by panic to notice your approaching figure.

Bucky grabbed for the door and you grabbed for him, fingers almost curling around the wrist of his metal arm. He flinched out of your reach, head spinning round to take in the sight of you now at his side, shielded beneath bedsheets from the exposing light of the moon. His gaze flickered to your neck, replaying memories of where his mouth had laid claim over your skin and painted you in shades of his love. How many hours would it take for them to fade beneath the mold of his fingers, for the things Bucky hated most about himself to viscerally terrorise him as a bruise upon his most darling delicate?

You tried to reach for him, again. All he could manage was a quiet, “don’t.”

He never meant to slam the door as he left.

“Are you okay?”

He’s no stranger to late night fantasies, the inconsequential thoughts of an idealised life he’s free to play out when sleep eludes him, buds of anxious worry beginning to bloom within his chest. Before, all his what ifs and if onlys projected him back in time, where no draft came knocking at his door or any serum distorted his DNA. Then he met you and, gradually, his pining for the past morphed into dreaming of a future. All the possible firsts of your relationship: first date, first kiss, first holiday, first anniversary. He could relearn the world, reintroduce himself to the possibility of normality. He pondered moving, trading the city for a quieter life, where weekends would be reserved for exchanging body heat beneath the blankets of a bed he’d build for you, and Sunday gatherings with Sam and the rest of the Wilson’s.

Then, the dreams faded to grey, along with the rest of his world.

The past no longer enticed him, and a future seemed pointless without you. All that was left for him was to agonise, stare at his living room ceiling and watch the atrocities he’d committed play on repeat. The Starks’ car, Yori’s son, your neck. With therapy came amends, a booklet of names his conscience needed him to confront with an apology. Yours never made the cut. Because it wasn’t the Winter Soldier that had hurt you, it was him. No amount of therapised language intended to distance him from the harm would be a good enough excuse to lay at your feet, so he stayed away, kept his distance.

Not once had he fantasised he would be breaking no-contact like this.

“A little confused and contemplating why I’m still living in this city after years of it being a breeding ground for supernatural and extraterrestrial attacks, but I’m fine,” you reply at last, trailing off with a laugh that catches on your throat and breaks into a hiccup.

There’s a shake in your voice that nearly has him pulling back but your arms stop him, hold him closer. You shuffle your feet between his own and burrow your face away, out of sight, in the crook of his neck. A layer of ash still stains him, powder remnants of the rubble that had fallen during The Void's attack, but you don’t seem to care.

“I saw you on the news, Buck. Are you okay?”

The relationship was over in a matter of days.

You slept through the train ride home, leaving him with nothing but passing fields and troubled thoughts. Once back in the city, he carried your bags in his left hand while the fingers of his right one threaded with yours. You did most of the talking, comments of where you two could holiday next, if he’d spoken to Sam recently, and how your mother had mentioned in passing that you should bring Bucky with you next time you visit. The silence arrived as you both reached your front door, one glance at the bruise around your neck enough to let him know this was the end of the line.

An inbox of missed calls and unread texts later, he dropped your apartment key through the letterbox.

He blinked and suddenly the scene had reset, your lonesome frame crawling back onto the bed once more, fading away into two figures curled around one another beneath the sheets. Bucky watched it all unravel. And, when the door slammed and your tears fell, he watched it start again. Over and over, he watched himself poison the safe haven you made for him, pushing you away and rebuilding that wall around himself. Over and over, he watched you reach for him, a silent plea in your eyes begging him to stay.

He never did.

It was only when he joined you on the bed — after the other him had slammed the door — and pulled you into his longing embrace, mouth kissing apologies against your forehead as you drifted off to sleep, that the cycle came to a stop. One moment, he was holding some version of you for the first time in years, and, in the next, The Void sent him falling through the ceiling of an old Hydra lab.

He landed in the leather chair with a thud and, as a familiar device closed in around his head, he wished he was back in that hotel room, watching your heart break before his eyes, if only to see you a little longer.

With reluctance, he pulls back.

Not because he no longer needs to hold you, feel you breathing safely against him. But he needs to see you. Properly, as something more than a distant shape across the street. Inches apart now, the hole in his chest seems to scream it’s not close enough. When your eyes meet his and a tear slides down your face, not even Sentry could stop him from reaching up to catch it.

Comfort fills his soul as he feels your hand lay itself atop his own, holding it in place against your cheek. Your eyes slip shut and a sigh slips past your lips. Bucky can’t help but lean in, eyes shutting out the world around you. His forehead finds rest against yours, a gentle pressure against skin that feels more intimate than any kiss he could ever give. “Tell me you’re okay, Bucky,” a delicate whisper that possesses no threat to the quiet that surrounds you both.

For a moment, there is peace. Hope. Time has passed, his life has changed, and, while he’s no symbol of sanity, he saved people today — strangers. Bucky Barnes is officially a hero. An Avenger. So maybe things can be different. And maybe he can ask to take up space in your life again, to be part of your mornings and your evenings, your everyday. He can make amends and make you his.

Something meows and tears him out of his daydream.

A blur of white fur moves cautiously inside your apartment, weaving through a few house plants atop a shoe rack. But that isn’t what leaves him feeling foolish, feeling sick, feeling like he’s been sucker punched in the chest. It’s the pair of shoes carelessly discarded on the floor, shrugged off by someone too impatient to put them away if it means spending another moment away from you — Bucky would know, he used to do the same.

A pair of men’s shoes. “I should-” go, he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t want to leave. “Don’t wanna miss the train.”

“James,” his name is a plea on your tongue, a question he’s forgotten how to answer.

“I’m sorry,” for hurting you, for not moving on, for showing up at your door. “I just needed to see you.”

The first step is still the hardest.

As the thought passes through him, a sense of deja vu comes over him. This hallway, your doorway. Turning his back on you, telling himself that it’s better this way. No matter how much it kills him, he can live with the pain of knowing you’ll be safer with someone else. Someone who was born at the right time, and has done all the right things in life that lead them to being rewarded with you. It’s best he goes, before that someone comes looking for you.

He can’t stomach the thought of seeing you with somebody else.

“For someone so good at the fight, you sure do love to choose flight,” your voice is soft yet he hears a bite of anger, a sprinkle of resentment. “Or is walking away a special trick you only use when it comes to me?”

“Don’t do that,” he turns back around to face you, and regrets it the moment he notices more tears threatening to spill. His hand itches to wipe them all away. “Don’t make it seem like leaving you was something I chose to do.”

“But you did!”

“Only because I had to!” Bucky never means to raise his voice, not at you. Things clearly haven’t changed enough for him to stop hurting you when he swears he won’t.  “You know what I did to you.”

With a challenge on your face, your arms cross over your chest and you pop your hip out, leaning your body against the doorframe. “What exactly did you do, James?”

“I…” torture of the tongue, he needs to compose himself before he can say it. “I hurt you. With the same hand they gave me when they made me a weapon.”

“Except you didn’t. The Wakandans gave you that arm when they needed another hero on the battlefield.”

A pause, where anything but silence passes between you. “And I hurt you with it all the same.”

“You leaving me like I meant nothing hurt far more than whatever happened in that hotel room.”

“Meant nothing? Me leaving was because I lov-”

“I’ve just taken on a big case, they’ll be expecting me early in the office,” you’ve already got the door in your hand, half closed as your body retreats back into the safety of your apartment, away from the danger of Bucky’s confession. “You should go, James. Catch that train.”

Unlike him, you don’t slam doors.

He doesn’t bother returning to the subway, the time on his phone tells him all he needs to know. He’s missed that last train, and he’s not in the mood to figure out which line will get him closest to his apartment. He’ll just walk, and listen to the voicemail his phone claims Alexei has left in his inbox.

“Winter Soldier! Bucky! We all are drinking, to celebrate team’s first big win. You must join, we can talk more about being co-captains of The Thunderbolts-” “That is not our name, Alexei,” Yelena cuts him off faintly in the background.

Bucky shouldn’t have come home.

Back in the apartment, a sob is forced down.

The tears just keep coming, all you can do is surrender yourself to them, head leaned back against the door, some part of you hoping he’ll come back.

His hair is longer, new bruises mark his skin, yet the way he looks at you — like you are a sin he must atone for — is still the same.

“Was that Bucky I just heard? If yes, let me give him a piece of my mind and save ourselves a whole load of paperwork- Hey, you good?”

You pull in a breath and wipe both hands over your face before forcing a smile towards your guest.

“I’m fine, Sam,” you almost trip over his shoes in your haste to walk back into the living room. “Now come on, we have a lot of work to do if you’re serious about suing the Avengers.”

+ extra hyde !

· finished this instead of working on one of my final essays... priorities!

· idk if it anyone wants it but i'm working on a part 2, and trust i intend to not uphold the sambucky divorce from the post-credit scene

· if you're reading this and thinking "this doesn't look like the aemond fic update hyde's supposed to be posting" i'm sorry, i swear i'll be doing my best to post the next part soon! don't hate me!

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

The Tides of Chaos

Pairing: Pirate! Choi Seungcheol x Princess! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | Enemies to Lovers | Opposites Attract | Forbidden Romance | Based on the movie 'Sinbad: The Legend of the Seven Seas'

Wordcount: 23.0K

Playlist: 'i always kinda knew you'd be the death of me' - Artemas | 'Swim' - Chase Atlantic | 'Sirens' - Nylo | 'do you really want to hurt me?' - Nessa Barrett | 'Taste' - Ari Abdul

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. and M. receiving) - Fingering - Nipple play - Slight body worship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Soft Dom! Seungcheol - Use of petnames - Praise kink - Slight choking

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

The Chimera cuts through the water like a dagger, her mahogany hull gleaming beneath the fading sun, sails taut with the Eastern wind. Just beyond the curve of the horizon, the city of Syracuse glimmers—a golden crown on the edge of the world, encircled by high cliff walls, bustling piers, and a towering lighthouse whose peak pulses faintly with a strange, ethereal glow.

Seungcheol leans against the railing of the upper deck, arms crossed over his broad chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The salt wind tousles his dark hair as his gaze settles on the lighthouse in the distance, its beacon like a slow heartbeat in the night. Behind him, the ship creaks and hums with life—his crew, his brothers, scurrying about with the chaotic energy of those who have lived too long on the edge of the law.

“You’re staring at it like it’s a woman,” Mingyu drawls behind him, arms folded as he climbs the short stairs to the quarterdeck. His long coat flaps behind him, half open over a sweat-stained shirt, hands already working a coin between his fingers. Seungcheol smirks but doesn’t look away. “That light’s worth more than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve clearly never met the wrong kind.” Soonyoung’s voice chimes in as he lifts himself up from below deck with a musket in one hand and a half-peeled orange in the other. “I knew a girl in Cádiz who nearly robbed me blind. Took my boots and my dignity.”

“Didn’t you say she married you first?” Wonwoo murmurs, barely glancing up from the map he’s unrolling on a barrel by the mast. His long fingers smooth the parchment with the reverence of a monk handling scripture. “Details,” Soonyoung mutters, plopping down beside him and tearing into his orange with more aggression than necessary. “Are we really doing this?” Chan’s voice cuts through the banter. He’s perched on a crate, still a little wide-eyed, grease smudges on his cheek from fiddling with the rigging, a wrench still tucked into his belt—the youngest of the crew, but no less capable. Seungcheol finally turns. “Aye,” he says. “We are.”

He strides down the steps, boots heavy on the deck. The crew naturally circles around—the Chimera’s heart pulsing with anticipation. Seungcheol plants himself in front of the map, stabbing a finger at the intricate image drawn in careful ink. “This is what we're after. The Book of Peace. It’s not just treasure. It’s practically holy. It was created before recorded time, by the first kings to seal an accord between the cities. Some believe it holds the very soul of harmony. That book is peace... and peace has a price.”

“That sounds like a curse waiting to happen,” Mingyu says. He glances at Seungcheol with a lazy grin. “How exactly do you steal a symbol of universal peace without pissing off every crowned head on the continent?”

“Easy,” Seungcheol replies without missing a beat. “We do it fast.” The others chuckle, but it’s Soonyoung who leans forward, his eyes glinting with excitement. “You’ve got a plan, then? Tell me it involves explosions. Please tell me it involves explosions.”

“Not this time,” Seungcheol replies. “We can’t afford chaos. We need timing. Precision. Grace.”

“So… not our speciality,” Chan pipes up, “Got it.” The crew laughs, and even Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle. Then he turns, his tone shifting. “The Book of Peace,” he begins, drawing a curved dagger from his belt and using it to trace lines in the map Wonwoo laid out, “is being moved from the Lighthouse of Syracuse to the Castle of Twelve. That’s our window. Security will be split—half guarding the docks, the other protecting the Kings. It’s the only time that the relic won’t be behind divine iron and twenty feet of stone.”

Minghao, who has been silent up in the crow’s nest, swings down with effortless grace and lands beside him. He’s quiet by nature, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, his tunic stitched with foreign symbols no one else can read.“We can’t storm the procession,” Minghao says softly. “They’ll expect trouble from outside the walls.” Seungcheol grins, full of teeth and madness. “Who said anything about storming?”

He flicks open a hidden compartment beneath the map barrel and pulls out a stack of folded garments—rich silks, polished buttons, embroidered vests. “We go in.” A beat of silence. Then—

“You want us to waltz into a Kings’ gala dressed like noblemen?” Mingyu laughs. “Not like noblemen,” Seungcheol says, rolling his eyes. “Like honoured guests. The guest list includes ambassadors from the outlying islands. And thanks to a certain barmaid in Messina who owed me a favour…” He produces a sealed envelope, the red wax glinting in the lantern light. “We’ve got their names.”

“And how, exactly,” Wonwoo says dryly, “are we supposed to impersonate nobility without anyone noticing our lack of... I don’t know… manners, refinement, the general ability to not stab someone over a spilt drink?”

“Speak for yourself,” Soonyoung snorts. “I’m extremely refined.” Chan groans. “You eat soup with a fork.” Seungcheol lifts a hand. “Enough. We’ll split roles. Mingyu and I go in first and distract the royal guards at the reception point. Minghao sneaks around back to unlock the secondary gate. Soonyoung guards the exit with Chan. Wonwoo will track the book’s movement from above using his maps and signal system. The moment they break from the lighthouse…”

He slams his fist on the map. “…we take it.”

“And then—Fiji.” Mingyu stretches his arms above his head and exhales like he’s already there. “White sands, sun for days. And no more jobs.”

“And umbrella drinks,” Soonyoung sighs. “Pineapple ones. With little swords.”

“I just want to sleep on a bed that isn’t swaying,” Chan groans, stretching his back. “Or full of rats.” The crew falls quiet at that. The waves slap against the hull like a ticking clock.

Then, Seungcheol leans in, breaking the silence. “Let’s steal a goddamn relic, then.”

Seungcheol adjusts the collar of his brocade jacket, resisting the urge to pull at the itchy fabric. It’s too fine, too clean, too stiff. He’s used to salt-worn shirts, wind-swept pants, and freedom. This? This feels like a noose in expensive thread. Beside him, Mingyu looks just as uncomfortable in his dark green doublet, but damn if he doesn’t wear it well. His hair’s swept back, a little neater than usual, and a ceremonial sword hangs at his hip—purely decorative, though it makes him look every inch the prince he isn’t. They move through the palace gates seamlessly, their falsified credentials passing without question. The guards don’t look twice—too distracted by the dozens of nobles arriving in droves, chatter echoing through the marble halls like waves against stone.

Inside, it’s another world.

The ballroom is lit with crystalline chandeliers that hang like captured stars. Gold trim glitters along the walls, every edge carved with symbols of the Twelve Cities. Platters overflow with delicacies—pomegranate-glazed roast fowl, lavender cakes, spiced lamb skewers, and enough wine to drown an army. Nobles and royals in gem-coloured fabrics swirl across the floor to the hum of lyres and flutes. Seungcheol walks slower than he should, taking it all in. “You seeing this?” Mingyu mutters beside him, voice low as they stroll past a statue of a god holding scales and a sceptre. “I see it,” Seungcheol replies, voice harder than expected.

It’s obscene.

The kind of wealth he’s never touched. The kind that could feed five villages for a year, but instead sits here, polished and powdered and perfectly indifferent. His jaw tightens. He grew up scraping fish guts from barrels. He knows the taste of hunger and the thirst for water. And now he’s in a palace where gold lines the plates and no one has calluses on their hands. Seungcheol inhales, the scent of roses and patchouli almost choking. “Wealth like this could feed every dockside orphan from here to Argos,” he mutters. “You getting sentimental on me, Captain?” Mingyu asks, his voice teasing but quiet, careful. Seungcheol shakes his head. “Just remembering what it’s like to be hungry.” He forces a smirk, scanning the room.

“Eyes on the guards,” he says. “We don’t have much time.” They move casually, pausing at tables, offering nods to passing nobles, and exchanging a few pleasant lies. Seungcheol counts—twelve guards inside the ballroom. Four more at the main door. Two by the arch leading back to the gallery where the Book will be displayed. Another pair flanking the massive marble stairs.

Twenty. And those are just the visible ones. Mingyu taps the rim of his goblet, a silent signal. He’s seen the same. Seungcheol’s eyes flicker to the high windows, where he knows Wonwoo is perched somewhere above, watching with hawk-like precision, drawing every detail into that steel trap of a mind. Farther behind the palace, Minghao slips along the garden’s edge like a ghost, searching for the latch to the side gate. And Soonyoung? He waits in the alley, blade hidden, eyes alert. Chan watches from the exit path with his nervous heart in his throat. It’s all going smoothly.

Until—

“Seungcheol?”

The voice stops him mid-step. No. It can’t be. He turns. And for the first time in ten years, he comes face-to-face with a ghost from a better time.

Joshua.

His childhood best friend. His brother in all but blood. And the reason he once believed in goodness. Dressed in ceremonial blue and gold, sword at his hip, medallion at his chest—he looks every bit the crown prince Seungcheol knew he would become. Joshua’s face lights up. “Gods, it is you.” Seungcheol stares for a second too long, then quickly pulls on a grin. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Joshua laughs, stepping in and wrapping him in a firm, brief hug. Seungcheol hesitates—just for a moment—before clapping his old friend on the back. “Head of the royal guard now?” Seungcheol asks as they pull apart. “Didn’t think you’d still be chasing rules.”

“Someone has to keep Syracuse from crumbling,” Joshua replies with a chuckle. “And you? Still chasing trouble?”

“Chasing myths,” Seungcheol says with a smirk. “Heard the Book was real. Had to see it with my own eyes.”

Joshua perks up with pride. “You’re in luck. Tonight, it passes through the city before it returns to the vault. And I’ve been entrusted with its protection.”

Seungcheol’s stomach twists. Of all the people. He doesn’t let it show. “I feel safer already.” Mingyu appears at his side, ever punctual, ever perceptive. His eyes flicker from Joshua to Seungcheol in quiet curiosity. “Joshua, this is Mingyu,” Seungcheol says quickly, voice light. “Old friend. One of the few people who still puts up with me.” Joshua laughs. “He must be either brave or stupid.”

“Definitely stupid,” Seungcheol replies with a smirk. Joshua looks like he’s about to make another joke, when suddenly, his eyes light up. “You have to meet someone,” he says, excitement bursting across his features. “She’s here tonight. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”

You turn at the sound of Joshua’s voice.

You already know you’ll have to be gracious. You’ve done this before—smiled for visiting nobles, curtsied for fussy kings, exchanged pleasantries with fat, red-faced merchants smelling of cloves and greed. The mask is familiar. Comfortable. Tonight you wear it again.

Your gown is seafoam blue, embroidered with silver thread along the bodice and sleeves, fitted perfectly by your handmaidens hours before. Your hair is swept back in elegant waves, fastened with pearls and a diadem from your late mother’s collection. You look every inch the Princess of Mdina—polished, serene, composed.

But your eyes betray you. Because as you turn fully, you see him.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, effortlessly handsome in the most unruly way—he doesn’t look like a nobleman. His coat is fine, yes, tailored and dark, but it fits him like it resents him. His sleeves are too tight around his biceps. His hair, though combed, has clearly fought back. His jaw is cut from something unrelenting, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—dark and assessing, settle on you like you’re a storm he saw coming and ran toward anyway.

Joshua’s voice is warm as he goes to stand beside you. “This is Seungcheol. My childhood best friend.” Your spine straightens just a little more. The pirate, you think, though, of course, he isn’t introduced that way. No one would dare. Not in this room.

Still, you’ve heard the stories. Joshua told you over candlelight, in those rare moments between duties. A boy from the slums of the lower districts. A dreamer, a fighter. Wild. Loyal. Fearless. And foolish. You tilt your chin, expression practised and polite. “So you’re the infamous one.”

He grins slowly, like your words are a flirtation instead of a challenge. “Infamous? I was under the impression Joshua painted me as heroic.”

“He did,” you say. “But heroes don’t usually get chased by guards on rooftops.” He laughs—full-bodied and warm. “That’s when I was young. I’ve grown into a respectable man.” You arch a brow. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” His smile doesn’t waver, but you see the flicker in his eyes.

A spark you recognise because you’ve had it yourself before—on the rare nights you snuck out through the servants’ corridors and climbed the cliffs alone. When you looked at the stars and wondered what the rest of the world tastes like. Intrigue, curiosity, recklessness. He looks like all of those things combined. And you hate him for it.

“Seungcheol,” Joshua says with a grin, “this is—”

“The Princess of Mdina,” Seungcheol finishes for him, his eyes never leaving yours. “you must be the one who stole Joshua’s heart.” You hold his gaze. “It wasn’t a difficult theft. He left the gates open.” Joshua chuckles beside you, his hand resting lightly on your back. Seungcheol’s smile tightens at the corners. “Well, I suppose every treasure finds its keeper eventually.” You raise a brow. “I didn’t realise pirates cared for court gossip.” He chuckles. “I didn’t realise princesses believed everything they were told.”

“You don’t seem as particularly impressive in person as in the stories,” you say. His voice is lower now. “Don’t worry, Princess. I don’t find you all that impressive either.” Joshua barks a laugh between you, oblivious to the tension blooming like storm clouds. He pulls you closer to his side.

“Gods, I forgot how quick you both are with your words,” he says, clearly entertained. “I might regret this already.” You smile at Joshua and let your hand rest lightly on his arm. He leans in and kisses your cheek, and you respond with practised affection.

Seungcheol feels something shift in his chest at the sight of Joshua so at peace. Guilt that tastes like bile on his tongue. He can’t do it. He can’t steal the Book.

He covers the turmoil with a smile and steps back. “It’s good to see you, Joshua. Really.”

“And you, old friend,” Joshua says sincerely. “It’s been too long.”

Suddenly, the horns sound across the ballroom, breaking the moment. “The Book is on the move.”

The room shifts. The mood tightens. Guards begin to take position along the corridors, and the music slows to a ceremonial cadence. Seungcheol turns, walking away without another word. Mingyu hesitates for a beat, watching the expression darken behind his captain’s eyes, then follows.

You watch him go.

The celebration carries on behind them like a fading dream—laughter echoes, glasses clink, music fades into a low hum. Outside the grand ballroom, the city of Syracuse holds its breath. The crowd has shifted, no longer drunk on wine but on wonder.

Seungcheol and Mingyu step into the open air, blending into the velvet-clad nobles and wide-eyed onlookers gathered along the procession route. The night is still, save for the rhythmic march of guards escorting the artefact.

A floating platform glides along the ancient path from the lighthouse to the palace, suspended by hidden mechanisms and lit from within. The Book sits in its centre—radiant and pulsing, casting light like liquid silver across the cobbled streets and alabaster towers.

It is beautiful. Too beautiful.

Seungcheol watches it come closer, not moving. His jaw is set, arms loosely crossed, and his expression unreadable. Mingyu doesn’t take his eyes off him. “You’re quiet,” he says. Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away.

He watches the Book. Watches how people react to it, how they fall into silence, how they reach out as if basking in divinity itself. Then, quietly: “Just thinking.” Mingyu studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “We’re not doing this, are we?” It’s not a question. It’s a truth spoken simply. Seungcheol lets out a long breath, his eyes never leaving the procession.

“No.”

Mingyu doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to. He’s known Seungcheol long enough to read him like a compass—when his needle shifts, you follow the pull. He claps Seungcheol on the back with a dry smile. “I’ll get the others. We’ll be at the Chimera by the time you make peace with whatever existential crisis you’re having.” Seungcheol huffs a laugh despite himself. “Thanks, Gyu.” Mingyu turns, disappearing into the crowd.

Seungcheol walks away, through alleys bathed in soft torchlight. Through winding streets that once knew his bare feet as a boy. The energy of the city presses in around him—gasping citizens pointing at the glow of the Book, songs half-sung from balconies, little children perched on crates to glimpse history. And yet, he feels utterly apart from it all.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe nowhere. Maybe home—if he still had such a thing. The cobblestones glisten faintly under the magic light. Somewhere distant, the platform continues to float, its precious cargo slowly making its way to the palace vault.

That’s when he hears it. A voice, low and smooth, curling like smoke around the silence. “You look troubled, Captain.”

He stops.

A woman stands in the alley ahead of him, just beyond the reach of the lanternlight. Her gown is dark, glinting only faintly, like ink catching fire. Her hair spills down her back, long and black and impossibly still despite the breeze. But it’s her eyes—unblinking and shimmering silver—that set every nerve in Seungcheol on edge.

He immediately straightens. “Who are you?” he asks, cold but calm. The woman takes a slow step forward, lips curling into something that’s almost a smile. “I’m someone who sees more than most.” Seungcheol narrows his gaze. “That’s not a name.”

“Call me Cordia.”

The name rings no bells. Still, there is something about her—it’s as though the shadows themselves lean in to listen when she speaks. She circles him now, like a vulture, and he turns to keep her in his periphery. “It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” she muses, tilting her head toward the distant glow of the Book. “Such a curious little artefact. Sacred, yes. But mostly forgotten. The Kings worship it, lock it in a tower, drag it around like a trophy—but do they use it?”

Seungcheol says nothing.

“Of course they don’t,” she goes on, “because to use it would mean sharing. And power, real power, is never shared freely.”

“What’s your point?”

She stops in front of him and tilts her head. “My point, darling Seungcheol, is that there are men—rare men—who remember what it’s like to have nothing. Who understand what it means to claw their way from the gutter. Men who might look at that Book and think: why not me?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you think you know.”“Oh, but you do.” Her smile turns razor-sharp. “I know about the Chimera. I know about your map. Your crew. The side gate. The window between guard rotations. I know about your plan.”

His blood turns cold. She steps closer, eyes gleaming. “And I know... you abandoned it.” He stands his ground, steel in his voice now. “Some things aren’t worth the risk.” Cordia’s mouth curls, displeased. “Shame. I thought you were different.”

She starts to walk again, circling. “I thought, perhaps, the tides had sent me a man with a little spine. A little hunger. But no, just another good boy with a guilty conscience and a lost heart.” Seungcheol’s temper flares. “Say what you came to say. Then leave.” She stops behind him. He can feel her breath on his neck.

“I only came to say this, Captain…” Her voice drops. “You may not want the Book anymore. But someone else does. And now? There’s no stopping what’s begun.”

He whirls around—But the alley is empty.

He exhales, shaking his head—And then suddenly, the light vanishes, plunging the city into darkness. An unnatural shadow floods the streets—cloaking the buildings, extinguishing the torches, silencing the celebration with fear. Screams echo faintly in the distance. Metal clatters. Hooves strike stone.

Seungcheol stands frozen, heart hammering.

And then he hears it—boots. Fast, heavy, purposeful. Down the hill they come—torches flaring now, drawn swords gleaming, the Royal Guard flooding through the street.“There! That’s him!” one of them shouts. “The thief—get him!”

“What?” Seungcheol growls, but it’s too late. They’re on him. He runs. He vaults over a barrel and ducks into a corridor—but there are too many. They circle him, corner him against a wall, blades drawn.

He draws his sword, breathing hard, furious and confused. “I didn’t touch it!” They don’t care. Steel clashes. Seungcheol fights hard—but it’s four against one. Then six. Then eight. A strike to the ribs. His sword knocked from his hand. A kick to his knee. He stumbles towards the ground.

As the guards pin his arms behind his back and shackle his hands, Seungcheol spits blood and glares up at the guard in front of him. “What the hell is going on?” he growls.

“You’re under arrest,” the guard snarls. “By order of the King of Syracuse. For the theft of the Book of Peace.”

Inside the war room, panic simmers beneath the opulence. A great round table rests at the centre, its surface carved with the seal of the Twelve Cities. Candles burn low, flickering against the emerald drapery and golden tapestries, their light now feeble, as if even fire itself is uncertain.

The Kings sit in their ornate chairs, a storm of arguments building with each breath.

“It’s unthinkable—how could the Book simply vanish from under our noses?!”

“Was it magic? Sabotage? We had twenty men on the procession!”

“This will break the Accord if word gets out—our cities will riot—”

The voices blur, colliding into each other like waves in a tempest. Joshua stands near the edge of the table, fists clenched behind his back, doing everything in his power not to explode.

You sit beside him, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your face carefully composed. You’ve done this before—watched politics unfold like plays, each man posturing louder than the last. But never like this. Never with someone you knew on trial. And never with someone you have come to care about standing in the crossfire.

Joshua opens his mouth to speak—again—but the King of Syracuse slams his ringed fist against the marble, making everyone go silent. “Don’t defend him, Joshua. Not him. Not that piece of dockside scum you dared to drag into our home.”

Joshua flinches ever so slightly.

The King—his father—is red in the face, spit gathering at the corner of his mouth as he begins to pace around the table like a lion whose pride has been insulted.

“From the moment I laid eyes on that gutter-born child, I knew he’d be trouble. Following you like a stray dog through the streets. Filling your head with rebellion, dragging you into fights, sneaking you out of the palace—scandalising you. I should have banished him from Syracuse then and there. But no. You begged me to spare him.”

Joshua’s jaw tightens, but he stays quiet.

“And now you see what he’s done. Ten years he vanishes, and suddenly he returns not with apology or shame, but with deceit. He hides behind fine clothes and false names. He slips into our palace, mocks our hospitality, and steals the holiest artefact this continent has ever known.”

Across the table, one of the older kings from the Southern Isles clears his throat, trying to interject with a calmer voice. “Perhaps we should focus on recovering the Book—”

“The Book is gone!” the King of Syracuse roars. “And you want to waste time on a scavenger hunt? Our alliance means nothing now that the artefact is lost. That light protected us all—and now the skies are dark, and we are vulnerable. This is war. This is sabotage. And we must punish those who betray our trust.”

You steal a glance at Joshua. He’s barely breathing. The tension in his shoulders has locked him in place. The King slams his hand on the table again. “He is guilty. If that criminal does not return the Book himself, then he will be executed by the terms of the Accord. As will any who shelter him.”

Joshua finally speaks, quiet but firm. “He didn’t take it.”

The King turns on him, sneering. “You’re still deluded. Still loyal to some childhood fantasy. But this isn’t a boyhood story, son. This is treason. And if he doesn’t bring the Book back, he will die for it.”

Joshua takes a step forward. “Then let me speak to him.”

“What?”

“Let me speak to him,” Joshua repeats, louder. “I’ll find out what happened. I’ll get the truth. And if he has it—if there’s any chance he can return it—I’ll make sure he does.”

The chamber is deathly silent. Then the King narrows his eyes, his voice dripping with disdain. “And what if he doesn’t? What if you’re wrong? What if he vanishes again, like he did ten years ago?”

Joshua doesn’t hesitate. He stares his father down, unwavering. “Then you can execute me in his place.” Your breath catches.

The room erupts in chaos—shouts from multiple kings, cries of outrage, murmurs of disbelief. You don’t hear them. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Joshua, the man who always carried duty like a second skin, just signed his life away in defence of someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade. Someone the rest of the realm would see hanged without blinking. You can’t make sense of it.

The King leans back, stunned by his son’s rebellion. The air shifts. You see it in Joshua’s face—he’s made peace with it. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the chamber, pushing open the heavy oak doors and vanishing into the stone corridors beyond.

You rise instantly. “Princess—” one of the older kings starts. But you don’t hear him either. Your legs are already moving, your silk skirts flittering over the stone as you rush out of the room and into the shadows that chase Joshua’s retreat.

He’s halfway down the torchlit hall when you catch up. “Joshua, wait—” He doesn’t stop. You jog to match his stride, reaching out to catch his arm. “Please. Just talk to me.” He stops at the end of the corridor, finally turning.

His face is tired. Not physically. But in the soul-deep way, that only comes from being forced to choose between love and loyalty. “You don’t understand,” he says softly. You stare at him. “Then help me. Help me understand why you’re ready to die for a man who’s been nothing but a ghost in your life for the past ten years.”

His mouth parts slightly. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Because he saved my life once, too. When we were boys. When no one else did.” You blink. “That was a long time ago.”

“And I still owe him for it.” Your lips press together, heart twisting painfully. You want to argue. You want to shout that this is foolish, that he’s risking everything—not just his life, but yours too. If he dies, you are nothing.

Not just by custom. But by contract. No husband. No alliance. No worth. Your father will disown you. You’ll be sent back to Mdina in disgrace. You will be a daughter who failed to become a queen, a woman with no crown and no value. Joshua is not just your fiancé. He is your freedom in a different form.

But you also see it. The conviction. The man he’s become. The same loyalty that made you believe in him in the first place.

The very reason you agreed to marry him at all.

Your voice is quieter now. “Then what happens if you’re wrong?” Joshua looks at you with eyes that seem older than they should be. “Then I die for someone I once called a brother. And I die knowing I didn’t abandon him when the world already had.”

You stand there, frozen, as he turns again and disappears down the corridor, heading for the prison wing buried beneath the palace. You can’t let him go through with it. You can’t let him risk your future, and his. Not without doing something.

So you make a decision.

The walls are damp. Cold seeps through the cracks in the stone, curling into Seungcheol’s skin. The cell is small—just large enough for him to stretch out his legs and feel the edges of his confinement. The air smells of iron, mildew, and rot, like time itself has decayed in here, and no one bothered to notice.

A single candle flickers near the far wall, its stubby wax body melting slowly into the cracked floor. Its light barely touches the edges of the darkness, casting long, restless shadows on the walls. But Seungcheol doesn’t move. He sits slumped against the back wall, legs drawn up and arms resting over his knees, the thick iron shackles around his wrists still biting into the raw skin beneath.

His lip is split. There’s a bruise blossoming along his jaw. His ribs ache when he breathes too deeply. But the pain isn’t what bothers him. What bothers him is the silence. The silence and the impossible question he can’t stop asking himself:

How did it come to this?

He closes his eyes, letting the weight of everything press in. He hadn’t even done it. He hadn’t lifted a finger toward that damn Book, hadn’t stolen it, hadn’t broken a single lock or cast a single shadow in the direction of the artefact. He’d walked away. For once, he’d walked away. And still, the world managed to throw him in a cell for a crime he didn’t commit.

A dry, humourless breath escapes him. He lifts his gaze toward the barred window, narrow and high up the wall, no bigger than a ship’s porthole. Through it, far in the distance, across the quiet water of the harbour—there she is.

The Chimera. Docked and still.

Even from here, he can make out the curve of her hull, the low-slung sails folded neatly, the faintest flicker of a lantern swinging on the quarterdeck. His boys hadn’t abandoned him. If the Chimera still waited, it meant Mingyu, Wonwoo, Minghao, Soonyoung, and Chan were out there. Planning. Watching. Trusting him. And—more importantly—it meant none of them had done it either. That truth is the only thing keeping his chest from caving in.

The sound of distant boots echoes in the hallway, but he ignores it. Another guard, maybe. Another jeer. A muttered insult. They’ve been taunting him all night, calling him “the thief of peace,” laughing about what the gallows will feel like. He doesn’t rise to it.

Then—

The candle sputters violently. Its flame dances, then vanishes, snuffed out by an unnatural gust of wind that seems to creep under the door and swirl around him. The darkness swallows the room whole. His head snaps up. And there—where there was once only shadow—stands her.

Cordia.

The same dark gown. The same honey-slick voice. Her eyes gleam faintly in the black. Seungcheol’s mouth twists. “Of fucking course.” Cordia smirks, unaffected by his bitterness. “You always did have excellent timing, Captain.” He doesn’t move, but the muscles in his shoulders coil like a drawn bow. “It was you.”

“You catch on quick,” she purrs, circling him with leisurely steps. He stares up at her, fury churning under his skin. “You set me up.”

“I encouraged fate.”

“You framed me!” he growls, pushing himself upright despite the shackles and pain. “Why?” Cordia lets out a laugh that is far too amused, far too pleased. “Because this is what I do, Seungcheol.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

She walks along the edges of the cell, trailing her fingertips along the wall like she’s admiring art. Seungcheol watches her every movement, every tilt of her head, trying to find something human behind that smirk. But there’s nothing.

“You play the martyr well,” she says suddenly. “But let’s not pretend you were some innocent lamb. You were going to steal it. You were going to take the Book and sell it to the highest bidder.” Seungcheol falls silent. Because she’s not wrong. Cordia raises a brow. “No rebuttal, Captain?”

“Plans change.” His voice is low.

She laughs again. “No. You changed.” Her tone is mocking now. “Is that what this is? A pirate with a heart? Spare me.”Seungcheol clenches his jaw. “You got what you wanted. Why are you here?” Cordia stops pacing. She steps toward him, close now. Closer than he likes. “Because, darling,” she whispers, “the game has only just begun.” His brow furrows.

“What?”

“You can fix this. You can clear your name. Redeem that soft little soul you’re pretending not to have.” He laughs dryly. “From this hellhole I'm currently in? Yeah, right.” She slips a dagger from somewhere beneath her bodice and holds it lightly, like a lover. Then, in one smooth movement, she presses the tip to her chest and draws a cross over where her heart would be.

“Cross my heart,” she says with mock solemnity. “I’m not lying.”

Seungcheol stares at her, unimpressed. “And you expect me to believe anything that comes out of that mouth of yours?” Cordia tuts. “You’re not very trusting for someone about to die.” He growls. “Then say it. What’s the deal?”

She leans in, her smile curling like smoke. “Ten days. That’s what you have—ten days to retrieve the Book and return it to Syracuse. You’ll travel to the edge of the world. You’ll face challenges along the way—but a sailor of your talents should manage.” He narrows his eyes. “And what’s the catch?” Cordia pauses.

Her tone drops into something colder. Harder. “If you fail—if you don’t return in time, or if you fail to return the Book—Prince Joshua dies in your place.”

The silence in the cell deepens and becomes almost physical. Seungcheol stares at her, stunned. “What?”

“He vouched for you,” she says, almost gleeful. “He stood before the kings. Put his life on the line. Said he’d die if you didn’t come through.” Seungcheol’s chest tightens painfully. “That idiot...” Cordia shrugs. “It’s touching, really. But the clock’s ticking.”

He looks down at his shackles and his bruised wrists. Then back at her. “Why does any of this matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” she says breezily. “But a deal’s a deal. And now, it’s yours. If you want it.” Footsteps sound not far away. Steady. Familiar. Cordia turns toward the shadows, lips curling into a wicked grin. “Sounds like your prince is coming.”

“Wait—” Seungcheol steps forward.

She laughs one last time. “Make the right choice, Seungcheol.”

And then, just like before, she vanishes—disappearing into the darkness like she was never there.

The Chimera rocks gently in the harbour; her sails still furled but alive with anticipation. The sea, always humming, feels quieter tonight—like it’s waiting.

On deck, boots pound against worn planks as Seungcheol climbs aboard, battered, bruised, and brooding. The moonlight spills over his shoulders, highlighting the blood on his shirt, the dirt on his skin, and the fire still burning behind his eyes.

The moment his feet hit the main deck, his crew swarms him.

“What the hell happened?” Soonyoung is the first to pounce, eyes wide. “We heard the commotion from the alley—then guards running everywhere—then you vanished!”

Minghao leans against the mast, arms folded, but his voice is sharp. “You didn’t follow the plan. We were ready, and then, nothing.”

“Who stole the Book?” Wonwoo asks, stepping down from the rigging. His map still clutched in one hand. “If it wasn’t us, then who beat us to it?”

“How the hell did you get caught?” Chan blurts, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice.

“And more importantly—” Mingyu cuts through them all, arms crossed, jaw tense, “how did you escape?”

Seungcheol raises a hand, his voice calm but with an edge of finality. “Enough.”

Silence falls like a wave. Seungcheol scans each of their faces—their loyalty, their questions, their expectations. He’s not ready to speak. Not on everything. Not yet. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “It’s not our problem.” Murmurs stir again, but his following words silence them entirely.

“Mingyu,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Set sail for Fiji.” Seungcheol begins walking toward his quarters without a glance back. “It’s about time we retired.”

The door to his private quarters creaks open, the warm scent of cedar and sea salt welcoming him back to the only space that still feels like his. He exhales, slow and sharp, his shoulders slumping with the weight of everything he hasn’t said as he closes the door.

Cold steel presses to his throat from behind. His entire body stills.

“Move, and I’ll open your neck from ear to ear.”

He exhales through his nose, more annoyed than surprised. “What is it with women trying to kill me tonight?” he mutters. You shove him back a step, enough for him to turn without disarming you, though the dagger remains raised between you.

He looks you over, unimpressed. “Hello, Princess.”

“You’re going to find the Book of Peace,” you say, voice low and hard, “and you’re going to return it. Now.” He blinks. And then he laughs. A humourless, deep, exhausted laugh that makes you want to punch him. “I’m not doing anything, sweetheart,” he says. “It’s not my problem.”

“Not your—?!” you snap, stepping forward. “Joshua took your place! He stood before the kings, before his father, and gave his life to buy you time!” The change in him is instant. His jaw tightens. His posture straightens. But his anger matches yours.

“I didn’t ask him to do that!”

“But he did, Seungcheol. He did. He stood up for you, and if you walk away now, he’ll die for it.”

You’re shouting. You didn’t mean to. But you can’t help it. The words claw their way out of your chest. “And if the Book is not returned, the Accord falls apart. Chaos will follow. Syracuse will burn. What then? Do you sail off into the sun with your crew and let your city fall to pieces behind you?

He glares up at you. “My city? The same city that threw me to the streets as a child? A city that branded me trash and turned its back the first time I stumbled? I owe Syracuse nothing. I owe the kings nothing. They were ready to string me up the second the lights went out.”

“Then prove them wrong!” you scream.

“Why?!” His voice booms now, rising with his frustration. “So I can play the hero while they spit on my name anyway? You want me to die for honour? For duty? Those words are worth nothing to people like me!”

Your chest is heaving, and your voice cuts sharper now. “Because some of us don’t have the luxury of running away!” His head snaps toward you.

“I grew up hearing stories of men like you—pirates who stood against kings, who fought with honour, who chose courage over cowardice. And now I meet you, and all I see is a man who wants to quit. Who hides behind excuses instead of doing the right thing.”

He scowls. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, I do.” You glare at him, stepping toe-to-toe now, chest burning. “I saw it the moment I met you. That cocky grin? That swagger? It’s all smoke. You’re not a hero. You’re a coward. A selfish man who hides behind charm so no one sees the empty core.”

He says nothing. You spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you look over your shoulder, disgusted.

“I wonder what your crew would think of you if they knew the truth.”

And that—that—snaps something in him.

In a blur, he crosses the room and slams his hand against the wall, blocking your path. You whirl around, dagger raised, but he doesn’t flinch. “You talk about sacrifice like you know it,” he says lowly. “But you’re not doing this for Joshua. You’re doing this to save yourself. Your position. Your title. Because if he dies, you lose everything.”

Your breath hitches.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You’re just like me, Princess. Two sides of the same damn coin.”

“No,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Because at least I’m doing something about it.” He steps closer to you, cornering you, his breath hot against your cheek as his eyes lock on yours.

“And if I agree,” he murmurs, “if I bring back the Book and save your darling little fiancé... what do I get in return?”

You don’t break eye contact as you reach slowly into your pouch and withdraw the small bag tied to your hip. You loosen the knot and let the contents fall into his palm.

Red diamonds. Dozens of them.

He stares at them for a long moment. Then his lips curl. A grin spreads across his face—feral, cocky, and very much alive. “Well, Princess,” he murmurs, “you should’ve just said you were hiring a pirate.”

He spins and bursts out of the cabin like a storm unchained. You follow him, stunned, as he bounds up to the deck and shouts over the wind. “Change of plans!” he bellows.

The crew—all half-lounging, half-arguing—whip around in confusion. “We’re going after the Book.”

Soonyoung’s mouth drops open. “Wait, what?” Mingyu steps forward. “Where is it?” Seungcheol grins.“ At world’s end.”

Chaos ensues.

“Are you serious?”

“How the hell do we get there?”

“Why are we listening to you again?”

Soonyoung finally shouts over the din, pointing behind Seungcheol. “Uh—Captain? Who’s the lady?”

Seungcheol turns back, and all eyes follow his gaze as they land on you—still standing a little stiff in the centre of the deck, the dagger now sheathed under your cloak. “This, is our newest passenger.”

Then his eyes glint with something darker. Something amusing and very inconvenient.

“She’ll be joining us on the voyage.”

You’ve only spent two days at sea, but it feels like a different life entirely.

Gone are the corseted dresses and laced bodices, the polished silver combs and pearl-dusted shoes. You wear loose breeches now—weathered, a little too long, rolled at the ankles—and a white shirt you stole from a chest in the hold, sleeves tied up above your elbows. Your hair whips freely in the salt air, unbound for the first time in years.

There’s grime beneath your fingernails. Rope burns on your palms. A sun-kissed glow settling into your skin.

You’ve never felt so alive.

The ship rocks beneath your feet, wild and rhythmic, the sails groaning with each gust. The wind is a constant companion—slapping, roaring, tangling your hair. And while you’re still finding your footing (literally and figuratively), the crew has embraced you far more quickly than you expected.

Soonyoung, the loudest of them, has resorted to clinging to you like an overeager puppy. He insists on calling you ‘My Lady’ in the most dramatic, theatrical tone possible, and makes a great show of saluting you every time you pass him on deck.

Chan, the youngest, practically beams every time you ask him a question about knots or sails. He follows Soonyoung’s lead in treating you like royalty—but with a kind of awe that makes you smile instead of bristle.

Minghao and Wonwoo are more reserved, both of them often keeping to themselves or murmuring quietly in the shadow of the sails. But they nod when you speak, sometimes offering calm corrections or quiet insight. Minghao surprised you yesterday by handing you a fig he’d somehow smuggled on board, simply saying, “You looked homesick.”

But not everyone has been welcoming.

From the wheel, Seungcheol watches you like a storm brewing on the horizon.

Every time you laugh with the crew, his brows pull tighter. Every time you roll up your sleeves to help scrub the deck, he mutters under his breath. Every time Soonyoung teaches you something new and ridiculous—like the hidden flamethrowers rigged beneath the starboard hull—Seungcheol sighs dramatically and mutters something about “idiots with too much enthusiasm.”

You try to ignore him. Most of the time, you succeed. But when you don’t—you argue. Loudly.

So loudly, the entire crew stops what they’re doing to listen. And now, on the second day, you find yourself once again at the centre of their amusement.

“Princess, let me show you how the harpoons work!” Soonyoung had grinned this morning, gripping your wrist before you could protest. “They’re hidden in the front of the ship. Serrated, retractable, brilliant.”

Chan, walking close behind, had added, “We rarely use them unless something with teeth comes after us.”

You had blinked at that. “What kind of something with teeth?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Soonyoung had said brightly. “Come on, my Lady! You’ll love this!”

They seem to delight in your confusion and wonder at every new piece of the ship, and they show you everything. Every trapdoor. Every hidden blade. Every half-working cannon.

Even the ones Seungcheol hasn’t touched in years.

You’re standing on the forecastle of the ship now, leaning over a concealed loading mechanism as Soonyoung animatedly describes the best way to ignite the twin-fire barrels when—

“You’d break your wrist trying to fire it like that.”

You glance down sharply.

Seungcheol stands at the bottom of the steps; one hand braced on the wooden beam, his brow arched like he’s just caught a child lying. Soonyoung snorts and mumbles something about checking on the sails, practically skipping down the stairs to leave you alone.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like I’m trying to shoot it.”

“You said it was ready,” Seungcheol replies, ascending slowly. “And it’s not. If you load the powder before locking the rotation pin, it misfires and tears the recoil plate clean off.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him. “You must be a joy at parties.” He steps into the space beside you, inspecting the weapon with a critical eye. “You’re the one who wants to play sailor. Don’t complain when someone points out you’re playing it wrong.”

“I wasn’t playing anything,” you say coolly. “I was listening. Which is what you could try doing once in a while.” Seungcheol scoffs, straightening. “Hard to listen when you never stop talking.”

You take a sharp breath, and just like that—you’re off. “You could just say thank you. You know, for me, trying to help.”

“You could stay out of things you don’t understand.”

“I’m learning—”

“Then learn quietly.”

The crew is practically holding their breath. Mingyu’s behind the wheel, keeping the ship’s course steady, smirking like this is the best entertainment he’s had in months. You step closer. “Why don’t you just admit you don’t like that I’m here?”

He scoffs. “What gave you that idea? The way you flirt with my crew every chance you get or the way you pretend to know everything after only two days on the water?”

“I’ve done no such thing—”

“Oh right, and I’m blind.”

You’re about to shoot back—something scathing, probably—when Mingyu raises his voice and interrupts flatly:

“Not to ruin the foreplay, but you might want to look ahead.”

You and Seungcheol whip your heads simultaneously.

A narrow opening in a line of towering cliffs—grey, jagged, and half-submerged in churning waters approaches you. Mist curls along the rocks, and sunken ship masts jut from the waves. The cavern walls are just wide enough for a ship to pass through, maybe.

Wonwoo squints from his perch near the quarterdeck. “Shipwreck’s Grotto.”

“Place gives me the creeps,” Chan mutters. “It should,” Minghao says. “Half the legends say no one makes it out the other side.”

You glance towards Seungcheol.

His jaw is tight. He turns, addressing the crew as he makes his way towards the wheel. You follow behind him silently. “Alright, boys,” he calls, voice clear and hard. “Drop the sails. Ready the rudder. We go in nice and easy.”

You swallow hard, the wind catching your hair. Soonyoung murmurs, “We’re going through that?”

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Only way forward,” he says.

The ship moves slowly under the measured hand of its captain. Her mahogany hull cuts carefully through the water, threading between reef and rock. Above, seagulls cry, but even their calls seem distant, swallowed by the dense fog coiling through the cavernous stone walls. The only real sound is the rhythmic drip of condensation falling from the overhangs, the occasional creak of rope, and the splash of waves against splintered wood.

Minghao’s voice rings out, low but steady. “Reef to port. Five meters. Sharp shelf ahead.”

His silhouette perches from the crow’s nest, legs hooked around the crossbeam, his spyglass flashing with the faintest light as he scans ahead.

Seungcheol stands behind the wheel; his entire body braced with tension. The lines of his jaw are tight, his grip white-knuckled. You stand to his right, your fingers brushing the hilt of your dagger at your hip—more for reassurance than necessity. Mingyu is on his left, arms folded, eyes flicking between the rocks and the horizon.

No one speaks.

The grotto is sacred in its stillness—a graveyard of ships and stories.

You pass the first wreck after fifteen minutes. A small cutter, no name visible, her mast snapped like a twig. The hull is cracked in half, one side suspended on a jagged stone, the other submerged. Torn sails drift like ghostly banners beneath the surface.

“Gods,” Chan whispers from the lower deck, eyes wide.

“There’s more,” Minghao calls again. “A whole fleet—dead ahead.” And indeed, as the Chimera crawls forward, the graveyard reveals itself. A merchant ship, barnacle-crusted and canted sideways. A war galleon, its cannons rusted and useless, ribs broken open like a carcass. A half-burned skiff tangled in the limbs of another, their final collision frozen in time.

You feel it in your bones—this place is wrong.

Seungcheol barks an order—“Trim the foresail, two degrees starboard. Watch the reef under the bow.”—and the men obey. His voice cuts through the fog with precision, and the ship shifts just in time to avoid a jagged outcrop lurking beneath the surface.

You watch him. For all his scowls and grumbling and sharp-edged arrogance, he’s in his element here. As he charts the way through a corridor of destruction, his presence pulses beside you—commanding, tangible, frustrating.

The air grows heavier. The mist thicker.

And then—You hear it. A whisper, tucked beneath the creak of the hull and the lapping of waves.

A melody.

It doesn’t make sense at first. It could be the wind. The groan of old wood. You brush it off. But it comes again.

A few soft notes, drifting upward like bubbles from the deep. It’s not music exactly, but something close—a kind of calling.

You turn slowly, looking out across the water.

Mist clings to the surface in swirling patches. Light plays tricks here—turning shadows into shapes and reflections into illusions. You narrow your eyes. Just beneath the waves, something moves. A shimmer of silver, gone as quickly as it came. You blink.

The music—if it is music—is louder now. It’s still not clear, but it’s beautiful. Ethereal. It pulls at something in you, something distant. You shake it off.

You turn back to the helm—and freeze. Seungcheol is slumped over the wheel. His hands no longer hold the handles, and his posture is slackened. His eyes are far away. Unfocused. Glazed with a sheen of awe, as if he’s staring into a dream, not the rotting shipwrecks ahead.

“Seungcheol?” you ask, your voice low. He doesn’t respond. You step closer. “Captain?” Still nothing. You reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. It’s rock-solid—tense and unmoving.

Voices. Singing. Soft, lilting harmonies that weave into one another, are beckoning. Your blood runs cold.

You run to the rail, lean over, and that’s when you see them.

Figures in the water. Pale, otherworldly, gliding just beneath the surface. Long hair fanning out behind them like ink in water, eyes glowing faintly beneath the waves.

Sirens.

You don’t think. You act.

The only thing you can hear now is your own breath—ragged, quick, almost desperate. The melodies rise in waves, crashing over the crew in pulses. And they fall, one by one. Not physically, but mentally. Pulled under the spell.

You reach for the wheel, grabbing it with both hands, the polished wood slick beneath your touch. The ship has already veered off-course, inching dangerously close to a spire of rock waiting like a fang to tear through the hull. You spin the wheel hard—your shoulders scream with the force—and the ship groans in protest. The hull misses the stone by a breath, scraping along the jagged edge with a deafening screech.

Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“Get it together,” you mutter to yourself, blinking the sweat from your lashes. The ship pitches under your feet as it glides forward. You grab hold of the spokes for balance as you scan the deck.

The crew is drifting—towards the edges.

You spot Soonyoung first, eyes glazed, a hand outstretched as if reaching for something just out of view. You grab the nearest length of coiled rope and sprint toward him. “Not today,” you hiss, looping the rope around his waist and yanking it tight, tying it off to the mainmast. He doesn’t fight you. He doesn’t even see you. He just keeps humming to himself, leaning with the sway of the song like a child in a lullaby.

You do the same with Chan, catching him just as one foot lifts onto the railing. He stares into the water with such adoration it makes your stomach turn. A siren surfaces a few meters off the starboard side, her mouth half-open in song, her eyes eerily void of life. You tie him off. Tight. Firm. You shout his name to wake him—nothing.

Wonwoo is slumped near a barrel, his book forgotten, his fingers twitching faintly to the rhythm of the melody. Mingyu is halfway to the prow, his hands limp at his sides. You tug him back by the loops of his pants, and he stumbles with a surprised grunt—but doesn’t react.

You secure them all to the mast, fashioning a web of knots in the chaos, your fingers bleeding against the rope. There’s no time to feel it.

The ship shudders again, scraping another submerged frame. You turn back and race to the helm. You spin the wheel again, the wood grating beneath your grip. The bow turns slowly, but it turns—avoiding a splintered mast impaled on a reef.

And then—A shadow moves beside you.

Seungcheol.

He’s walking down the stairs of the quarterdeck towards the side railing, his steps slow but sure, his eyes empty.

“Seungcheol!” you shout, but he doesn’t hear you. He moves like a man being called home. You leap down the steps two at a time and reach him just as his hands touch the rail, and he starts to hoist himself up. You grab his collar and yank him backwards.

He stumbles, surprised, blinking. But the trance still lingers. He stares at you like you’re not quite real.

“Snap out of it,” you grit out, pushing him against the wall of the cabin. You turn to head back to the helm—there’s no time to waste—

But his hand shoots out and pulls you back. Before you can react, his lips crash on yours.

You gasp, the surprise of it ripping the breath from your lungs. His mouth is fierce, desperate, all wild edges and instinct. His hands are at your waist, his mouth claiming yours. And despite yourself—despite everything—you melt into it. Your fingers curl into his shirt. You lean in. And gods help you, you kiss him back.

It’s fire. Heat. Tongue. Teeth. Unspoken fury. Unspoken want.

But suddenly, you remember where you are and who you’re kissing. You rip away. Your fist flies on its own accord, and it lands square on his jaw.

Seungcheol drops like a stone, knocked out cold.

Your breath is ragged as you stare down at him, trembling. What in the gods’ names—

But there’s no time.

The bow misses another reef by inches—but the hull clips it. The ship lurches, wood cracking. You run to steady her, but she’s wounded.

Suddenly, a scream rings out. You spin, eyes flying to the crow’s nest.

Minghao. You see the rope slacken. Then his body falls. “No—!”

You race to the rail as he crashes into the water with a splash. For a second, he’s still—then he’s flailing. Awake. But a siren is already approaching, gliding fast, her eyes locked on her prey.

You remember Soonyoung’s harpoon.

You dash to the foredeck, fingers flying over the latches of the weapon. You aim, inhale—fire. The harpoon slices through the mist, striking the water just as the siren reaches Minghao. He sees it and grabs the rope.

You throw your whole body weight onto the crank, activating the recoil system. The rope whines under pressure. Inch by inch, you pull him back toward the ship. The siren lashes out, claws raking through the water, just missing his leg. With a final pull, Minghao crashes onto the deck, gasping, eyes wide with fear and clarity.

You collapse beside him, your heart beating so loud it drowns out everything else. For a moment, you just lie there, winded, soaked, and shaking.

Then, your eyes find the wheel again. “Shit.” You stagger to your feet, dragging Minghao with you. “Can you stand?” He nods, coughing. “Yeah. Yeah, I can steer.”

Together, you limp to the helm. He takes the wheel while you shout directions, dodging the last gauntlet of stone and wreckage. The Chimera slams through the remnants of an old galleon’s hull with a crack, the wood splintering against the bow.

You burst out of the grotto’s mouth, the water opening up wide again, blue and endless. The ship is damaged. Her hull is scraped, and her sails are torn. But she floats. You lean over the rail, sucking in air as your lungs finally relax.

And somewhere on the floor, Seungcheol groans and stirs awake.

The men awaken slowly. One by one, groggy and confused, they blink into the sunlight.

“Ugh… what happened?” Chan mumbles as he wrestles with the rope tying him to the mast. Soonyoung blinks up at the sail, completely unfazed by the fact that he’s trussed like a holiday ham. “Was it rum? Did we hit the good casks again?”

“Wait,” Wonwoo mutters, tugging free. “Why are we tied up?”

Minghao leans weakly against the wheel, drenched and pale, but he’s breathing, and that’s all you care about.

The crew untangles themselves in a chorus of grunts and confusion, stumbling across the deck. Mingyu, dazed, rubs the back of his neck and looks around. “Where’s Seungcheol?”

The man in question is sitting up against the wall near the stairs, touching his jaw gingerly. His brows are furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of whatever fragments the sirens' spell didn’t erase.

Soonyoung squints at him. “He’s not tied up. Was it him who saved us?”

“Would make sense,” Chan adds, already beaming. “He’s the captain, after all.”

Then, a voice cuts through the rising chatter, calm but loud, carrying the weight of quiet authority. “It wasn’t him.” Everyone turns.

Minghao clears his throat and pushes off the wheel. “It was the Princess.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to speak up—as far as you knew, he is pretty reserved, comfortable in the shadows, not speaking unless spoken to.

Soonyoung gawks at you. “Princess—you. You saved us?” You nod slowly, not quite ready for the way they all light up at that piece of information.

“You tied us up?” Chan exclaims, both horrified and awed. “That’s—wow. Amazing.”

“She shot a harpoon at a siren,” Minghao confirms. “Pulled me out of the water. Just in time.”

“Damn,” Soonyoung whistles, clutching his heart. “I think I’m in love.” You let out a breathless laugh, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “Please, it was just—”

“—heroic,” Chan cuts in.

“Brilliant,” Wonwoo nods.

They swarm you in a chorus of praise, clapping you on the back, asking questions all at once. You smile, flustered but proud.

Until, of course, the storm cloud re-enters.

“My hand-carved railing,” Seungcheol’s voice suddenly booms from the starboard side. “Gone. Shattered.”

“What the—” You mumble.

“And the hull,” Seungcheol barrels on, stalking the deck with his arms thrown up. “My beautiful mahogany hull—scraped! Do you know how long it took me to sand that by hand? Chan, did you see the gouge?!”

“Oh boy,” Wonwoo mutters, exchanging a look with Mingyu. Mingyu folds his arms and smirks. “Ten silvers says she doesn’t let him finish his next sentence.”

“You’re on,” Wonwoo says.

You step forward, arms crossed, not hearing the murmurs of the crew. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Seungcheol spins to face you. “What?”

“You’re seriously yelling about cosmetic damage when you’d all be fish food if I hadn’t stepped in?”

“I’m yelling because my ship looks like it got chewed up and spit out by a Kraken!”

“And yet—” you gesture dramatically, “she’s still floating. You’re welcome.”

“I never asked you to save me,” he growls, jaw tense.

“No, you were too busy trying to kiss a siren to ask me for anything! Oh, but it wasn’t a siren, was it?” That shuts him up for half a second. His eyes narrow, and the muscle in his jaw jumps. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“That much was obvious,” you snap.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this ship myself—”

“For what? Daring to be useful?” you shoot back, stepping into his space. “God forbid the delicate balance of testosterone on this ship gets upset by a woman actually doing something right!”

“You crashed through a royal galleon!”

“I saved your life!”

You’re nose to nose now, practically vibrating with rage. His eyes are molten, dark and burning with the same fire that sparked the first time you met. You hate how handsome he is when he’s angry. You hate that he kissed you, and you felt something.

“Honestly,” you snap, “you are the most boorish and pigheaded man I have ever met!” His eyes flash.

“Princess,” he mocks, “I’ve seen the high-born boys your type hangs around with. I’m the only man you’ve ever met.”

You let out a shriek of frustration and stomp your foot. “Ugh!”

You spin on your heel and march toward the cabin door, slamming it shut behind you so hard the wood rattles in its hinges.

The silence on deck is deafening. Seungcheol turns back to face his crew, fists still clenched from his outburst. Six pairs of eyes are locked on him with unimpressed expressions ranging from judgmental to deeply disappointed. He blinks. “What?”

Soonyoung crosses his arms. “You could say thank you, Captain.” “Yeah,” Chan adds. “She saved us all. You could at least act like you have manners.” Minghao sighs. “Unbelievable.”

Seungcheol mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “goddamn woman,” and stalks toward your cabin.

He knocks once. You fling the door open. “What?” He scowls. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Fine. I won’t.”

You slam the door again.

Back on deck, Seungcheol breathes out once through his nose. “Well?” he asks, throwing his arms up. Minghao shrugs. “Could’ve used a bit more sincerity.”

Seungcheol glares at them all. “Whatever. Mingyu, find the nearest island. We need to fix the damn ship.”

As Mingyu steps toward the wheel, Soonyoung sidles up to Chan. “I ship them.”

“Same,” Chan nods.

“They’re gonna kill each other first,” Wonwoo adds.

“Wanna bet?”

“Always.”

You’ve never seen a ship come back to life so fast.

After a quick stop at a small, uncharted island to gather wood, sealant, and rigging parts, it only took two days for the Chimera to look almost as good as new. The hull still bears scratches, and the sails have a few new tears, but morale is oddly high. Everyone is doing their part—scrubbing, sawing, hammering, knotting, sealing. And you? You’re elbow-deep in tar, laughing with Soonyoung as you try to patch a crack in the starboard railing.

“You’re not bad with your hands, Princess,” he teases, handing you a brush. You raise an eyebrow, dipping it into the thick black tar. “And you’re not as annoying when your mouth is shut.” He barks a laugh, utterly delighted. “Ooh, she’s spicy today.”

Across the deck, Chan lets out a long whistle. “Careful, hyung, she already survived sirens. You might not be so lucky.”

You grin at them both, trying your best to ignore the weight you feel behind your back. That brooding, glowering, impossible weight in the shape of one Choi Seungcheol.

Ever since the grotto, since that kiss—and the furious argument that followed—he’s barely spoken to you. Avoids you like the plague. Unless he’s making some smart-ass remark, of course.

But that’s fine. You’ve got better things to focus on.

Wonwoo actually asked for your opinion yesterday on a course route—“You’ve got a sharp eye, might as well use it,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Minghao taught you how to tie a bowline knot. Chan insisted on bringing you extra water rations as you scrubbed the deck. And Soonyoung, gods help him, has taken to calling you Captain Princess.

You pretend it’s annoying. It’s not.

Which makes Seungcheol’s reactions all the more confusing. He’s been sniping at the crew left and right like a wounded bear.

“Soonyoung, if you’ve got time to flirt, you’ve got time to check the damn ropes.”

“Wonwoo, she’s not your first mate, she doesn’t need your damn charts.”

It’s exhausting. And worse, none of them even take him seriously anymore. They just roll their eyes and laugh him off.

What you don’t know is that while you’re still patching up the railing with Soonyoung, Mingyu sneaks up on Seungcheol, his voice low and teasing. “You’re jealous,”

Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.”

“They’re not focused. We’re sailing into unknown waters. This isn’t a game.”

Mingyu turns toward him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’ve had your crew flirting in taverns and stealing ladies’ hearts for years, and now you’re mad because Chan called her pretty?” Seungcheol glares. “She’s not part of the crew.”

“She’s the reason any of us are still alive.”

That shuts him up. Mingyu’s voice softens. “Whatever this is… deal with it. Before it consumes you.”

But Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He watches the horizon.

You, meanwhile, are cleaning your hands off with a rag when something shifts in the air.

Where the sky was painted in warm gold and soft blue, it now bleeds grey. Fast. Clouds roll in. The wind picks up so sharply you nearly lose your footing.

“Hey—” Chan shouts from across the deck. “Is anyone seeing that?” Thunder cracks overhead. The water darkens. You squint at the sky. “That wasn’t there five minutes ago.” Soonyoung’s smile falters. “Feels... wrong.”

Minghao climbs down from the crow’s nest, eyes narrowed. “There was no storm indicated this far south. This isn’t natural.”

You see Seungcheol’s figure, already moving into action, barking orders in that deep, commanding voice. “Tighten the ropes—drop half the sails. Minghao, check the compass. Chan, prepare the storm rigging.”

Everyone’s rushing now, hands on sails, feet racing across the deck. You grab a rope and instinctively help Soonyoung fasten it. “Is this another challenge?” you ask, breathless.

He nods grimly. “It has to be. Storms don’t rise like that unless something calls them.”

The sky rips apart.

Thunder explodes above your head, and the Chimera lurches violently beneath your feet as the first true wave of the storm crashes into her hull. You stumble, catching yourself on a rope, heart racing in your chest as the wind screams around you.

“Hold the sails! Batten down everything that moves!” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the chaos, barely audible over the howl of the wind. “Brace yourselves!”

You look to the others—Minghao already scaling up the mast, Chan clinging to the rigging, Soonyoung barking orders and running lines. Everyone’s in action, fluid and fierce. You mimic their movements, tying knots, steadying loose items, and gripping any anchor point you can find. But panic prickles at the edges of your throat.

This storm isn’t natural. You feel it in your bones.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You whip around to see Mingyu, rain slicking his hair flat against his forehead, concern etched into every line of his face. “You should go below deck—ride it out in your cabin. This isn’t just a squall, Princess.”

“If they can handle it, so can I,” you shout back, voice trembling slightly despite your resolve. Mingyu hesitates, eyes flicking toward Seungcheol. His jaw tightens. “Alright. Just stay sharp.” You nod once and return to the chaos.

Rain begins in earnest now, slicing sideways through the wind, soaking every inch of you in seconds. You’re drenched, shivering, boots slipping across the deck, hair sticking to your face.

Still, you stay.

Seungcheol is still at the wheel, knuckles white around the handles, shirt plastered to his chest, jaw locked tight. His gaze flickers to you, once, twice—his expression unreadable in the flicker of lightning. But it lingers.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

“Maelstrom!” Soonyoung shouts as the sea splits open.

Your eyes follow the direction of his trembling hand.

A great swirling vortex opens just ahead— deep and wide, churning with impossible violence. The water doesn’t move naturally—it spins with an eerie cadence, as though summoned by something ancient, something furious.

“Hard to starboard!” Seungcheol yells. He spins the wheel violently, trying to angle the ship away from the pull of the current.

It’s not enough. The ship begins to drag sideways, inch by inch, into the spiral. “Throw everything we don’t need overboard! We’re too heavy!”

Mingyu leaps toward the mainsail. You rush to help the others who have moved below deck—boxes, crates, barrels, anything not bolted down is passed along and hurled into the sea with panicked shouts and splashes that vanish into the stormy swirl.

The ship jolts again, water flooding over the railing. You sprint across the deck, nearly slipping, carrying what you can and tossing it over the edge.

And then it happens. One of the crates—a heavy box of scrap metal—catches on your foot. The rope slithers around your ankle and then tightens with sudden force as the crate slides across the deck, pulled over the railing by the ship’s tilt. Before you can cry out, it yanks you off your feet, face slamming into the soaked wood, pain blooming across your cheekbone.

You scream as your body is dragged backwards, feet first, the deck rushing by beneath you until your arms latch—barely—onto the railing. Your body already half overboard, legs dangling above the abyss.

“Arghhh!”

Seungcheol’s voice pierces the roar of the storm. “PRINCESS!”

And then he’s moving.

You see him abandon the wheel, Mingyu diving in to take his place without hesitation. Seungcheol barrels across the deck, boots skidding, eyes locked on yours with something that looks far too much like fear.

“I can’t hold on!” you cry, your voice breaking. The railing is slippery. Your strength is fading. “Don’t you dare let go,” he growls, dropping to his knees beside you. He grabs your arm and tries to pull—but the rope tugs you again, your hand slipping. “You’ll go over too!” Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “Like hell, I will.”

Then—without hesitation—he grabs his dagger, clenches it between his teeth, and climbs over the side of the ship.

Rain is slamming into his back, the waves crashing over him, but he reaches you. “I’ve got you,” he shouts, pulling the dagger free. Your voice breaks. “I’m scared.” Seungcheol’s movements falter for half a second. Then he growls, “I know. But I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Seungcheol cuts the rope, over and over, until it finally snaps free. The sudden release sends your body plummeting as your fingers lose their grip.

But you don’t fall into the sea. Seungcheol reaches out and clutches you to him, one arm locking around your waist, the other gripping the ladder in front of him. You wrap your arms around his neck instinctively, sobbing now.

“It’s okay, darling,” he mutters roughly, mouth by your ear. “You’re safe.” You pull back, just slightly, your eyes meeting his in the torrential downpour. “Thank you,” you whisper. His gaze softens. And for the briefest heartbeat, he whispers back, “Anytime.”

He hoists you both upward, muscle and willpower carrying you until you crash onto the deck once more. The two of you collapse in a heap of limbs, gasping, drenched, rain battering down.

But you’re alive.

You stare at him for a long moment, his face so close to yours, the adrenaline still pumping in your veins. His hair is soaked, brow creased—but he’s looking at you with something akin to relief.

Then Mingyu’s voice pierces the haze. “Cheol! We need you!”

You both snap out of it.

The storm dissapears as quickly as it came.

The roar of wind and water settles into a hushed murmur. Rain trickles to a stop. The sky peels open, dusky purple bleeds into soft orange and navy at the edges.

You stand on legs that barely feel like they belong to you. Shaky. Damp. Numb. The wood beneath your boots creaks and shifts with the gentle sway of the ship, no longer at war with the sea. No more maelstrom. No more screaming.

Around you, the crew slowly reorients themselves. Soonyoung rests his hands on his knees, panting. Wonwoo slouches against the railing. Chan leans back and exhales one long, broken breath. Minghao is seated on the deck, soaked through, running a hand through his wet hair. His eyes meet yours briefly. He gives you the faintest nod.

You’ve never seen men so strong, so wild, suddenly look so... human.

On the quarterdeck, Seungcheol is holding the wheel like it might still rip from his hands. Mingyu claps a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?” Seungcheol nods once, sharp. “We’re out.”

“You did good,” Mingyu says, and then—because he’s Mingyu—he adds, “Told you she wasn’t just a pretty face.” Seungcheol gives him a sidelong glare, his jaw working before he huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m just saying—if this is you pretending not to care about her, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”

Seungcheol grunts, but doesn’t argue. He turns his gaze back to the deck. At you. And you feel it like a tether tugging at your chest. You meet his gaze. He doesn’t look away. Everything else blurs: the crew, the remnants of the storm, the creaking ship.

It’s just you and him.

You, standing with seawater still dripping from your hair, your shirt sticking to your skin, your lip sore from where you bit it in panic. Him, forearms tense and shoulders set, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, eyes unreadable, but softened—a storm in his own right.

Mingyu steps in, subtle as always. “I’ll take over. Go.” Seungcheol raises a brow. “Go where?” Mingyu just smirks, hands already moving to the handles. “Go.” There’s a beat of resistance. But then Seungcheol pushes away, descending the stairs.

He stops just in front of you. Close enough that the heat of his body, still radiating from adrenaline and effort, warms your chilled skin.

You lift your hand. It’s steady, palm open, and fingers stretched toward him.

He stares at it for a moment, brows knitting together, as if it’s a puzzle he doesn’t quite know how to solve. You raise your eyebrows, the barest edge of a smirk playing on your lips. You wiggle your fingers slightly, urging. He blinks once before chuckling low in his throat.

Then, he takes it.

His hand is warm. Calloused. Larger than yours, his grasp firm but soft. His palm envelops yours, and for a moment, your breath catches—not from fear, not from shock, but something else entirely.

“Hello,” you say with mock formality. “I’m the princess who doesn’t know how to stay below deck, apparently.” That draws a real laugh from him. His smile is a little too pleased. His fingers tighten just slightly. “Seungcheol,” he replies, the word dipping low in his chest. “Captain of the Chimera. Horrible temper. Worse manners.”

“Yes, I noticed.” His mouth twitches. Your fingers linger in his. Just a bit too long. You look up at him, and you see none of the biting, brooding edge he usually shows. Just Seungcheol. Just the man who saved you from the sea like you weighed nothing. You cough lightly, clearing your throat as you gently extract your hand. Your face is hot. “I should clean up.”

“Right,” he says, still smiling. You nod and turn.

The men are suspiciously quiet as you pass—Chan nods his head softly, Soonyoung smiles brightly, and Wonwoo mutters something half-intelligible about “stormproof royalty.”

You flash a quick smile their way, half-formed, half-distracted. But your mind is still reeling. Your boots squelch as you approach your cabin. Your hand wraps around the brass handle, ready to go inside, but something—something instinctive—makes you glance back.

There he is.

Still standing in the middle of the deck, watching you like you’ve unravelled something inside him. Like he can’t stop looking, even if he tried. You inhale deeply and slip inside, the door shutting softly behind you.

And your heart—traitorous, fluttering thing—won’t stop pounding.

You can’t sleep.

Not from the cold, not from the rocking of the ship, not even from the aches that linger in your body after the storm. It’s something deeper. Something woven into your chest and bones and memory. The kind of thing that no amount of time beneath a blanket can soothe. So you dress quietly, wrap a shawl around your shoulders, and slip out of your cabin.

The deck is slick from the rain, shining faintly under the glow of the stars—more brilliant than you’ve ever seen them. Clear and cold and endless. You make your way toward the foredeck, your bare feet almost silent against the planks as the soft snores of the crew travel upwards from below. The wind is cooler out here, brushing through your hair and tugging at your shawl. You let it.

You close your eyes and… breathe.

The sea tonight is nothing like the one that tried to kill you earlier. Tonight, it’s still. Endless. The sky meets the horizon in a velvet embrace, and for a moment, you forget the chaos. The Book. The weight on your shoulders.

You don’t hear him until he speaks. “Can’t sleep?” You jolt, spinning toward the voice. But your tension eases the second you recognise him.

Seungcheol.

He stands a few feet behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, his hair slightly mussed from sleep—or the attempt of it. His voice is low, quiet enough to let the silence breathe between his words. You nod faintly, offering a ghost of a smile. “You either?” He steps closer, just enough to stand beside you as he leans on the railing, mirroring your stance. “Not tonight.”

His voice carries a kind of tiredness that extends beyond physical exhaustion. You recognise it. You feel it, too.

For a while, neither of you speak. You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because he saved your life. Maybe because you saw something behind his eyes when he held you. Maybe it’s just the hour—the strange truth of midnight, when secrets don’t feel so heavy.

“I fell in love with the sea when I was eight.”

He glances at you, curious. You keep your eyes on the endless abyss. “The palace walls in Mdina were too high to see the water. But there was one tower, this crumbling old thing the guards had stopped patrolling. I figured out how to climb it. There was a ledge on the roof. And from there… I could narrowly see the sea.”

You smile faintly, remembering. “I used to watch the ships. They looked like tiny ants, just dots. But I made up stories about them. I used to pretend I was on one of them. That I wasn’t a girl in a dress being groomed for court. I was a sailor. A pirate. A hero.”

He nods, slowly. “For me, it was the docks.” You look at him again. His voice is softer than usual. “I grew up in the lower district of Syracuse. Slums, really. My mother cleaned houses. My father died young. I used to scoop up fish guts at the port to make ends meet. Smelled like rot every damn day.”

He chuckles, a little bitter.

“But the sailors… they were different. They had stories. Gold teeth. Worn hands. Laughs like thunder. I used to watch them and think, ‘Maybe I could be like that.’ Maybe I didn’t have to stay where I was.” He smiles, but it’s a sad thing. “I wanted that life. Not the guts and coins—the freedom. The idea that you could leave. That you could choose who you wanted to be.”

Your heart twists.

“Then I met Joshua.” His voice drops further. “He was different. He didn’t treat me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his boot. He taught me how to read. I taught him how to climb walls and steal apples.”

That makes you laugh, even though your throat is tight.

“But the king hated me. Always did. Thought I was corrupting his perfect son. I guess in his eyes, I did.”

You want to say something. But you don’t. You let him speak.

“One day, we did something stupid. There was this abandoned building near the market—a half-finished palace, supposed to be part of some expansion. We climbed it. Dared each other to go higher. Joshua fell. Part of the roof caved in.”

His hands flex on the railing. “I pulled him out. But someone had to answer for it. The building collapsed. They blamed me.” He exhales slowly. “The King would’ve ruined me. Maybe worse. So I left before he could.”

You step closer. His eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move. You can see the weight in them—the shadow of old scars he’s never let anyone see. You reach out and gently take his hand in yours. He tenses, just for a second. But then his shoulders ease. You lift your other hand to his face, fingers brushing lightly along his jaw, turning him to face you. He lets you.

“After the book was stolen,” you say quietly, “The King said horrible things about you. I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought—maybe you deserved it.” His brow twitches, but you go on. “But he’s wrong.” Your voice is firmer now.

“You’re not what he says. You’re good, Seungcheol. You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, yes—but you didn’t hesitate to save Joshua all those years ago. And you didn’t hesitate to save me.” He huffs a small laugh. “Even when you were annoyed with me.” You smile softly. “Even then.”

There’s silence again, but it’s warm now. Comforting. Seungcheol’s eyes flutter closed for a second, his face leaning slightly into your touch. When he opens them again, they’re locked onto yours. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Princess.” His voice is low, hoarse. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

Before you can speak, he closes the space between you. His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You don’t resist. You don’t want to.

And then his lips are on yours.

It's nothing like before—nothing like that trance-induced kiss during the siren’s song. This one is real. All-consuming. It feels like every second of tension, every argument, every half-glance, and silent heartbeat between you two has built up to this moment.

You clutch him, fingers tangling in his hair as his hands slide around your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. You gasp into his mouth just as his hands slip lower—down your sides, over your hips, and finally, they settle on your bare ass. His breath hitches at the feel of your skin, his fingers tightening reflexively as he realizes what you’re wearing.

Or rather—what you’re not. No pants. No underwear. His groan reverberates through his chest, and it sparks heat through your core. You nip at his bottom lip, suck on it lightly, and feel the slight tremble in his breath.

But then, he pulls away. Not completely—his forehead still brushes against yours, his hands are still on your skin, his breath fanning across your lips. But something has shifted. You feel the hesitation before he speaks, the uncertainty tucked behind his usual bravado.

“I want you, Princess.” His whispers hoarsly, his thumbs rubbing small circles over your tailbone. “God, I want you. But—”

You blink up at him. “But what?” you whisper, your voice breathless from the kiss.

He sighs. “I’m not—” He swallows. “You’re promised to someone else. I’m—” He trails off. “I’m not what you were supposed to have. I don’t want to be the thing you regret. The man who ruins your perfect little royal life.” His words are quiet, but you can feel the weight in them—the insecurity.

You lift your hand and press your fingers to his lips, silencing him. His eyes flicker up to yours, uncertain, soft, searching. “That marriage,” you say, “was arranged five years ago. I never had a say in it. It was politics. An alliance. A duty.” Your eyes don't leave his. “I care for Joshua, I do. I don’t want him to die. But I don’t…” Your voice lowers. “I don’t long for him.”

He stares at you, unmoving, his hands gripping your hips like you might slip away. You lean in closer. “But I do, with you. I want you.” You kiss him again, and that’s what finally breaks him.

He growls softly against your mouth before gripping your thighs, and lifting you effortlessly. You gasp, giggling at the sudden motion as he carries you toward his cabin. The door swings open with a bang as his shoulder knocks it open, then slams it closed behind him with his foot. Inside, the space is dim and warm, filled with the scent of salt and leather, and something uniquely him.

He kisses you like he’s been starving, pressing against you, devouring every sigh and gasp you release. He spins you both before lowering himself onto his bed, you straddling his lap.

The room is cluttered with maps, artefacts, weapons—chaotic but oddly personal. You don’t care. It feels like him.

Your shirt is the only thing concealing your naked flesh. He unbuttons it—one, two, three—leaving kisses along every patch of newly exposed skin. His mouth lingers at your collarbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your neck. And then your shirt is open.

You shiver as the cool air hits your skin, but the feeling disappears the second his mouth wraps around your nipple. Your head tips back, a soft moan escaping your throat as your fingers tangle in his hair again. He groans as you arch into him, and his hands begin their slow, reverent path—skimming your thighs, your hips, your waist. One hand cups your breast, the other trails lower.

He finds your pussy and hisses through his teeth. “You’re soaked.”

You grind against him in response, your heat pressing against the hard length of his cock, straining through the fabric of his pants. “Seungcheol,” you whimper, shifting your hips. “Please…” He looks up at you, chest heaving, lips red and swollen from kissing. “You’re sure?” he whispers, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.” His mouth claims yours again, rougher this time. Needier.

And finally—finally—his fingers press against your clit. You moan into his mouth. Two of his fingers slide inside your wet heat, slow but deep. The stretch to your walls steals your breath, your body clenching around him instinctively.

“Fuck, Princess,” he groans against your neck, “you feel—” He cuts himself off with a growl as he thrusts his fingers again, and again. His mouth returns to your abandoned nipple, suckling, licking, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you’re writhing in his lap.

Your hips grind in rhythm with his hand. One of yours is still in his hair, but you slip the other past the waistband of his pants. Your fingers find him there—hot, hard, throbbing in your palm, his tip leaking precum.

“Shit—” He moans into your skin when you wrap your hand around his cock, matching your movements to the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The sensations overwhelm you—his mouth on your breast, his fingers working inside you, your own hand wrapped around the length of him, the quiet, desperate sounds he makes just for you. You don’t last long. Your body begins to quake, your hips stuttering.

“I’m—Seungcheol—” you gasp. His other hand grips your thigh as he presses his thumb firmly to your clit, rubbing short, hard circles over it. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Let go for me.”

And you do. You come with a sharp cry, the world shattering around you. Your grip on his member fluttering slightly.

Your body clenches around his fingers as you tremble, shaking in his lap while he continues to move his fingers inside you slowly, helping you ride it out. His mouth finds its way to your shoulder, murmuring something you can’t quite hear over the blood roaring in your ears.

Seungcheol’s fingers slip out of you slowly, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room—a slick, wet squelch that makes your body shudder. He brings his hand up without hesitation, the pads of his fingers glistening with your juices, and then—he sucks them into his mouth.

You watch, breath caught in your throat as his eyes flutter shut, a low groan vibrating in his chest. His cheeks hollow slightly as he licks them clean, dragging his tongue between his fingers.

“Delicious,” he mutters hoarsely.

You stifle a moan, biting your lower lip. Heat burns at the base of your spine. Gods, this man.

Your hand is still wrapped around his length—thick and throbbing in your palm, his tip slick with precum. He twitches in your palm, the veins on his shaft pulsing.

Slowly, you give his cock a firm stroke from base to tip. Then another. You pause at his tip, run your thumb along the slit, gather the moisture there, and spread it down his shaft. He groans again, his hips twitching slightly, breath hitching.

“Shit—” he hisses.

Your strokes become firmer and more deliberate. Your other hand drifts up his stomach, exploring every inch of his skin—feeling the way his abs clench and how his skin jumps beneath your touch.

His mouth leaves a trail of fire along your skin—down your collarbone, along the swell of your chest, up your neck. When he pulls back, you can see the flush painting his skin, the way his jaw trembles with restraint.

“You’re going to make me come,” he pants, looking at you like he’s never seen anything more devastatingly perfect. “Fuck, baby, you are—unreal.” You don’t stop. You just smirk. “That’s the idea.”

You grip his cock tighter, twisting your wrist slightly at the end of each stroke, dragging your palm over his head with calculated pressure. His hips start to buck, chasing the sensation. His breath is ragged. His forehead falls to your shoulder.

Suddenly, his hands shoot out, grabbing you by the hips. You yelp, breathless with laughter, as he flips you both over, laying you flat on the mattress under him. His hair is mussed, his chest heaving, and his cock—straining against his pants—is nestled between your thighs, pressing hotly against your entrance.

He chuckles breathlessly as he looks down at you. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

Your shirt is tossed somewhere over your head. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his waistband, shoving his pants down with a little too much urgency. He chuckles again, sitting up briefly to kick them off the rest of the way.

“Impatient?”

“Desperate.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. His cock slides along your folds, slick and hot, and it makes both of you stutter, gasping against each other’s mouths, as his tip catches on your clit.

He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, just enough to line himself up at your entrance. His eyes search yours, asking the question again—but not with words. And you answer him with a nod, small but certain.

Then—he pushes in.

The rhythm he sets isn’t gentle. It’s deliberate. Powerful. Deep, rolling thrusts that send jolts of sensation ricocheting through your spine. You gasp, your head falling back against the mattress as he fills you, again and again, harder each time. His breath is warm against your neck, his body tight above yours, every muscle in him working to give you pleasure.

“God, baby,” he growls against your ear, voice raw. “So tight—so fucking good.”

You whimper beneath him, your nails digging into the hard planes of his back as you cling to him, every thrust making you feel like you’re unravelling.

“Cheol—”

“That’s it,” he hisses, kissing your jaw. “Say my name. Say it again.”

“Cheol—fuck, yes—”

His hips slam into yours again, harder this time, and a loud moan escapes you. He swallows it with another kiss—it’s messy, perfect.

He adjusts his angle, one hand slides upward—first across your ribs, then higher, until his palm wraps gently around your throat. He squeezes gently. His fingers press against your vein, his thumb brushing your jaw, your pulse beating steady beneath his palm. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once.

“Too much?” he asks.

You shake your head slowly, biting your lip. “No,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His other hand slides down your body until he’s between your thighs again. His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that counter the pace of his thrusts. You shudder beneath him, crying out his name again, and he groans in return.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fuck, baby, you’re driving me crazy.”

His fingers circle in rhythm with his thrusts, the pressure building unbearably fast. It’s too much, too good—the heat of his body flush against yours, his breath on your skin, his cock sliding in and out of you with aching precision.

“You’re so good,” he groans, his voice cracking as he starts to lose control. “You take me so well. Look at you, wrapped around me like you were made for this.”

You can’t help it—you cry out, a desperate sound from deep in your chest. He’s hitting every place inside you that drives you wild, and his fingers are moving faster now, chasing the climax that’s rising too quickly.

Suddenly, his other hand grabs your leg, lifts it, and hooks it over his shoulder. He thrusts again, and the new angle makes you see stars. His cock is even deeper, stretching out your walls.

You swear aloud, a high, choked moan, as your hands fly to his biceps, clutching him like a lifeline. He fucks into you hard, deep, relentless, hitting that spot inside you with every powerful stroke.

“Right there, huh?” he pants, eyes locked to your face, drinking in every expression like it’s salvation. “You gonna come again for me, baby?” You nod frantically, incoherent with pleasure. He’s everywhere—his mouth on your neck, his hand on your clit, his body pounding into yours like he’s trying to fuse you together.

“Please—Cheol—”

Your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure. He doesn’t stop. “Come for me. Let me feel you, Princess.” And you do. It crashes into you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed, thighs trembling, mouth parting in a silent scream. Your vision blurs, the breath ripped from your lungs as your climax pulses through you, wave after devastating wave. Seungcheol groans low in his throat as your walls clamp down on him like a vice.

“Shit—fuck—” He stutters inside you, his rhythm faltering as the tight squeeze of your pussy sends him hurtling after you. His hand clenches your thigh tighter. One last thrust—and he comes with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the quiet tremble of your bodies still clinging to the aftershocks. He lowers your leg from his shoulder gently, his palm stroking down the back of your thigh. Your hands find his face. You run your fingertips along his jaw, tracing the line of it, soft and slow. He turns his face to kiss your palm, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your digits.

Then they open again—and you look at each other. You both chuckle at the same time.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

“Hey,” he replies, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you’ve been talking. Hours maybe. The sun has long since gone up, and you’ve laughed more in the last stretch of time than you have in years.

“Wait, wait—” you say, still laughing, grabbing the wrist that’s been stroking your side so his fingers stop distracting you. “You’re telling me you got your entire crew banned from a tavern... for winning too much?”

Seungcheol smirks, scratching the back of his head as if caught red-handed. “It wasn’t my fault they didn’t notice Minghao was using marked cards. I just happened to collect the winnings.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that now, but you’d have taken your cut too.”

You scoff, pushing at his shoulder, though your smile doesn’t waver. He catches your hand easily, presses a kiss to the inside of your palm, and doesn’t let go. The touch makes your breath catch.

“Alright then, your turn.” He leans back again, watching you with that unreadable glint in his eye. “We’ve covered your rebellious rooftop climbs and your hatred of court shoes. What else don’t you like?” You hum, pretending to think. “Hmm. Peaches. Overrated. Sweet and slimy. They remind me of Duke Alberon’s awful moustache.”

Seungcheol bursts out laughing, his whole body shaking beside you. “I am never going to eat a peach again without seeing that man’s ratty little face, thank you for that.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud, smug at his reaction. His hand slides from your stomach to your thigh, lazily stroking the skin again, and you don’t stop him. “I like this,” you murmur after a moment, your voice quieter now. “Talking. With you.” His expression softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. That is, until the door slams open.

“Hey, Cap—” Soonyoung’s voice booms into the room before his body does, stomping in without knocking. “The mist’s rolled in heavy, and Mingyu adjusted course, Wonwoo says if we keep east by southeast, we’ll—”

Soonyoung blinks once. Then again. His eyes dart from you— naked and lazily sprawled across the bed—to Seungcheol, shirtless, clearly dishevelled, and unmistakably not alone.

“I—” His jaw opens, but no sound comes out. You raise an amused eyebrow and tuck the blanket a little higher over your body. Seungcheol, on the other hand, is not nearly so composed.

“Get out!” he barks, grabbing a nearby pillow and hurling it with precision at Soonyoung’s head. The poor man yelps as it smacks into his face.

“I didn’t see anything!” Soonyoung squeaks, hands flailing as he turns around hastily. “I swear! Nothing at all—except her legs, and maybe a bit of—okay, I’m going!”

“Soonyoung!” Seungcheol snaps, now using his hand to shield your chest like his body alone could restore your modesty.

“I’m going! I’m going!” Soonyoung yells back, already halfway through the door. “But Mingyu said he needs you at the helm like now. There’s fog and a current and—and I’ll just go!”

The door slams shut behind him. For a moment, the room is still. Then your laughter bubbles up. You can’t hold it back even if you try. “That was—” you start between breaths, “the most mortified I’ve ever seen anyone in my life.” Seungcheol groans and slumps back against the headboard, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s gonna tell everyone, isn’t he?”

“Oh, without question,” you say, nudging his side. “The betting pool has probably reopened already.”

“Betting pool?”

“Please. They were definitely wagering when we’d fall into bed.”

Seungcheol drops his head against your stomach, groaning dramatically. “This crew is going to be unbearable.”

“Hmm.” You run your fingers through his hair slowly, scratching lightly at his scalp. “You’re just mad they were right.” You feel the warmth of his smile pressed against your belly, even as he pretends to sulk. “I can’t believe Soonyoung saw your boobs,” he mumbles. You grin. “And I’m pretty sure I traumatised him.”

Seungcheol exhales a quiet laugh through his nose and shakes his head as he sits up. The warmth of his body leaves your side, but you don’t mind—not when you get the view that’s in front of you. You watch him stretch lazily, muscles flexing as he reaches up before grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. Then he steps into his pants, tying the drawstring with practised ease. His back muscles ripple with every movement, and you don’t hide the way your eyes roam freely across the expanse of his torso.

He catches your gaze and smirks, glancing at you from over his shoulder.

“You staring, Princess?” he taunts, the smugness practically dripping from his voice. You smirk, stretching languidly on the bed. “Obviously. Wouldn’t want to waste the view.” That earns you a laugh. He finishes fastening the last button of his shirt and turns back to you, raking his gaze down the curve of your body, still on full display under the lazy fall of the blanket.

Then, without warning, he strides over to your side of the bed. His hand comes down with a swift, playful smack against your bare ass cheek.

“Up,” he says, voice low and commanding but tinged with amusement. “If I have to go face Mingyu and the crew after last night, you’re not getting out of it either.”

You yelp more out of surprise than pain, narrowing your eyes at him as you sit up. “I was perfectly content right here, actually.” He grins, stepping back as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “Well, now you can be content getting dressed. And preferably before Soonyoung bursts in again.”

You scoff but move to your feet anyway as he tosses you some undergarments from the floor without even trying to hide the smirk on his face. You catch them midair. “Thanks, Captain.”

He steps closer again, slower this time. One hand catches your chin, thumb brushing along your jawline as his eyes flicker over your face. “Try not to look too smug out there,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Or they’ll start placing bets on when I’ll marry you.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart skipping—but you smirk instead of answering. “Then maybe you should kiss me goodbye properly.” Seungcheol stares for a beat—then grins like a devil before pulling you into him, crashing his mouth to yours.

“Get dressed, Princess,” he rasps, eyes lingering. “Before I change my mind.” And with that, he walks to the door, grabbing his coat. He’s halfway through opening it when he glances back.

“Five minutes. Or I’m coming back for you.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The mist swallows everything.

You don’t even see it at first—just a soft shift in the air as you step out of Seungcheol’s cabin. You’d expected teasing whistles or knowing grins, maybe a few sly comments from Mingyu or Chan. Instead, silence meets you. A quiet so thick it pulls the breath from your lungs. The Chimera is cloaked in a pale grey fog, dense and unmoving, the deck slick with dew and the sails limp in the breathless air.

Your eyes move quickly, scanning the ship. No one is looking at you—not because they’re being polite, but because every man is on edge. Focused. Alert. Like something’s about to happen.

Above you, Minghao stands in the crow’s nest, his thin frame just barely visible through the thick veil of mist. He’s rotating slowly, scanning with a spyglass in one hand and a compass in the other. Every few minutes, he mutters something, too quiet to carry. Soonyoung and Chan move carefully near the weapons stash, inventorying each item with tight mouths and nervous hands. Their usual playfulness has been swallowed whole by the fog.

You walk further along the deck, your boots quiet on the wood, until you spot them—Seungcheol and Wonwoo near the main mast, crouched low over a spread of maps and books. Wonwoo is muttering frantically, his fingers darting between pages, eyes wild with thought. Seungcheol is tense. His broad shoulders are hunched, eyes narrowed, and jaw tight.

You move beside him quietly, and when your hand grazes his bicep, he startles before looking up. The hard line of his shoulders eases at the sight of you. His hand comes to rest on your waist, the weight of it grounding. He squeezes softly. You do the same in return. “Morning,” you say gently. “Afternoon,” Wonwoo corrects immediately, eyes not leaving the yellowed page he’s turned to.

You smile faintly and lean in to study the map, tilting your head as you glance from it to the thick book in his other hand. The letters are unfamiliar—twisting, ancient shapes carved in what looks more like inked bone than any written language.

Wonwoo’s voice picks up. “It doesn’t make sense—nothing does—but it’s all here, I know it is. I’ve read the entire Codex of the Four Winds twice now, and all the references to Tartarus, to the ferryway—Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius—it’s all pointing here. But I can’t decode the meaning of it. It’s like, like the pieces are there, but the puzzle’s missing half its edges—”

“Breathe, Wonwoo,” Seungcheol says quietly, trying not to snap. Wonwoo exhales sharply through his nose, flipping another page. “Do you know what the poets of Andelos called it? The place beyond the fog? The Cradle of the Dead. And every single account, no matter how fantastical, mentions a waterfall. But not a normal one. A falling of stars. Water going up and down, as if the sky and sea mirror each other.” Your brow furrows. “As above, so below.” Wonwoo snaps his head toward you, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

You kneel beside them now, brushing your fingers lightly over a different page. “There was a book in Mdina. An old one. Verses of the Vanished. I read it when I was nine and had nightmares for weeks. It mentioned a veil of silence, a place past the final sea where time collapses, and stars sink beneath the water.” Wonwoo is nodding quickly. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. But how do we find it?”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “you don’t. Maybe it finds you.” The mist swirls closer around the ship, like it heard you. Mingyu leaves the helm and strides toward you, his boots thudding heavily. “It’s getting worse,” he says. “Visibility’s almost zero. The current’s off too—subtle, but it’s pulling.”

“We’re near it,” Wonwoo mutters. “I know it.”

Mingyu looks down at the pages, then over at you and Seungcheol. “He’s been at this since dawn.” Seungcheol reaches out and flips a corner of the map. “Wonwoo, you said something about the water falling up. What if it’s not a place we sail into, but something that pulls us in?”

“Like a gate?” you ask. “Or a crossing,” Mingyu adds. Wonwoo slams his book shut. “It could be anything. That’s the problem.”

Silence falls again.

You glance up toward the crow’s nest. Minghao hasn’t moved, but now he’s gripping the rail tighter. You hear his voice float down, quiet and unsure. “Captain?” Seungcheol looks up. “What is it?”

Minghao slowly turns his spyglass. “I… don’t know.”

Wonwoo’s breath catches. “It’s beginning.”

The sound hits first.

A low, guttural rumble that shakes the air. It begins deep below deck, in the bones of the ship, before rolling up through the planks and ropes and sails. You freeze, eyes narrowing toward the horizon—or what should be the horizon—but the mist is too thick, the light too dim.

Then, as if guided by some unseen hand, the mist begins to pull away. It unfurls slowly at first, like curtains parting on a stage, but it quickly gives way to something utterly impossible.

There, ahead of you, rises a waterfall. Not falling. Rising.

A great column of water, impossibly wide, impossibly tall, rushes skyward, curling into the clouds above. Spray bursts from the base of it in violent gusts, catching the late afternoon light in prismatic flashes. You blink. “What the—” The words are half-formed before they’re lost in the roar of the ocean.

Seungcheol moves instantly.

“Raise the sails!” he shouts, already sprinting toward the helm. “To your stations! Man the lines! Chan—get those sails ready for shift, now!” Mingyu’s already right behind him, racing to the helm. “We’ll be in it within minutes if we stay this course!” The crew explodes into motion. Minghao descends swiftly from the crow’s nest. Soonyoung and Chan tear across the deck. Even Wonwoo doesn’t look up from the open book on his lap, only flips another page with frantic energy.

You remain frozen—just for a heartbeat.

Until Seungcheol turns toward you. “Princess”, he points, eyes blazing. “To the port lines. Watch the tension; call if we’re drifting!” He’s giving you a task. For the first time since you’ve boarded the Chimera, he’s treating you not as cargo, not as a complication, not even as a lover—but as crew.

You nod firmly. “Aye, Captain.”

You run, the wind lashing your hair around your face. Your feet are sure beneath you, heart pounding, and you grab the rope with firm hands, joining Soonyoung and Chan without hesitation. You glance once over your shoulder—Seungcheol is watching. And when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. Pride. You see it in his eyes.

“Steady!” he shouts. “We’re almost at the pull!”

The wind screams louder. The sound of the waterfall is deafening. The closer you get, the more the air warps and howls. Hair and clothes whip around every which way. Sails strain under pressure. The Chimera groans beneath you like it’s fighting not to be torn apart.

“It’s not just a waterfall!” he yells over the sound. “It’s a threshold! A crossing point—between realms! As above, so below—it’s—” “Wonwoo!” Seungcheol cuts in sharply. “What happens when we go through?”

“I don’t know!” Wonwoo shouts back, desperation in his voice. “No one ever has!” You don’t hear the end of that sentence because that’s when it begins.

A tendril of smoke.

No—not smoke. Something darker. Slick and slow, it creeps across the surface of the sea, winding around the hull of the Chimera. More follow—dozens. Hundreds. They rise like grasping hands, curling toward the deck.

“Captain…” Chan breathes, stepping back from one of the ropes, eyes wide. Minghao calls out from above. “Smoke! From the water!”

“Cordia,” Seungcheol breathes, barely a whisper.

“Seungcheol?” you call out, your voice trembling now.

His head snaps up. For the first time in this madness, his expression fractures. “Get to me!” he yells.

You don’t hesitate. You run—but before you can reach him— The mist turns black. The tendrils strike.

And the world goes dark.

You wake to the taste of ash in your mouth.

Your body feels heavy—every bone weighed down, every muscle groaning in protest as consciousness claws its way to the surface. The air is cold and wet, and the first thing you feel is a strange texture under your hands: gritty, soft, but wrong. You open your eyes.

Black sand.

You blink against the dim light. A haze clings to the air, the world around you coated in an eerie hue between shadow and flame. Ancient ruins loom ahead, crumbling columns and broken statues half-sunken into the sand. A river pulses in the distance—thick, dark, and slow, like black ink. The air hums with something foul and powerful.

You turn your head. Seungcheol is lying beside you. He groans softly as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before his eyes snap to you. “You okay?” His voice is hoarse. “I think so,” you murmur, looking around again. “Where are we?”

But you already know. You feel it in your bones.

“Tartarus,” he says, confirming it.

You sit up with a wince. The black sand clings to your skin. Seungcheol instinctively pulls you closer, shielding your body with his as you both rise to your feet. The river’s distant pulse echoes like a heartbeat. And then the smoke returns. It billows from the earth, curling and creeping toward you until the very air feels thick with it. From it, she comes.

Cordia.

She glides forward, her form half-shadow, half-woman. She circles the ruins before settling on a broken, throne-like seat made of obsidian stone. Her long fingers drum against the armrest as she regards you both with a smile too wide, too cold.

“Congratulations,” she purrs. “You made it.”

Her voice is sickly sweet. “No one ever has before. Well… not alive, anyway.”

Seungcheol squares his shoulders. “Give me the book,” he demands. “I fulfilled my end of the deal.”

Cordia blinks at him once. And then laughs. It is a terrible sound, echoing off every ruin, slithering into your skin. “Oh, darling,” she coos. “What makes you think I have it?”

Seungcheol’s expression tightens. “You stole it. You framed me. So you could have me executed.” Cordia interrupts with a smirk. “You?” Her voice turns mocking as she slinks closer. “It was never about you.”

Realization dawns on his face—horror blooming in his eyes.

“Joshua.”

Cordia grins. “Now you’re catching up.”

She circles you both like a vulture. “The golden prince. The next king of Syracuse. So noble. So predictable. I knew he’d take your place, just as I knew you’d run. And then—chaos. Twelve cities. No heir. No peace. No order. Glorious, isn’t it?”

She trails her fingers over a broken statue, sharp nails dragging against the stone. “He couldn’t help himself, could he? Defending you without hesitation. And you—” she turns to Seungcheol, “—you couldn’t help but betray him.”

Seungcheol’s voice is sharp. “I didn’t betray Joshua. I came for the book.” Cordia chuckles, walking toward you. You feel her presence behind your back.

“Oh, but you did betray him,” she hums. “You stole his fiancée.”

With a sharp motion, she pushes you forward, making you stumble into Seungcheol’s arms. Cordia tilts her head.

“Look at her, Seungcheol. Joshua isn’t even in his grave yet, and you’ve already claimed her.” Her voice is gleeful. “Or did ‘that’s my girl’ not mean anything to you?”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. You can feel the tension radiating from him. Cordia steps closer, her voice now a whisper. “Face it, pirate. Your heart is as black as mine.”

“No,” you finally speak up. You face her. “You’re wrong. You don’t know what’s in his heart.” Cordia’s eyes flash. She chuckles once. And then her smile fades. “Oh, but I do,” she says, her voice cold as stone. “And most importantly… so does he.”

Seungcheol’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “You’re wrong.” Cordia rolls her eyes. “Fine. Want to bet?”

And then it appears—the book. Suspended in midair, cradled by smoke. Glowing faintly with ancient magic.

“Two choices, Seungcheol.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “One: Take the book. Return it to Syracuse. Save the heir. Save the alliance. Watch her marry Joshua, as promised. You restore your honour and lose the girl.”

You freeze.

“Or,” she continues, “Two: Refuse the book. Let Joshua die. Watch Syracuse fall. And sail away to paradise with the love of your life.”

Your eyes lock with Seungcheol’s. The look you give him is a plea and a promise all at once—don’t leave me. He stares at you for what feels like an eternity, agony etched into every line of his face. The war behind his eyes. The sorrow. The weight.

He loves you. But his heart is cracked open for the first time.

Then he turns to Cordia. And speaks. “...Let her marry Joshua.”

Cordia’s eyes narrow. Her smile fades. “Liar,” she hisses. “You could never let go of a treasure once it was yours.”

The book disappears.

“No—!” you cry, stepping forward, but Cordia is already fading, her face twisted in triumph.

Seungcheol grabs your hand just as the smoke rushes in again, tendrils wrapping around your legs, your waist, and your arms.

Cordia’s voice echoes as the world goes black again: “You’ll see… we always are what we choose.”

You gasp as your feet hit solid ground, stumbling forward as the world stops spinning. Black sand is replaced by cobblestone, and pulsing smoke is traded for stagnant city air thick with tension. You blink up—recognising the narrow curve of the harbour road, the looming cliffs, and the ancient colonnades of Syracuse’s port.

Seungcheol lands beside you with a grunt, steadying himself with one hand on the uneven stone. His eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings, the shadows, the distant sound of a crowd gathering near the square.

You both realise what day it is as you hear the bell—Joshua’s execution day.

“Oh gods,” you whisper.

You grab Seungcheol’s wrist and pull him into the narrow alley between two warehouses, pressing his back against the wall. The city might be grieving, but the guards will still be out—especially today. “You can’t be seen,” you whisper urgently. “We don’t have the book. If they find you now—”

“I know,” Seungcheol murmurs. His voice is calm. Too calm.

“I’ll talk to them,” you push. “I’ll go to the kings myself. I’ll tell them everything. That it was Cordia, that we got to Tartarus—”

“They won’t believe you,” he cuts in, voice cracking.

“They will. They have to.” You step closer, chest heaving. “They won’t kill Joshua if I tell them what we saw. If I tell them—if I make them understand.”

He looks down at you. And you feel it. A shift in the air between you.

“No,” you breathe.

“I can’t let you take the fall for this.”

“And I won’t let you—” your voice breaks. “No. No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare, Seungcheol—”

His hands come up, gently framing your face, thumbs stroking beneath your eyes as he places his forehead against yours. “You have to leave the city,” you whisper quickly, desperately. “We’ll go. Wherever you want. Right now. Just—just, please. Let’s run. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

He smiles softly, and that’s what undoes you. That smile. Tender. Wistful. “I can’t do that either,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You shake your head. “No. No, please. You’re not doing this.” Tears burn behind your eyes. But he’s already pulling away. And you know. You know.

Seungcheol has made up his mind. He’s going to take Joshua’s place.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, fists grabbing the front of his shirt. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“No, you don’t.” Your hands fist in his shirt. “I love you. I love you, and if you walk out of this alley, I will never be whole again.”

His breath shudders. And then he whispers: “But could you love a man who would run away?”

You want to scream yes. You want to say I don’t care, that love should be enough, that you’d throw Syracuse to the gods if it meant keeping him safe.

But you know what he means. He couldn’t live with himself if he ran. He’s never been the kind of man who takes the easy road. He never could.

The tears spill over your cheeks. “Don’t do this,” you plead, broken. “Don’t leave me. I belong with you.”

His face crumples, his own tears finally falling. And then he lets go. He takes a step back. Another.

You try to grab him, but he’s already out of reach. Already walking out into the gloom-filled street, into the path of soldiers making their way toward the square.

And then—he stops. He turns back to you, tears streaking his face, mouth curved in the saddest smile you’ve ever seen.

“For the first time in my life,” he chuckles emptily, “I wish I was someone else.”

Your breath catches.

“I wish I was someone worthy of you.”

The sharp clatter of boots echoes down the cobblestones.

“Hey—!”

Three guards spot him immediately. Recognise him.

Seungcheol lifts his hands slowly, not resisting as they rush him. You scream his name, but it’s drowned out by the sound of steel and shouting.

They seize him and drag him away.

Your legs give out from under you, the grief slamming into you like a wave. But just before your knees hit the cobblestones—Strong arms wrap around you.

Mingyu.

His chest presses against your back, one arm around your middle, holding you upright, the other around your shoulder, shielding your trembling frame. You feel him shush you gently, but it’s broken, because he is crying too. Silent tears streak down his face as he watches his captain—his brother—being dragged away like a criminal.

You sob, your hands clutching his arms, unable to speak. Unable to breathe. Mingyu’s voice is thick. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, Princess.”

But nothing can stop the image from burning into your mind. Seungcheol, dragged into the fog of a city that forgot him. Head held high. Heartbroken.

The square is deathly still when they drag him in.

You see the moment he steps onto the square—his hands bound in chains, his jaw locked in that stubborn defiance you’ve come to know too well. He walks with that same confident gait, even though there’s no wind in his sails anymore. Even though he’s walking toward death.

Mingyu’s arm presses around your shoulders more tightly. Chan and Soonyoung hold their ground beside you, and even Minghao and Wonwoo have joined now, the five of them forming a silent, protective wall around you. But your focus is only on one man.

The crowd ripples with whispers as he passes—the pirate returns. The traitor dares to show his face. Where’s the Book? Did he come to beg for mercy?

But Seungcheol isn’t begging.

His eyes are fixed ahead, never faltering. Not even when he spots the platform of the Twelve Kings—gilded thrones stacked in a crescent high above the square. Not even when his gaze lands on Joshua.

He stands shackled near the edge of the platform, clothes rumpled, his shoulders hunched from the weight of days in captivity. You can see the flicker in his eyes when he spots Seungcheol. First confusion, then rising hope—But then his gaze drops to Seungcheol’s hands. No book in sight. Joshua’s expression crumbles.

But Seungcheol doesn’t stop. He’s led to the centre of the platform below the Kings, behind the ornate shadow of the execution block. The chains at his wrists clink as they force him to stand alone, surrounded by guards.

Then, the King of Syracuse rises.

He stands before his throne, draped in deep blue ceremonial robes, his silver crown catching the light of the pale, cloud-choked sky. His face is stern—no, cold. Cruel. And his voice cuts through the silence like steel.

“Choi Seungcheol,” he begins, voice echoing across the square, “you are brought before the Crowned Council of the Twelve Cities, accused of treason most foul. The theft of the sacred Book of Peace and the attempted destruction of our alliance.”

The King steps closer, looking down at him like one might a rat scurrying in the gutter. “You were given a pardon once, pirate—a chance to walk among kings. You spit on it. And now, you crawl back here in chains like a dog seeking a master’s mercy.”

Still, Seungcheol says nothing.

The King sneers. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

He looks up then. Seungcheol’s voice is quiet, but it carries. Measured. Steady.

“I take full responsibility for the course I’ve chosen,” he says. “I accept whatever sentence the Council deems fit.”

Gasps spread through the crowd, but the King only laughs—a cold, humourless sound.

“And what course was that, pirate?” he snaps. “My son claims you didn’t steal the Book, yet it vanished the moment you returned to the city. And now you return without it. Do you expect us to believe in your honour?”

“I expect nothing,” Seungcheol says simply. “I don’t ask for forgiveness. Only that you let the innocent walk free.” His eyes flick to Joshua, just once.

“He wasn’t part of this. Let him go.”

Across the square, Joshua’s eyes widen.

He steps forward slightly—chained though he is—and looks down at Seungcheol with something like dawning realisation.

He came back for me.

The King narrows his eyes.

“How noble of you,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You who fled in the dead of night like a coward. Who let your blood brother be imprisoned while you wandered free. You think claiming responsibility now will wash you clean?”

The King sneers. “There is no redemption for you, Seungcheol. You’ve already chosen your fate.”

Then he lifts a hand. “Release the prince.”

A pair of guards move to Joshua’s side. The chains fall from his wrists with a dull clatter, and for a moment, Joshua just stands there, stunned.

Then he sees you.

He sees the clothes you wear—still half-pirate, half-Seungcheol’s. He sees the tears on your cheeks. The way your entire soul seems pinned to the man at the block.

He smiles sadly.

The guards seize Seungcheol again, forcing him to kneel.

Your breath hitches violently as they press his chest against the worn wood of the chopping block.

The executioner steps forward, masked and silent, a massive blade in his gloved hands.

The King raises his voice for the final time.

“Seungcheol, former captain of The Chimera, for the crimes of treason, betrayal, and sacrilege against the Twelve Cities, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Seungcheol closes his eyes as the executioner lifts the blade.

The blade is coming down.

Chan grips your shoulder. Mingyu holds your waist tighter. You bury your face into Soonyoung’s chest, unable to look.

But then— a sound like thunder.

You open your eyes just in time to see it — the blade, fractured mid-air, split into a thousand pieces. The metal clatters uselessly across the stone. The executioner stumbles back, horrified.

Suddenly, the smoke comes. It spills over the steps, hissing as it touches the ground. Shadows twist in unnatural shapes. She steps from it.

Cordia.

Seungcheol stumbles to his feet, eyes locked on her as the guards around him recoil in instinctive terror.

“Cordia,” he breathes. Her lips curl into a smile, sharp as a blade.

“Well, well,” she purrs, circling him. “So it worked. A last-second rescue. Just in time for the drama. Quite the scene, wouldn’t you say?”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “Why are you here?”

“Why?” she echoes, spinning lightly until she perches on the wooden base of the executioner’s platform. Her fingers steeple together. “Because, unfortunately for me, you held up your end of the bargain.”

He stiffens.

“You came,” she continues, teeth gleaming. “You fulfilled your impossible task. And now, by the rules of the oath I made to you in that wretched cell, I have to keep my word.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flicker downward—to the faint, glowing cross on her chest. The mark. The promise.

His mouth parts slightly. Realisation dawning. “You can’t let them kill me.”

Cordia scowls, her lips thinning into a vicious sneer. “No, pirate, I can’t.”

The silence is deafening.

Cordia stands, flinging her arms open as black smoke bursts from the ground around her, swirling once, twice — and then condensing.

The Book of Peace.

Floating in the air like it was never lost.

Gasps echo through the square. Even the Kings are on their feet now.

Cordia glares at Seungcheol.

Seungcheol lifts his chin, watching her.

“Do you have any idea how close I came?” she spits. “One more day. One more lie. One more little betrayal, and the cities would’ve crumbled like dominoes. Syracuse would’ve fallen. Joshua would be dead. And you? You’d be just another pirate with blood on his hands and no compass to guide him.”

Her eyes flick to you in the crowd, narrowing.

“But no,” she says, quieter now. “You had to change. For her.”

Seungcheol takes a step forward slowly.

“And now you’re here,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers. “Because a promise is a promise.”

Cordia’s head tilts. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re no hero. You still betrayed your friend. You stole his future. You might not have stolen the Book, but you took her.”

Her hand sweeps toward the crowd, towards you.

Seungcheol’s gaze snaps to where you stand.

You don’t need to speak. Everything you need to say is in your eyes.

Cordia snarls. “You’re no different than me, Captain. Just another liar clutching at something that doesn’t belong to him.”

Seungcheol turns back to her, a small, tired smile curving his lips.

“You know,” he says softly, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever beaten someone like you.”

Cordia freezes.

“I survived your challenges. I entered Tartarus. I gave up the girl. I faced the blade. And here I stand,” he murmurs. “Looks like I outplayed you.”

Her eyes flash. But she knows. The mark glows brighter now, a divine seal binding her to her word. With a snarl of fury, the smoke whips around her again, and the Book floats forward.

Seungcheol’s arm reaches out, his fingers wrapping around it just before it drops. Cordia’s eyes are pure fire. “Enjoy your little victory, pirate. I’ll get my chaos somewhere else.”

And in one last swirl of smoke — she’s gone.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Then Seungcheol turns. Joshua, still nearby, approaches slowly.

Seungcheol looks at the Book in his hands, then at him.

“It’s yours,” he says, extending it.

Joshua takes it carefully, his expression unreadable.

There’s a long moment where he just stares at it, running a thumb over its carved edge. Then he glances back at Seungcheol.

“You got your treasure back,” Seungcheol says, trying for a smirk, but it lands crooked. Joshua looks past him—to you, before turning his gaze back to him.

“Looks like you found some, too,” Joshua replies quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He looks down, overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For believing in me.”

Joshua only nods. “It’s the least I could do.”

Seungcheol glances at the artefact. “Use it well,” he murmurs. “When you become king someday… make it worth something.”

Joshua’s grip tightens. Then, with a breath, he steps forward and opens the Book.

The light explodes. Blinding, radiant, pure.

It pours over the city like a tide, driving out the shadow, painting stone and sky in colours so vibrant it feels like the first day of creation. The clouds scatter. The sun returns. Flowers bloom in cracks along the walls.

And all you can do is stare as the world comes back to life.

And the man who saved it stands at the centre of it all.

The Chimera sways gently in the harbour of Syracuse, her sails rolled tight and her hull gleaming with a fresh coat of tar. Dockhands and palace servants had swarmed the ship earlier that morning, unloading barrels of salted meat, crates of fruit and wine, bundles of new linens, and enough gold to make a dragon blush.

The King of Syracuse, for all his pride and disdain, had come through in the end—Joshua made sure of it. A debt repaid in coin, jewels, and an official pardon carved into parchment and sealed in royal wax.

Seungcheol walks across the deck with sure, measured steps, hands tucked behind his back as he surveys his men and his ship. He’s never seen her look better. The wood gleams, the ropes are neatly coiled, and his crew is laughing. Alive.

Mingyu leans lazily against the helm, tossing a peeled orange slice into Chan’s open mouth. Soonyoung is checking the tension in the sails with exaggerated flair, and Wonwoo—unsurprisingly—is sitting cross-legged near the gunwale, rereading a book they all swore he’d already memorized.

“Oi, Chan!” Seungcheol calls, pointing to the uneven crates. “If you stack that any higher, you’re going overboard with them.”

“Relax, hyung!” Chan chirps. “I tied them.”

“Like you tied the dinghy last time, and it floated off?”

Laughter echoes. Soonyoung snickers while Mingyu shakes his head, lounging smugly.

Just as Seungcheol opens his mouth to continue scolding, something thunks heavily onto his head.

He flinches, already turning with a scowl. “Minghao! I thought I told you—”

“Wasn’t me, Captain,” Minghao replies from near the foremast, barely glancing up from his map as he smiles. “Try higher.”

Seungcheol squints and cranes his head back.

Up in the crow’s nest, a familiar silhouette grins down at him, hair tousled by the wind, one arm looped around the mast. Your shirt’s tucked in lopsided, and your boots have seen better days, but you’ve never looked better.

“Thought you might need someone competent keeping lookout,” You call.

Seungcheol’s face breaks into a full smile, sunlight warming every line. “That so?”

Before he can say anything else, you swing effortlessly down the ropes. You land squarely in front of him with a thud and a slight bounce, and before he can even steady himself, you jump up in his arms.

He catches you easily, hands firm around your waist. “You always make an entrance,” he murmurs.

You smirk, hooking your arms around his neck. “You always look like you need one.”

He laughs, leaning in close. “You think you’re ready to join my crew, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you tease, pressing closer. “What are the dangers of sailing with the infamous Captain Choi?”

“Oh, let’s see,” Seungcheol hums, trailing his hands up your back. “Terrible food. Terrifying storms. Occasional gods of chaos. And a captain who gets distracted by pretty girls in crow’s nests.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Unforgiving waters.”

“I’m a strong swimmer.”

“Unruly crew.”

“I’ll whip them into shape.”

Seungcheol grins, pulling you flush against him. “You’re hired.” Your eyes sparkle. “That easy?” He leans in, voice low. “I’ve seen what you can do.”

Your lips meet before another word can be said—slow, smiling, deep. The kiss is full of promise and freedom and all the things you haven’t had a name for yet, not until he almost died. Around you, the crew lets out a round of whooping cheers.

Chan whoops the loudest. “About damn time!”

Soonyoung claps his hands. “So, when’s the wedding?”

Mingyu shouts down from the helm, cutting through the noise, “Alright, Captain! Where to now?”

Seungcheol looks down at you, arms still around your waist.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “I thought we were going to Fiji?”

Seungcheol raises a brow. “Fiji’s nice...”

“But?”

He smirks. “What about another adventure instead?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“I say lead the way, Captain.”

A/N: Another idea I've had in my head for a very long time. Took a bit longer to write but I'm really proud of it. Thank you to those who joined in the poll and chose Seungcheol as the MMC. Hope you enjoy! 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[cassiemaebarnes]

Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 1

Masterlist

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 3238

You had been in contact with Steve Rogers for a while now, and your dreams finally came true. You were now, officially, an Avenger.

You moved into the compound just a couple days ago, and you had just been following Steve around every day, learning how things worked around here. You were taken on (several) tours of the tower, but you were still lost every time you walked around. You sat in on meetings and started doing your own solo workouts that Steve gave you in the afternoons.

Everyone was really nice and helpful, and you had officially met everyone. Except one person.

Bucky had been on a solo mission for the past week, and he was supposed to be coming back the next day, probably in the afternoon. The others had warned you about him – his staring, his brooding, how grumpy he was – so you were a little nervous to meet him. But you didn’t have to worry about that until tomorrow.

Because you didn’t have to get up early to train with the others, you stayed up late, watching a movie. You had chosen a horror movie tonight, so you were sitting on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, knees pulled up to your chest, hands just below your eyes, ready to cover them at any moment.

Suddenly, you heard the elevator door ding, causing you to jump.

You quickly paused the movie, listening closely since you couldn’t see the elevator door from the couch. It was just off the kitchen, and you heard heavy footsteps walking down the hall in the opposite direction of the kitchen, towards the…well you actually didn’t remember what was down that way.

You quickly got up and crept into the kitchen. You slowly walked in, eyes trained on the doorway to the hall they had just walked down. You glanced at the clock on the oven, realizing it was almost 1:30 am.

You looked back at the hallway, slowly reaching to grab a knife off the stand on the counter. You slowly made your way to the doorway, holding the knife out in front of you…only to realize it wasn’t a knife.

You had grabbed a spatula.

You rolled your eyes at yourself, arms dropping to your sides. You turned back around to switch the spatula out with a knife, when you heard the footsteps again, approaching the kitchen.

You quickly turned back around and quietly ran to the doorway. A spatula would have to do.

The second they took a step into the kitchen, you jumped out in front of them, spatula inches away from their face.

A metal arm grabbed your wrist, and you realized who it was. “Bucky?”

He moved your hand out of his face so he could see yours. “And you must be y/n,” he said, letting go of your wrist.

You dropped your arm, taking a step back. “Sorry, I thought you were breaking in.”

“And a spatula was your weapon of choice?”

You sighed, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “I meant to grab a knife,” you mumbled, walking back into the kitchen.

You walked back to the counter, returning the spatula where you found it, as he followed behind you. When you turned around, the security light in the kitchen cast a faint glow over his features.

He was a lot more handsome in person.

His dark hair was a little longer than you expected, still slightly damp from the cold night air, and it curled gently at the ends near his jaw. His features were sharp but softened by the tiredness in his eyes – eyes that were a piercing blue, almost too intense to hold eye contact with for too long. He had a faint stubble along his jaw, his jawline sharp. And, of course, there was the arm – the metal catching the low light as he leaned casually against the counter, like grabbing strangers wielding spatulas in the dark was totally normal.

But as you were taking him in, you didn’t notice he was doing the same to you.

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on the way your long hair spilled over your shoulders, slightly tousled from where it had been tucked into your blanket. The blanket was still wrapped around you, though it had fallen open in the front, revealing an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder and a pair of shorts that barely peeked out beneath the hem. His gaze dropped briefly to your legs – long, toned, and bare – before catching sight of your feet, completely barefoot against the cool tile floor.

You didn’t say anything, too distracted by the way he was looking at you – brows slightly raised, almost curious, like he hadn’t expected you to look quite like this.

“Not exactly the warm welcome I expected,” he said, his voice a little rough, eyes finally meeting yours again.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t scare me next time,” you said, crossing your arms. “Or maybe I shouldn’t keep watching horror movies alone.”

He just chuckled as he looked down, shaking his head.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to be back until tomorrow?” you asked, leaning against the counter behind you.

“I finished earlier than I thought, decided to drive straight back instead of stopping somewhere.”

You just nodded in response, looking away awkwardly, not sure what to say now.

“Why are you up so late?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I’ve been doing my own workouts that Steve gives me in the afternoon, so I can sleep in since I don’t have to train with them in the morning.”

Bucky nodded slowly, then tilted his head. “So instead of sleeping, you decided to scare the hell out of yourself with a horror movie?”

You gave him a look. “It’s called self-care.”

He smirked, arms crossing over his chest. “Interesting definition.”

“I like the adrenaline rush,” you defended, though your voice betrayed the slight tremble from earlier. “And I was doing just fine until you showed up like some kind of horror movie final boss.”

That made him laugh – actually laugh – and you were a little stunned by how much softer he looked when he did. Like there was no way he used to be the Winter Soldier.

“You really thought someone was breaking in?” he asked, clearly still amused.

You gave him a dry look. “At 1:30 in the morning? With heavy footsteps? Yeah, I panicked.”

“And went for a spatula.”

“Okay, we’re not gonna keep bringing that up. I thought I grabbed a knife.”

He just grinned, leaning one hip against the counter. “Can’t promise that.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not as scary as everyone made you sound, you know.”

“Oh, just you wait,” he said, giving you a dramatic deadpan look. “I haven’t even glared at you yet.”

You snorted. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“Depends. Are you gonna throw any more kitchen utensils at me?”

“Only if you sneak up on me again.”

There was a beat of silence as the banter settled, and you both just looked at each other. His expression was thoughtful, eyes roaming over your face again, more curious than anything.

“You’re different than I expected,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

He shrugged, pushing off the counter and heading toward the fridge. “You’re not intimidated.”

“I waved a spatula at your face. That’s practically a dominance display.”

Bucky chuckled again, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. “Alright, new rule. No more horror movies alone. At least not without a real weapon nearby.”

You leaned your head back against the cabinets, giving him a playful smile. “So what, are you volunteering to be my horror movie buddy?”

He twisted the cap off the water and took a sip, eyeing you over the top of the bottle. “Only if there’s popcorn.”

You grinned, but before you could reply, he yawned – big and unfiltered, catching him off guard enough that he blinked a few times afterward and rubbed at his eyes.

“Long drive?” you asked, voice softening a little.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been up for…way too many hours.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back safe,” you said, gently pushing off the counter. “And sorry about the spatula. For real.”

“No permanent damage,” he said with a small smile, and that same curious look passed through his eyes again. “Goodnight, y/n.”

You returned the smile, a little warmer this time. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He lingered for a second like he might say something else, but instead, he gave you a quiet nod and walked off down the hallway, water bottle in hand, metal arm catching the light one last time before disappearing around the corner.

You exhaled slowly, finally letting your shoulders drop. Then you glanced down at the spatula still sitting on the counter and shook your head.

“Welcome to the team,” you muttered to yourself, turning back toward the couch.

--

The next morning when you woke up, your stomach was growling.

You went to the bathroom and quickly ran a brush through your hair before washing your face, but you didn’t bother getting dressed before you walked to the kitchen.

As you padded into the kitchen, still in the sweatshirt and shorts from last night, all the other Avengers were in there, either eating, making breakfast, or just talking – including Bucky.

Nat was the first to notice you. “Morning, y/n.”

“Morning,” you mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. A few others smiled or nodded good morning as you made your way to the fridge, trying to decide what you wanted to eat.

Bucky stood in front of the open fridge, grabbing eggs from the carton.

“Morning, Bucky,” you said, sticking your head under his arm to look in the fridge.

Everyone else just watched silently, waiting to see what Bucky would do. They had no idea you had already met, and they knew he hated being talked to or approached in the morning, so they were a little worried.

“Morning, y/n. Want me to make you eggs too?”

You just hummed, still crouching under his arm, surveying the fruit options in the fridge. “Yeah, that sounds good,” you replied, ducking under his arm and taking a step back.

He grabbed a few more eggs as you turned around, noticing everyone staring at you two, some with their mouths hanging open.

“What?” you said, eyebrows knit together in confusion.

Sam was the first to break. “Wait, he offered to make you breakfast?”

You blinked, looking between them. “Yeah…?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Bucky. “Since when do you cook for anyone?”

Bucky just shrugged, cracking the eggs into a pan like it was no big deal. “She threatened me with a spatula last night. It felt only fair.”

There was a beat of silence – and then a collective explosion of laughter.

“You – wait, what?” Sam leaned forward, nearly choking on his coffee. “She pulled a spatula on you?”

You felt your face go red instantly. “I thought someone was breaking in! It was dark, I panicked!”

Tony set his mug down with a dramatic shake of his head. “And this is who we’re trusting to help save the world?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It was either a spatula or a loaf of bread, Stark. I made a call.”

Nat laughed into her coffee, clearly enjoying this way too much. “So let me get this straight – you startled her, she tried to Spatula America you, and instead of being grumpy and scary like usual, you made her breakfast?”

Bucky smirked but kept his eyes on the pan. “She had good form. Almost smacked me in the face with it.”

Clint leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Wow. And here I thought you didn’t like anyone who made eye contact before noon.”

Bruce, sitting with a smoothie, tilted his head thoughtfully. “You seem…oddly chill right now.”

Bucky glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe I like being threatened by kitchen utensils.”

That got a second round of laughter, even from Steve – who was now studying Bucky like he was trying to solve an equation.

You were still standing there, completely thrown by how casually he was acting. He wasn’t snapping, or glaring, or giving anyone his signature “don’t talk to me” vibe. He was just…cooking eggs. For you.

Tony leaned toward Nat and whispered – not quietly enough – “ten bucks says they’re secretly dating already.”

You shot him a look. “I can hear you.”

He raised both hands. “I’m just saying! This is the calmest I’ve ever seen Barnes and the first time I’ve seen you voluntarily in the kitchen before noon. Something is definitely going on.”

Bucky just shook his head, flipping the eggs effortlessly. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

You looked at him, one brow raised. “Because of the spatula incident?”

He didn’t look up, but there was a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still trying to process the fact that you had been the one to somehow get through Bucky Barnes' grumpy morning shield.

You wandered over to the kitchen island and sank down onto one of the barstools, pulling your legs up to sit cross-legged on the seat, your oversized sweatshirt sliding down one shoulder. Nat slid onto the stool next to you, still grinning, while Sam leaned his elbows on the counter across from you, like he was watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

“So,” Nat said casually, “how exactly did we get to ‘good morning’ and ‘I’ll make you eggs’ from ‘grumpy murder stare’ Barnes?”

You groaned softly. “Guys, it’s not that deep. We just…met last night. Accidentally. Kind of.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “With a spatula.”

“Okay, yes, with a spatula,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “It was dark. I was scared. Let it go.”

“You waved a pancake flipper at a trained assassin and now he’s making you breakfast,” Sam said, straight-faced. “This is a rom-com and I did not get a script.”

As you laughed and bickered with them, you didn’t notice Bucky finishing up at the stove behind you. He didn’t say anything – just quietly plated the eggs, grabbed a fork, and set the plate down in front of you on the island, right in the middle of your sentence.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh – thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said simply, then returned to the stove to make his own plate.

The room went dead silent for a split second before—

“Ohhh my god,” Sam groaned dramatically, flopping onto the counter. “He cooked for her and served it to her? He’s down bad.”

Clint pointed a spoon toward Bucky. “We’re witnessing history. This is like…the Bucky Barnes Soft Launch.”

Tony mimed typing on a phone. “Hold on, I’m live-tweeting this. ‘Winter Soldier melts down from weaponized spatula and domestic bonding.’”

You gave them all a look and muttered, “He literally just made me eggs.”

Nat leaned in close, grinning. “He served you eggs. There’s a difference.”

“I’m right here,” Bucky called without looking up, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he dished up his own food.

“And yet,” Tony said, grinning as he sipped his coffee, “you’re not denying it.”

You shot Bucky a look, and he just shrugged, bringing his plate to the other end of the island and sitting down like none of this chaos concerned him at all. But when you looked again, his gaze flicked up to meet yours, and he gave you the tiniest wink.

You looked back down at your plate, cheeks warm. Yep. You were definitely in a rom-com.

You dug into the eggs—honestly, they were really good—and the conversation drifted to something else entirely. Nat was telling a story about a disastrous undercover mission that involved a lot of goats, and you were halfway through laughing at Sam’s horrified expression when you realized your plate was gone.

You blinked down at the empty space in front of you, then looked up to see Bucky at the sink, rinsing your plate and his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sam noticed at the same time you did. He froze mid-sip of his orange juice, slowly lowering the glass with wide eyes. “Oh my god.”

Nat turned around in her seat, catching sight of Bucky calmly scrubbing dishes. “No. No way.”

“He’s doing her dishes,” Sam said, turning to Nat like he needed a witness. “He’s washing her plate. Voluntarily.”

You blinked. “I – he didn’t have to do that–”

“Are you two already married or just emotionally bonded for life?” Tony called from the other side of the room, tossing a grape into his mouth.

Wanda, walking into the kitchen with a bagel, stopped dead in her tracks. “What’d I miss?”

“Barnes just cleared her plate and started washing it,” Sam said like he was reporting breaking news.

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “...did she save his life or something?”

“I threatened him with a spatula,” you mumbled into your coffee.

Bucky, still facing the sink, didn’t even turn around. “You’re never gonna live that down.”

“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Nat said cheerfully.

You gave Bucky a look. “You didn’t have to clean up for me, you know.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “I know.”

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, dropping his head to the counter. “He knows.”

Tony pointed between the two of you like he was tracking a conspiracy. “So we’ve got: late night meeting, cooking, casual touch proximity, washing her dishes–”

“Next thing you know, he’s folding her laundry and building her a bookshelf,” Clint added.

“Okay, I draw the line at laundry,” Bucky said, finally turning around with a half-smile.

“You didn’t deny the bookshelf, though,” you teased, arching an eyebrow.

That got a low laugh out of him. “Depends. Do you have books?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, realizing you did. Like, a lot.

Sam made a strangled noise. “Oh no. Oh no no no. This man is gone. G-O-N-E, gone.”

You couldn’t help it – you laughed, hard, burying your face in your hands.

And through it all, Bucky just leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, watching you with a quiet kind of amusement, like he didn’t even mind being the center of the chaos. In fact…he looked like he kind of liked it.

As the others continued joking and speculating about your supposed domestic takeover, you leaned your chin on your hand, watching Bucky from across the kitchen.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly – maybe the fact that you didn’t tiptoe around him like everyone else, or maybe it was just timing – but somehow, you'd slipped past a few of the walls everyone warned you about.

He caught you looking and gave you a small, knowing smile, like he could read your thoughts. You looked away quickly, but couldn’t fight the quiet little grin tugging at your lips.

You weren’t sure how you’d managed to crack through Bucky Barnes’ armor with a spatula and a pair of sleep shorts, but...maybe you wanted to find out what else you could break through.

Maybe this was just the beginning.

--

Part 2 | Masterlist

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Cold Jealousy

I am back once again with more Silco brain rot. Feeding all of you who need the content as well as myself.

Summary: Who knew jealousy was all it took for to have your first kiss with Silco?

He hates the coiling in his stomach that arises whenever you laugh at something a patron says. It sickens him, seeing you lean in so close to another man, your lips moving as you say something and then smile, causing the table to burst into laughter. He knows you're simply close friends with them, after all they are your childhood friends, people who grew up with you, so of course you'd act overly familiar with them but he can't stop his chest from tightening, his fingers twitching.

The nib of his pen pierces through the page he was writing on and he scowls angrily at the mess, trying to drown out your voice but it's intoxicating, a melody that snatches his attention away from the numbers in his notebook. Your laughter is like a drug, leaving him wanting more every time he hears it, and the thought that it's someone else eliciting it drives him insane.

"You alright there?" Vander slides him a glass of scotch, worry clear gentle grey eyes.

"I'm fine," Silco spits back, a little harsher than intended. Of course Vander would notice something was off, Vander knew him way too well. He turns back to his notebook, trying to suppress the whispers that begin to cloud his mind and stares at the numbers, willing them into his brain.

"You know they only have eyes for you right? They don't look at anyone the same way they look at you." Vander glances over at the table where you're currently playing a game of cards, and from the looks of it, losing.

"I know," Silco scowls, stabbing the page with his pen. Vander simply huffs and turns to attend to the customer who just pulled up at the counter. Silco rolls his eyes and closes the notebook, he's done for the night. There's no way he can continue concentrating when you laugh like that, when butterflies flutter in his chest and turn to stone as he remembers you're not laughing at something he said or did.

"I'm going to get some air," he grunts, slipping out the back door.

Out of habit, he makes his way to the rooftop, sitting at his usual spot and looks out at the sprawling underground city beneath. Neon lights flash from various stores like stars, illuminating figures as people walk past but the silhouettes disappear just as quickly, fading back into obscurity. It's the same pattern every night, he's memorised some of the figures already, knows the habits of certain individuals, and has noted the important ones. He spots the lady with twin brown hair buns who frequents the brothel opposite, the two enforcers who always sneak into the nearby drug store during their nightly patrol and nearly misses the sound of your footsteps.

"Hey." You take your seat next to him.

"Y/N." He barely spares you a glance before looking back at the city below. The night wind whistles through the air, sending shivers through his body and he curls up, hugging his knees to his chest. Dammit, he forgot his coat. The air here is chillier at this time of the year, being so far away from the hustle and bustle of the city's nightlife, but it brings a sense of peace that he treasures, especially when it's with you. Tonight, it just feels cold, probably from his lack of a coat, but there's a numbness he can't explain.

The clink of glass snaps him out of his thoughts and he glances up to see you produce a bottle of wine as well as two glasses.

"Sorry, I couldn't swipe a bottle of scotch so I grabbed the next best thing before anyone could catch me," you smile at him and pop the bottle open. The red liquid sloshes in the glass as you fill it up and hand it to him, "peace offering?"

He wrinkles his nose but takes the glass anyways, mumbling a thank you before letting the liquid slide down his throat. It doesn't have the same burn as scotch does, but there's still a pool of warmth that sits in his belly, although it does little to alleviate the chill he feels.

You smile and pour a glass for yourself, taking a sip, following the direction of his eyes. Silco swirls the red liquid around in his glass, biting his lip. The silence is awkward, but he won't be the first to break it, his pride won't let him. Fortunately, you shift closer to him and shrug your jacket off, wrapping it around his shoulders.

"Don't catch a cold on me."

He snorts in response, tugging your jacket tighter around himself. It smells nice, smells like you with a hint of his cigar's smoke. He can pick out the scent of wine, the smell of the soap you use to wash the jacket, the remnants of Piltover's smell from your afternoon stint and a small smile makes its way onto his face as he remembers the way you threw yourself at him, clutching a bag of freshly baked bread, laughing as you yelled at him to run for his life. The pool of warmth resting in his belly spreads to the rest of his body, sending tingles up his spine as he buries his face into the jacket's fabric. The fabric is worn but still maintains a certain level of softness, and it feels as nice as it smells.

He watches as you finish your glass and exchange it for the bottle, remembering his own unfinished glass and takes another sip. Scotch was still the best drink, a shame you didn't manage to filch a bottle of it. You down half the bottle in one go, sighing in satisfaction and gesture at his glass.

"You don't have to force yourself to finish it, you know?"

He scowls, and finishes the rest of his wine, all the while staring right at you. "As if I'll let you have any of mine."

You laugh, and he finds that your laughter sounds better when it's because of something he said than when it's because of something someone else said, besides, there's the added bonus of giddiness that fills him. He smiles, for the first time tonight and sets the glass down next to yours. The awkwardness has been broken, much to his relief and he feels as though he can breathe easier.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" You gesture towards the myriad of lights. "Piltover's lights can't compare to this."

"That's because most of their lights are the same colour," he snorts, "but yes…it is beautiful."

You beam, taking another swig from the bottle and set the bottle down, leaning back on your hands. The night breeze ruffles through your hair, playing with its strands and Silco watches as a couple of strands fall between your eyes, causing you to huff and puff at it until it falls off your face. The next gust of wind is stronger and you shiver, shifting closer to him. He shakes his head and throws the left half of your jacket over your shoulders so it covers the both of you.

"Don't you catch a cold on me either."

"Thank you for sharing my jacket." You roll your eyes, nudging his shoulder with your own. He nudges you back, the back and forth going on for a while until the jacket slips off your shoulder and he leans over to pull it back on. Electricity crackles from where his skin brushes against yours and he feels his heart leap into his throat when he looks up at you, realising how close the two of you are.

Sure, the both of you know how the other feels, knows the unspoken truth but continue to dance around each other, fearful of what acknowledging the feeling would bring, but tonight just feels right. He feels your hand intertwine with his and he leans in, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. You lean in as well and your lips meet for the first time.

The feeling is addicting, Silco quickly learns. The way your lips lock with his perfectly, the way you lean in as his fingers run through your hair, the way your free arm wraps around his waist, pulling him closer, all of this makes him wish this moment will never end. Unfortunately, the both of you need to breathe and so he reluctantly parts from you, pressing his forehead against yours. It feels natural, to feel your warmth, to hold you underneath your jacket, and from the way you're looking at him with such adoration in your eyes, you feel the same way.

It doesn't need to be said, nothing needs to be said, the only thing he needs to do is close the gap once more and taste the wine on your lips, savouring the sweetness of it all. This is the one time he will admit that wine tastes good, but he still prefers scotch.

Your hand gently cups his cheek and he finds himself leaning into the touch. Your thumb runs over his skin, brushing along his cheekbone and he sighs, surrendering to your warmth. A small smile graces your lips and he can't help but smile back, although his smile is rather lazy.

"We should head back before Vander has to come and haul us away," you murmur and Silco reluctantly extracts himself from your touch.

"And before he closes the bar up so that we don't have to wash the glasses." He picks said glasses up, nudging the empty bottle towards you. "You are still going to throw the bottle away, I'm not touching that."

"Why? You were so eager to touch my saliva just moments ago," you tease, mirth decorating your features.

"I'm not about to deny you your responsibilities." He ducks out of the way as you try to shove the empty bottle into his arms, quickly making his way back into the bar before you can succeed in making your problem his. He hears your annoyed shouts behind him and laughs, sliding into the bar's counter.

Vander raises an eyebrow as Silco places the glasses in the sink and darts off, then shakes his head as you come barreling in, demanding that Silco help you as payment for the wine he drank. He grabs the both of you by your collars and drops you both at the sink. "I believe washing everything in the sink will suffice as payment for the bottle of wine."

You groan when you see the amount of empty cups in the sink and Silco laughs, turning on the water tap. At least you're trapped in this with him, the washing should go by faster.

As the both of you hunch over the sink, you give him a little nudge with your elbow. "Next time, if you're jealous, just step in. I'll leave with you, I promise."

"Jealous?" He splutters. "I wasn't jealous!"

"Sure you weren't, Mr 'angrily stabs an innocent piece of paper with his pen'. Keep trying."

He huffs, turning his attention back to the glass he's currently wiping dry. "I wasn't jealous."

"Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that. I doubt that changes facts though."

"Nobody said that was a fact."

You lightly punch him in the shoulder with your damp fist and he mock glares at you, smacking your arm with the drying cloth but can't stop the smile that's forming on his face.

"Don't ever doubt yourself," you say softly. "You mean everything to me."

And you mean everything to me too.

[aureatelys]

red wine leather

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!reader w.c.: 4k a/n: inspired by what i affectionately call The Dom Chair™️ from 11x9, formally requested by @mggslover and @solardrop, and ty @minswriting for enabling me <3

c.w. 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, softdom!hotch, dom/sub dynamics, established relationship, thigh riding, p in v riding, unprotected sex, degradation, dirty talk, some brat taming

summary: Aaron notices your special interest in the new chair in his office.

read below or on ao3 here <3

When you first spot the leather wingback chair in Aaron’s office, you think nothing of it.

Tucked in the corner of his at-home office, because Aaron still hasn’t decided where he wanted to place it, the sleek wine-red leather had caught your eye when you had come home right after it was delivered. It was fancy, elegant even, as if it belonged in an old timey library or law office and required a cup of coffee to fully enjoy.

“Just in case I have any impromptu meetings at home,” Aaron had said when you asked about it. “It’s more elaborate than I usually go for but it’s about time we decorated around here, right?”

You were too busy swooning at Aaron calling your newly shared apartment a home to research into the fact that the chair cost nearly your entire paycheck. When you had finally confronted him about it, he successfully distracted you by easily picking you up with an arm around your waist and taking three steps down the hallway to christen your new bedroom.

It’s a fancy chair, we deserve a fancy chair, is what you told yourself every time you walked past the office, the red leather glinting from the golden light of Aaron’s desk lamp while he worked late into the night.

So you’re not exactly sure why your brain short circuits, causing you to stop dead in your tracks, when you step into his office to drop off a glass of water and spot him sitting in the aforementioned swanky leather chair, clearly having had moved it from where it was beginning to gather dust in the corner of the room to behind his desk.

He’s still wearing his suit, having had come home only minutes before and hurriedly kissing your cheek before muttering something about an online meeting he was running late for. Your heart had sung when he said that, even with the office door clicking shut behind him, because he could have easily sat through the meeting in his actual office, but he knew how important it was to you to be home by 7.

Aaron has always looked handsome in his suits, almost unfairly so. Nearly six days out of the week he’s learned to be prepared for you to nearly jump him as soon as he walks through the door as you mumbled something against his pulse point about how hot he looks but you need him to not be wearing it right now.

His tie is loosened, hair a little tousled from running his hands through them after his meeting, leaning back against that goddamn leather chair with that near constant furrow in his brow, and you want nothing more than to climb into his lap and kiss him senseless.

Crawling on the carpet on all fours until you’re kneeling in between his legs doesn’t sound so bad either.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” The familiar low timbre of Aaron’s voice breaks you out of your perverted thoughts, though it does nothing to quell the sudden fire burning in your chest that seemed to melt down between your legs.

You finally budge from where you had stood frozen in the doorway, leaning over his desk to place the glass of water in a clear spot between all the files and papers scattered about. You try not to think about the way Aaron had knocked all those reports and pens off in one clean sweep of his arm to bend you over the week prior.  “No problem. Meeting go okay?”

“It was fine.” Based off of the crease in between his eyebrows, you knew that it was definitely the opposite of fine, but you also knew about the unspoken promise to not talk about work as soon as you both stepped through the front door. “Ready for dinner? I can help.”

Aaron crosses his legs then, your eyes immediately drawn in to the way his slacks tighten over his thick thighs, or how his button-up shirt stretches over his chest the more he leans back into the chair, the white fabric complementing the red leather

“Yeah, sure,” you croak, throat suddenly feeling dry.

You watch as he pauses, the leftover frustration from his meeting melting into something else—curious and a little bit darker.

“Or are you in the mood for something else?”

You laugh uneasily, a nervous tic of yours. “What?”

The weight of his stare as he rakes over you is heavy, taking in the way the hem of your pajama shorts brush against the soft expanse of your thighs and the way an old shirt of his clings to you. And because Aaron is Aaron, he can surely tell that your breathing has deepened and the imperceptible shifting of your weight.

You can tell he’s thinking, thoughts running over themselves as he comes to the same conclusion that you have suddenly found yourself thrown into. He straightens up and clasps his hands to rest in his lap, something smug tugging at the corner of his lips as he meets your gaze.

“Come here.”

Your breath gets caught in your chest at the low tone, usually reserved for nights where he patiently and meticulously takes you apart until you’re a babbling, shivering mess. As if you couldn’t help it, heat immediately pools in the pit of your stomach, a steadily growing ache between your thighs making itself known.

Your feet move of their own accord, your head suddenly feeling foggy as you step closer and closer into Aaron’s office, the faint comforting hint of his cologne gnawing away at the worry running through your brain on how you’re going to explain that you’re getting aroused just from him sitting in a chair.

Aaron pushes the chair back so you could stand in front of him, the dull edge of his desk digging into the back of your thighs. Despite him having to crane his neck to look at you, your knees buckle at the steadfast way he’s meeting your eyes.

It hits you then. The expensive fabric of his suit, tailored perfectly to his body, and the way the high backing of the chair made him appear taller, bigger, as if announcing and bragging about his presence. It all made Aaron seem more commanding to you, imposing and self-assured in a way that not even witnessing him lead the room during a high-strung case could demonstrate. The rich woodsy smell of the leather is stronger up close, mixing in with his cologne and making you feel faint.  

The room is quiet besides the hum of the air conditioner, doing absolutely nothing to help the way your body temperature has increased at least ten degrees.

And then he’s looking down at his lap and then back up at you, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head in a silent question that makes your face heat up impossibly more, something akin to embarrassment tingling at the back of your neck.

You have no choice but to climb into his lap, your knees coming up to rest against his hips as you straddle his thighs. The squeak of the leather, obviously still not having been broken in, was almost obnoxiously loud, yet paled in comparison to your heart thrumming in your ears.

Your arms instinctively come to wrap around Aaron’s broad shoulders as his hands rest on your hips, a finger dipping underneath the hem of your shirt to rub at the small of your back and causing a shiver to run up your spine.

“I know you like watching me work at my desk but I’m assuming that can’t be the only reason why you’re like this.”

You shake your head, words stuck in your throat.

He hums, mock-sympathetic, as his hand moves underneath your shirt, smoothing his palm up your side and thumb barely tracing the underside of your breast. The callouses on his fingers and the nearly unbearable heat of his palm has you squirming in his lap, causing your shorts to ride up even further until they’re bunching around you. You watch as Aaron’s eyes narrow, just like you knew they would.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You knew Aaron loved you, constantly showering you with affection and checking in with you at any chance he could get. He’s the most wonderful man you’ve ever known and he knew you like the back of his hand.

Which is exactly why the condescending tone that nearly drips from his low voice and the way he tightens his hold on you has your body melting into him, shame and arousal mixing together so suddenly that you want nothing more than to grind down onto his lap.

“The chair…” you bite out, your eyes drifting from his impenetrable stare to the wall behind Aaron’s head, your hands gripping onto his shoulders as you can feel the way your panties have started clinging to you, melding to you from your wetness.

A hand comes to grasp at your chin to redirect your gaze back to him, not hard, but forceful enough that the action has you shifting in place again in an attempt to douse the ache in between your thighs.  

“And what about the chair?” Amusement dances in his eyes despite his own arousal clear as day.

You’ve never shied away from sex, clearly since you had to make the first move, but you’ve always had trouble articulating exactly what you wanted from him and he knew it. God, he’s so annoying.

You flounder a bit, mouth opening and closing, because you’re not even sure what you want yourself.

Aaron seems to take pity on you as he tuts and lifts you up by your hips, spreading his own legs even further and maneuvering you back until you were straddling his right thigh with one foot on the ground and the other kneeling in between his legs on the chair. He lifts his leg at the same time you move down, causing you to gasp at the sudden onslaught of pressure against your throbbing pussy.

“You want to ride me in this chair?” He whispers, his voice a low rumble that you swear you could feel in your own chest. “Or you’re feeling so needy you’re willing to ride my thigh?”

A whine bubbles out of you and then Aaron leans in to finally, finally kiss you.

Despite the firm grip he has on your hips and the hard muscle of his thigh against your core, his lips are undeniably soft, if not a little chapped. The way his mouth seamlessly moves against yours, as if reminding you that you didn’t have to be so shy around him, makes affection bloom in your chest.

And then he’s pulling away, leaning back against the chair with lips so deliciously slick that you’d almost be content with just making out for the rest of the night. His hands move from your hips to stretch out on the armrests, your skin suddenly cold despite feeling like you were about to spontaneously combust.

He raises an eyebrow again, a smirk slowly taking over his face. If you didn’t know him the way you did, you wouldn’t have noticed the way his chest was just barely heaving or the way his gaze kept drifting to your nipples poking through your shirt.

“I want to see just how needy you are,” he says casually, as if you two were sitting on the couch and catching up on how your day was. “And then maybe I’ll fuck you.”

You’re tempted to ignore him, thinking about swiftly undoing his slacks and sliding down his cock, but you shrink under his intense stare. The way the ache between your legs grows stronger at his off-handedness spurs you on.

You experimentally move your hips back and forth, using Aaron’s shoulders as leverage, as a strangled moan rises out of you. He’s not even tensing his thigh but just finally getting some kind of pressure against your aching clit as you feel yourself getting wetter, the fabric of your panties clinging to you as your shorts get bunched up underneath you with every movement, was causing a fire to spread underneath your skin.

Your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed by the pressure building in the pit of your stomach and the molten heat of Aaron’s gaze on you as you rut against him.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” And then he’s tensing his thigh, causing your breath to catch and your hips to stutter. “I want to hear you.”

And so you don’t hold back because the hardness of his thigh, the muscle he’s earned from running almost every morning, combined with the seam of your shorts, rubs deliciously against your clit and has you whimpering pathetically.

“Aaron…” you gasp, hands tightening on his shoulders. Your hips and lower back are starting to ache, but the fact that you’re grinding on your boyfriend’s leg like an animal in heat has your brain feeling heady.

Aaron, that bastard, is still sitting there and watching you, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. His fingers are twitching against the armrests and his lips are parted, nearly panting from how aroused he was just from watching you bring yourself off on him.

When you glance down and notice his cock straining against his pants, inches away from your knee, your mouth waters. The thought of kneeling in between his legs while he sits on the leather chair, the tufted back painting him to look almost like royalty while your mouth was stuffed with his cock has your eyes nearly rolling in the back of your head and your hips to grind even faster against him.

When your knee brushes against his thick bulge, Aaron lets out a throaty groan, finally sitting up so his hands can come to grab at your hips to help tug you back and forth against his thigh. You moan at the change in pace, your own thighs starting to squeeze around his. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. I can feel how wet you are.”

You let out another whimper, because he’s right, you can feel the way you’ve soaked through your shorts and undoubtedly leaving a wet spot on his dress pants. Your hips move faster at that thought, tension coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach.

He moves one of his hands from your hip to the back of your neck, grabbing you to bring your foreheads together, breaths intermingling and forcing you to meet his gaze again. That familiar comforting brown of his eyes was completely gone and instead overtaken by his pupils, the blaze in them threatening to swallow you whole.  “Ready for me to fuck you? For me to bury my fat cock in your pussy so I can fill you up with my come?”

“God, yes,” you exhaled. “Please, I need it.”

“Oh, you need it now, don’t you? Need me to come inside you so you can feel it dripping out of you?”

You’re gasping, breathless now from both the arousal and exertion of rutting against him, and you’re so fucking close. “Yes, yes, fuck, Aaron—"

His hands come to push you back, lifting you off his thigh, and you’re about to knock his hands away so you can fucking come when you watch with a dazed expression as he scrambles to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his slacks. He lifts his hips up to push them down with his briefs, and then his cock pops out, a delicious angry red with precum beading at the slit.

“Come here.” He does not need to tell you twice.

You scoot closer into his lap, your knees sliding uncomfortably against the leather, and then you’re tugging the fabric of your pants aside, briefly running the head of his cock through your slick folds with a whimper, before sinking down onto Aaron’s thick cock with no warning.

He mutters a curse, head falling back against the chair and exposing the tendons in his neck as he clenches his jaw. “God, you’re still so fucking tight for me.”

You hiss at the slight stretch, because no matter how wet you were, Aaron’s cock was still so fucking thick. You felt dizzy, mind spinning with every inch of his cock pushing inside of you, but Christ, it felt so fucking good finally being filled.

He has his fingers wrapped around the fabric of your shorts by your hips, most likely so he doesn’t hurt you, but also so he could make sure you wouldn’t move until he was ready. When you’re finally seated in his lap, his cock fully inside of you, he lets out a growl that has a shiver running up your spine, unconsciously clenching around him before you could help it.

When you notice that he’s still leaning his head back, his neck deliciously exposed, you can’t help yourself when you lean forward to kiss along his jawline, detecting the barely there stubble, your hands leaving his broad shoulders to run your palms along his chest.

If possible, Aaron tenses more, his hands on your hips clenching and unclenching. “Honey, if you keep doing that, I’m not going to last,” he rasps.

You smile against his throat, heart thumping erratically that had nothing to do with the fact that you knew you were about to get fucked within an inch of your life. You tell yourself it’s just because he makes it so easy, he knows not to tempt you with this, when you feign innocence and say “Old age catching up with you? I thought you said you were going to fuck me.”

A pause, long enough that has the skin on the back of your neck prickling and you starting to second guess your words, before he’s suddenly lifting you and slamming his hips up into you, driving his cock deeper than you expected.

The action knocks the breath out of you, your hands scrambling on his chest before grasping at the lapels of his suit jacket. Even though he’s barely touched you, essentially hasn’t touched you at all, you feel your entire being unraveling, nearly melting at his touch.

“You’re such a,” he grunts, thrusting up into you again, “brat.” He grinds into you, filling you up to the hilt and grinding into you, causing you to curse and sit up straighter to press your forehead back against his. “If only I wasn’t fucking your sweet pussy, I’d be fucking that pretty mouth of yours.”

You can feel your thighs shaking, your heart nearly beating out of your chest, and you desperately wish that he would fucking move already. “Aaron…”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His hands slide down from your hips to underneath your ass, grabbing a possessive hold of you so he could lift you off his lap so he could push you back down on his cock, starting a steady rhythm that has your mouth dropping open and your head tilting back. “Doesn’t it feel better when I’m doing all the work and fucking you instead of having to rub against me like a dirty girl?”

“God, yes,” you gasp, choke out, because Aaron has started fucking into you so mercilessly that you can’t do anything except just take it.

The filthy wet sounds of him plunging into you, his hips slapping against your flesh, and the broken strangled noises you make while he grunts into your ear fill the room. Aaron’s belt, still undone and wrapped around his slacks that have pooled around his knees, clink with each thrust, while the leather of chair continues to squeak.

Despite the way you wanted to let your eyes flutter shut, overcome with finally having that ache in your core being filled and white-hot pleasure zinging up your spine, the sight before you was even more intoxicating.

Aaron, who loved to fuck you until you were a limp pile in his arms, was gazing into you in that intense way he always does, as if studying every eye roll and twitch to memory. There was a light sheen of sweat over his face, causing his hair to fall into his eyes, and the sight of his parted lips as he panted, resolute in his desire to prioritize your pleasure over his didn’t help the tight coil in your stomach that was burning you from the inside out.

Your eyes are suddenly drawn to his arms—the muscles from lifting you up on and off his cock straining against the sleeves of his dress shirt. His forearms, always thick and riddled with deliciously prominent veins, were the perfect anchor point for your hands when he was rutting into you until you couldn’t breathe. His hands, large and full of silent strength, were always gentle with you even when you were begging for more.

You grab at his forearms now as you try to meet his thrusts, shoving your hips down even harder every time he canted up, and when his rhythm falters and his cock nudges deeper into you, you think your mind goes blank and you begin babbling out a mix of curses and breathless mutters of his name.

You’re close, and he knows it—he always knows it. One of his hands releases the death grip he has on your ass, and you watch in disbelief as he doesn’t even struggle. In fact, he continues to hold you up, snaking his other hand in between your bodies to rub at your clit.

“Christ, sweetheart, you’re so wet,” he breathes. He’s right—his thick fingers gliding over your clit and your pussy with ease, your wetness undoubtedly dripping down his cock and emitting the filthiest noises you’ve ever heard. “You always take my cock so well, don’t you honey?”

You nod repeatedly, eyes screwed shut as you desperately chase your orgasm steadily creeping up on you. Aaron knows you, putting the most perfect amount of pressure as he rubs your clit in tight circles and continues pumping into you.

He lets go of you completely as he chases his own orgasm, no longer needing to hold you up as he grunts and fucks up into you. He takes a hold of the back of your neck, possessive again, as he presses your foreheads against each other and his breath fans over your face. His brows are furrowed, focused, as he deliberately holds you in place. “That’s it, you’re going to come all over me and then I’ll come inside you and fill you up, just the way you like.”

Jesus Christ, both of you were going to feel this in the morning—your thighs aching and shaking as you attempt to hold your position hovering over his lap, knees pressed uncomfortably into the leather chair while Aaron’s thighs strain to pound into you.

But you don’t care, God, you don’t fucking care.

“Aaron, fuck, oh my God—” you gasp, chest heaving, as you cry out and your orgasm crashes over you. Blood rushes through your ears, brain fizzling out, as you’re distantly aware of your breath stuttering and your walls clenching and spasming around his cock.

Aaron, that bastard, continues fucking up into you, albeit more shallowly, his thumb catching on your clit and watching with heat in his gaze as you shudder through your aftershocks.

And then, while you’re still catching your breath, he picks up a frantic pace, his grip on the back of your neck tightening and causing another shiver to run through your body. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, hips stuttering, and then he’s coming inside of you with a deep, heavy groan.

You whimper when you feel his cock twitching inside of you, pulsating with each drop of come spilling into your cunt. Your grip on his forearms loosens as you slump against him, your entire body feeling loose and pliant.

His breath tickles against your ear as he tries to catch his breath, rubbing soothing circles against your hip before gently pushing at your shoulders so you were sitting back and he could get a look at you.

When you blearily blink up at him, he’s tenderly brushing your hair away from your face and gazing into you with so much affection that your heart feels like it’s seizing.

“Can I assume you like the chair then?” he asks, voice deliciously raspy, wearing a small smile curled with exhaustion.

“Ugh, shut up,” you mumble, attempting to push at his shoulders despite your arms feeling like noodles. He takes it in stride, smile growing wider. “I don’t think I can do this again, I think your old age is contagious.”

Aaron huffs. You can tell he’s trying not to roll his eyes at you. “I’m sure we can think of something.”

Your mind flashes back to your earlier thought; crawling on your hands and knees until you were settled in between his thighs and keeping his cock warm with your mouth, maybe while he was on a video call. You hide your own giddy smile as you push your face into Aaron’s neck, making a mental note to bring it up before his next at-home meeting.

taglist (pls lmk if you would like to be added): @kiwriteswords @knitmeatardis @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna <3

[suliigwp]

MASTERMIND

Lando Norris x reader

SULI: ITS FINALLY HERE I KNOW I KNOW - I love this man so much just look at him. Uhhh not proof read so... If there's any mistakes ignore it! Text messages and a singular Instagram post! Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3 tbh idk if I want to make this a series or univers or what because there Is a Series coming soon with lando and all I can think about is them so - let me know!

Based on 'mastermind' by Taylor swift I bow down to you queen - Stream Mastermind!!

Warnings: bestie's a bit crazy here, depressive childhood on readers part, uhhhh none?

You weren’t on the guest list.

You knew that from the moment you slipped out of the cab and took in the scene—a velvet-roped entrance, tall security guards in sleek black suits, the unmistakable pulse of deep house music rolling up from the rooftop of the Monaco hotel like heat waves off asphalt.

But you also knew how to get in.

A friend of a friend had owed you a favor. A whisper here, a mention there, and a little calculated charm had bought you more than access—it bought you control. You didn’t walk in like someone hoping to be noticed. You walked in like someone who had already decided who would notice you.

Inside, the rooftop glowed with warmth—glass lanterns, the shimmer of city lights below, and a skyline sliced by jagged cliffs and moonlight. It was glamorous in that effortless way only Monaco could pull off. Champagne glasses glinted in the hands of people who had never worried about paying rent. Women with glossy hair and gowns that slinked like second skin. Men with sports team money and sharp jawlines. Everyone either wanted something—or someone.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. You walked slowly, the click of your heels barely audible over the music. A silk dress, cut low in the back, clung to you in just the right way. Your hair—undone, deliberately imperfect—caught the wind, strands falling over your shoulder as you made your way toward the balcony.

That’s where you positioned yourself. Strategic. Peripheral. A place with the best lighting, the best view, and most importantly—the best sightlines into the crowd. You didn’t check your phone. Didn’t sip the drink you’d accepted minutes ago. You were too focused.

The room buzzed behind you: the clinking of glass, the pitch of laughter rising, the occasional cheer when someone from a team entered. You knew he wasn’t here yet.

And then—

A shift in energy.

It was subtle at first. The way the volume changed—not louder, but sharper. The kind of silence that hummed just before a chord dropped. You turned your head slightly, only enough to glimpse him without looking eager.

Lando Norris.

A navy suit jacket, sleeves slightly wrinkled, hanging off one shoulder like he’d forgotten to care. A white shirt, just slightly rumpled. Tan skin that shimmered in the lights, curls tousled in a way that could only be natural—or perfectly styled to look that way. His smile was easy. His walk was casual. But people moved for him.

He greeted a few friends with lazy handshakes, leaned into someone’s ear to say something that made them throw their head back in laughter. He was magnetic in the way boys sometimes are before they realize how dangerous they’ve become.

He didn’t see you. Not yet.

That was part of the plan.

You let the moment stretch. You adjusted the strap of your dress with your opposite hand, slow enough to catch the corner of someone’s eye. Not his. Yet. Your profile was lit by candlelight—delicate, composed. Just a girl alone at a rooftop party. Not watching. Not waiting.

And then, as if on cue, you felt it.

The weight of his stare.

You turned, not sharply, but with the softness of someone caught in a passing thought. Your eyes met. And you looked away.

You let a breath slip through your lips. Not a smile, not quite. Then you looked away. Dismissed him like he was just another boy at just another party.

Three seconds. And looked back at him.

His brow twitched. Interest piqued.

You looked away again.

He blinked.

You saw it in your periphery.

He turned to say something to a friend, but his body shifted an inch in your direction.

It had begun.

The fuse was lit—not by touch, not by words, but by calculation.

A gaze, a posture, a silence sharper than speech.

Your fingers ghosted over your untouched drink. You didn’t need to sip it.

Because this party, this crowd, this night—you didn’t crash it.

You orchestrated it.

And Lando Norris had just stepped onto the board.

You didn’t follow him right away.

That would’ve broken the rhythm—no, your rhythm. The entire night was a sequence, a carefully choreographed dance of almosts and maybes. So when Lando turned his back after that first locked glance, laughing again with friends, brushing curls off his forehead like he wasn’t aware of you watching—you didn’t move.

You sipped your drink slowly. Still unsmiling. Still unreadable.

But your eyes tracked him through the crowd, every turn of his shoulder, every lean of his body. He didn’t linger in one place. He wasn’t anchored. He never was. You could tell by the way he kept scanning the room—lively but detached, floating through conversations like they were just enough to keep him occupied until something more interesting came along.

And you knew—you were the something.

Minutes passed. Music pulsed. Laughter sparked and faded. He moved farther into the crowd.

Then, as if fate tipped its hand ever so slightly, the path between you cleared. A gap in the bodies. A breeze from the open sky. And through it—you saw him. Full view. His head tipped slightly, like he’d just heard something intriguing. The side of his face you’d studied from press interviews and podium photos was now just... real. Dimmed by lantern light, sun-kissed from the day's practice laps, brows furrowed not from stress, but curiosity.

You knew the moment he saw you again.

Because this time, he didn’t just look.

He really looked.

There was something different in his eyes now. Not just appreciation—recognition. Like a piece of a puzzle had just clicked in his head.

She’s not just another pretty girl at a Monaco party.

He turned his full body toward you. His expression changed so subtly, so deliberately, you almost missed it.

A smile—lopsided, slow, the kind of smile that starts from the corner of the mouth and rises like the first breath after a long swim.

But it wasn’t a smile that said “come here.”

It was a smile that said “I see you.”

And it knocked the wind right out of you.

Not because it was flirtatious. But because it wasn’t. It was something quieter. Smarter. A knowing curl of his lips that said “So this is how we’re playing it.”

That was the moment you knew he had caught on.

To the rhythm.

To the space between glances.

To the way you hadn’t smiled back—not once. Not even now.

Your heart thudded with quiet, invisible triumph. Because that smile? It wasn’t just a reaction. It was his first move.

You didn’t need him to chase you. You needed him to engage you.

And he had.

You finally turned your body toward him—just a few degrees. Acknowledgment, not invitation. Your eyes met again across the dim-lit rooftop, and this time, you let your lips twitch—barely—a microexpression of amusement. Then you looked away, letting the moment hang in the air like perfume.

Behind you, the party drummed on.

But the game had begun.

A quiet check. Not mate yet. But the board was set.

And all he’d done...

Was smile.

You didn’t go to him.

Of course not.

You returned to the railing, drink in hand, letting the music fold around you like a veil. Behind you, people were laughing louder, the evening deepening, the wine flowing easier. The sky above was violet now, pinpricked with stars. Monaco glittered beneath it, a jeweled tray of secrets and stories. And you—perfectly still in the middle of it all.

You knew he would come to you.

And when he did, it wasn't loud. There was no grand entrance, no purposeful stride. He simply… appeared beside you, like a current that had always been there, now close enough to feel against your skin.

You smelled him before you heard him.

Warm cologne with something sharp underneath—leather maybe, or pine. Clean and expensive, but still like him. You didn’t turn. You let the silence sit, breathing it in like a challenge.

Then:

“So,” he said, soft and amused. “Do you always do that?”

Your heart skipped once. Just once. But your face didn’t change.

“Do what?” you asked, not looking at him. Your voice was velvet wrapped in steel. A soft echo against the music.

“Look at someone like they’re not worth your time,” he replied easily. “Then stand perfectly still so they can’t stop watching you.”

Now you turned. Slowly. Eyes meeting his. Up close, he was more boyish than he looked from across the room. But that boyishness was dangerous. Mischief painted in golden skin and a grin that had probably undone better women than you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that what I did?”

He leaned on the railing, facing you fully now, one arm slung casually over the ledge. “Oh, definitely.” He nodded. “And it worked. Obviously.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

He shrugged. “Not sure I liked being the math problem, though.”

That earned the faintest flicker of amusement from your lips. You still hadn’t smiled, not really. Just the ghost of it. The idea of it.

“Did it bother you?” you asked, turning slightly, shoulder brushing the edge of his jacket. His was tailored—well-fitted, slightly creased from being shrugged off and on all night.

Lando tilted his head. “Not exactly.” He paused. “I think it just threw me. I’m used to different kinds of looks.”

You studied him then. The way his knuckles grazed the edge of the railing. The way his curls curled tighter near his temples in the humid night. There was a flicker of boyish charm in him, but muted—held in check by something more watchful. Like he knew when to perform and when to hold back. Right now, he was doing the latter.

“You didn’t seem thrown,” you replied quietly.

He smiled at that—just a little. “No,” he agreed. “I’m quick on my feet.”

“That’s what they say about drivers.”

“And what do they say about girls like you?”

Now you looked at him fully.

His tone hadn’t been mocking. It hadn’t even been flirtatious, not in the obvious way. It was curious. Almost careful. Like he wasn’t sure if he was touching something sharp.

You didn’t answer right away. Let the question settle in the silence.

“They don’t usually get the chance to say anything,” you said finally. “I don’t stick around long enough to listen.”

Lando nodded slowly, as if filing that away. His eyes dipped to your hand on the railing, where your fingers toyed with the condensation on your glass, and then returned to your face. Noticing things. Reading you. Trying to.

“You know,” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, “I knew you were going to be difficult.”

You raised a brow. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” His expression flickered, a little grin threatening. “I just didn’t expect to enjoy it so much.”

Your breath caught—but not because of the words.

Because he said them without trying to impress you.

Because he meant it.

And for the first time that night, you really looked at him. Past the suit, the fame, the boyish face sharpened by stubble and speed. Past the way everyone else in the room looked at him like he was already theirs.

He was still standing there, waiting for your response.

But you didn’t give him one.

Not yet.

Instead, you picked up your glass again and said only: “Are you staying long?”

He blinked. The question caught him off guard.

“In Monaco?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him.

And eventually, he got it.

“As long as I need to,” he said softly. And then—“Are you?”

This time, you smiled.

Just a little.

And walked away.

With the kind of confidence that doesn’t ask for attention—it simply commands it. Her perfume still lingered faintly in the air, something complicated and cold, like bergamot with a shadow underneath.

Lando stood there for a beat too long, staring at where she’d been. His drink was untouched. His mind, not so much.

He’d had conversations like this before. Witty girls. Sharp-tongued charmers. But this wasn’t that. She wasn’t trying to be liked. She wasn’t performing. If anything, she’d been sizing him up—like a puzzle she’d already mostly solved.

And yet… she smiled like she was holding something back.

He blinked, rolled his shoulders like he could shake off the chill she left behind, then turned on his heel. He scanned the room for the one person who could give him answers—Luca, the host.

He found him by the bar, mid-conversation with someone in a pink blazer. Lando stepped in with an apologetic nod.

“Sorry—mate, quick one,” Lando said low, his voice casual but too precise to be accidental. “The girl I was just talking to. Who is she?”

Luca glanced past him. “Oh, the tall one? Red lipstick, doesn’t smile unless she means it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s dangerous territory, mate,” Luca said, half-laughing, half-warned. “You sure?”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “What’s her name?”

Luca hesitated, then said it...

It landed in Lando’s chest like something heavier than it should be.

“And?”

Luca shook his head. “She doesn’t usually come to things like this. Barely RSVP’d. I think she knows someone from Red Bull’s strategy team—or maybe Ferrari. I don’t know. She’s not… in this scene. Not really.”

Lando nodded slowly, processing.

“Do you have her number?”

Luca gave him a sharp look.

“What?”

“I’m not gonna do anything weird,” Lando said, lifting his hands. “Just—look, I’ve never seen her before. I just want to talk. Properly.”

A pause.

Then: “You’re serious?”

Lando met his eyes. “Yeah.”

Luca sighed, pulled out his phone, thumbed through contacts. “I’ll text her first. If she’s okay with it, I’ll send you her number.”

“Fair enough.”

Lando gave a nod and turned back toward the balcony. But he didn’t feel triumphant. He felt like something had shifted. Like someone had noticed his move on the board… and let it happen anyway.

She hadn’t told him anything about herself, but somehow, he already knew:

She wasn’t an accident.

And he wasn’t going to let her be a one-night mystery.

...

The car door shut with a soft click, sealing her away from the noise of the party. It was late, the kind of late where the streets were mostly empty and the sky had turned velvet.

She exhaled, leaning back into the leather seat. The interior still smelled faintly of her perfume and the faintest trace of smoke on her coat. One heel was already off, foot tucked beneath her. She had no music playing, no voice navigation, no rush. She just sat there in the silence, eyes catching her own reflection faintly in the rearview mirror.

Then her phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

She glanced at it—Luca.

One eyebrow arched before she even picked it up.

She stared at the screen. A heartbeat. Then another.

Her lips curved slowly—not into a smile, not yet. Something smaller. Sharper.

She let the anticipation play out, letting the weight of the moment settle. The silence inside the car made it feel like time had paused just for her.

She didn’t even reply immediately. Instead, she picked up her phone, tilted it slightly in her hand, and let herself feel it—the inevitability. The way he had watched her, curious and cautious. The way he had lingered when she walked away. Like he didn’t want to lose sight of her too fast.

Like she had left him with a question he couldn’t stop trying to answer.

She hit send. Then locked her phone and tossed it gently back onto the seat.

Her smirk bloomed wider now. A quiet, satisfied thing.

Checkmate.

She leaned her head against the headrest, eyes half-lidded. The night wasn’t just a success. It was a confirmation. The fuse had been lit, and the dominoes were already falling, one by one.

And Lando Norris—darling, golden boy of the grid—had no idea what game he’d just walked into.

...

Lando got the message from Luca just past midnight.

He was lying in bed, scrolling through nothing. The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that made him restless.

His phone buzzed again.

He sat up.

There was no hesitation in his fingers—but there was care. A weight. He stared at the name on the screen, his thumb hovering over it.

He could feel the static of her again. The red lipstick, the look in her eyes that didn’t flinch. She didn’t flirt—she calculated. And he kind of liked it.

He opened the message app and typed:

Not sure if this is brave or dumb, but hey—

It’s Lando.

Thanks for not vanishing entirely tonight.

He stared at it.

Deleted “brave or dumb.” Rewrote it.

Hope it’s okay I’m texting.

It’s Lando.

You left before I could finish being intrigued.

Too much?

He deleted that one too.

Started again.

...

He hit send and immediately dropped the phone beside him like it was hot. Pulled the covers over his face.

What are you doing, mate.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Then, across the city, her phone lit up inside her dark apartment.

She was brushing her teeth, her bare feet cold on the tiles. She glanced at the screen. And when she saw his name, that familiar curve returned to her lips.

She dried her hands on a towel, padded barefoot into the living room, phone in hand, unread message glowing on the screen.

She read it once.

Twice.

Then again.

“You made the room quieter after you left.”

That one hit differently.

She curled up on the armrest of her couch, not even bothering with the full seat. The city twinkled behind her windows. Her thumbs hovered, thoughtful.

And then she typed:

Then tossed the phone onto the couch cushion beside her.

She didn’t need to wonder if he was smiling.

She knew he was.

...

The bell above the café door chimed softly as Lando stepped inside. It was late morning — warm enough for a hoodie but not enough for sunglasses, though he wore them anyway. The streets of Monaco shimmered in that gentle, curated way: expensive, slow, quiet. He wasn’t looking to be seen.

This place was tucked into a corner near the marina. Not the trendy side. Not the side where people wore designer for attention. It was the other kind — the kind where the older locals read newspapers, where the espresso was sharp and the staff didn’t care about his name.

He walked to the counter, ordered a flat white, and turned around—

—and froze.

She was there.

Perched in the corner booth like she'd been painted into the scene hours ago. One leg tucked beneath her, head bowed over a book with the page held lightly between her fingers. Her hair was pulled back in a lazy bun, but lipstick still painted her mouth in that same unmistakable red. An espresso cup rested beside her hand, only half-drunk. She turned the page with care, as if she had all the time in the world.

She didn’t look up right away. But then—like she sensed him—she slowly lifted her head.

And smiled.

Not surprised. Not even smug. Just amused. Cool, unreadable, familiar.

“Norris,” she said, shutting her book with a quiet snap. “You’re either stalking me… or the universe is starting to play favorites.”

He let out a laugh, walking over with his cup.

“I was gonna say the same thing.”

“Sure you were.”

He slid into the booth across from her without asking, stretching one arm over the back of the bench. She didn’t object. Instead, she tucked her book away in her bag like she was always planning to make space for him.

“You come here often?” he asked.

“When I want to be alone.”

She said it dryly, sipping what was left of her espresso. He raised his brows.

“So this is my fault, then.”

“A little.”

But there was no bite to it. She was… relaxed. At ease. Even as she looked at him like she was still trying to decide if he was worth her time.

“You read?” he asked, nodding at the book.

“I plan.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Doesn’t it?”

He laughed again, setting down his cup. He felt light. Curious. Like something interesting was unfolding and he didn’t know the ending yet — but she did.

They stayed in that booth far too long. Talking about coffee, cities, bad headlines. She never gave too much, and he didn’t push. But by the time she stood, dropping a few coins on the table, he looked at her like he didn’t want her to go.

“So… accident?”

She slid her sunglasses down.

“If it was, it was a beautiful one.”

And then she walked out, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and a knowing curve on her lips.

That night, when his phone buzzed with her message, he reread it three times before answering.

The sun beat down on the paddock in Barcelona — not mercilessly, but sharp. The air buzzed with movement: cameras, team radios, fans screaming at gates. Lando adjusted the sleeves of his fire suit as he made his way past the McLaren garage, nodding briefly to a few familiar faces.

He wasn’t expecting her.

He never was.

And yet — there she was.

Standing just outside the Alfa Romeo hospitality tent, fingers wrapped around a cold bottle of water, oversized sunglasses on, phone in hand, not really using it. Her hair was twisted into a braid today, neat but not soft. Her black blazer cinched at the waist, pinstriped, powerful.

She didn’t smile when she caught his eye. She didn’t wave.

She simply looked.

Long enough to make him stop. Short enough to make him question if she had actually looked at all.

“You good?” his trainer asked.

“Yeah. Thought I saw someone.”

He didn’t explain.

But later, when he passed through media duties and slipped into the shaded side of hospitality for a minute of quiet, he found her again — this time alone, sipping something fizzy, twirling her straw without interest.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, standing in front of her.

“And yet,” she said, not looking up. “Here I am.”

“You always this lucky?”

“Luck,” she murmured, finally glancing up, “is for people who don’t prepare."

He watched her for a long beat.

“Did you come just to watch?”

“Are you worth watching?”

That made him grin.

But she stood before he could answer. Walked past him, deliberately brushing his arm. Not enough to cause a stir — just enough to stay in his mind for the rest of the weekend.

And that night, when he scrolled through his photos, there was one from the paddock. Behind him, blurred in the background, was the unmistakable silhouette of her — standing just out of focus.

Madrid skyline. Rooftop. Someone’s private event for a sponsor he barely remembered signing with. The music was low, the city lights were warm, and everyone was dressed in shades of silk and champagne.

Lando leaned against the balcony railing, watching the glitter of the city below. His glass sweated in his hand. He wasn’t really talking to anyone — not really there.

Until she laughed.

Not loudly. But enough that he felt it.

He turned, and there she was. Walking in like a headline — short black dress, heels that didn’t seem to touch the ground, red lips, a drink already in her hand.

“You’re starting to make this a habit,” he said as she reached him.

She tilted her head.

“You think I knew you’d be here?”

“I know you knew.”

“Mmm.” She sipped her drink, then looked up at him through her lashes. “What gave it away?”

“The perfume. Same one you wore the first night.”

She smiled slowly. Not caught — seen.

“You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things.”

The night stretched around them like silk. They didn’t leave each other’s side. He introduced her to no one. She didn’t ask.

And when the party began to thin out, he followed her down to the car. Held the door open.

She paused before getting in.

...

She hadn’t meant to stay this long.

They were supposed to grab a drink — casual, low-stakes, a passing thing. But now it was nearing midnight, and they were still sitting together on the rooftop of the hotel where some F1 post-event gathering had wrapped hours ago. Most people had already filtered out, the distant hum of engines below replaced by the hush of a sleeping city.

She sat on the stone ledge, her heels abandoned beside her, toes barely brushing the empty air below. Lando was beside her, arms loosely crossed over his knees, watching her more than the skyline.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said.

She gave a soft, half-smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Maybe I just like listening to you.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and shook his head like he didn’t believe her.

“No one just likes listening to me. They usually listen so they can talk.”

“Do you mind that?”

“Not with you.”

That made her chest stutter.

She shouldn’t be affected by him. She reminded herself of that often — every time she caught herself watching him too long, or felt her stomach do a slow, ridiculous turn when he smiled at her like that. This had been her game. Her idea. Her strategy.

She had planned the first meeting.

Planned the second.

Planned the glances and the conversations and the way she leaned just a little too close at dinner, just enough to make him wonder.

But now?

Now he was saying things like that, his voice thick with something soft and careful, and it was her heart that felt like it was spiraling.

The wind picked up. He turned toward her.

“Can I ask you something?”

She tilted her head. “You just did.”

He laughed, and then he looked at her — really looked. The kind of look that made her sit up straighter. The kind of look that saw more than she was used to showing.

“Why me?��

That stopped her.

“Why you?” she echoed, buying time.

He nodded, expression unreadable. “You’re… not exactly easy to read. But you’ve stayed. You keep showing up. And I can’t help wondering why.”

She turned her face away, staring out at the water. For the first time, she didn’t have a line ready. No quip. No clever dodge.

“I guess,” she said slowly, “you surprised me.”

“How?”

She hesitated. Then:

“You’re kind.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected that.

“You say that like it’s rare.”

“It is.”

The silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Like the edge of something unspoken.

Then, quietly:

“Can I kiss you?”

Her head snapped back toward him. The words hit her like ice and fire at the same time. She was supposed to be in control. She was supposed to decide when this happened — after a few more dates, after she made him fall harder, after she felt less exposed.

But now here he was, asking.

Not claiming. Not assuming.

Asking.

She nodded. Barely.

His hand came up, almost hesitant, brushing her hair behind her ear — his knuckles featherlight against her skin. She watched him the whole time, her breath stuck somewhere in her chest.

He leaned in, slowly, his eyes flicking to hers like he was waiting for any sign she’d pull away.

And then their lips touched.

God.

It was nothing like she imagined — and she had imagined it, many times, in far more calculated ways.

But this…

This kiss was soft. So soft it broke something open inside her.

His lips moved over hers with infinite care, like she was something fragile, precious. His hand cupped the side of her face, grounding her as she melted under his touch. There was no rush, no hunger — just quiet reverence. His other hand brushed her knee, an anchor in the moment.

And all she could think was: He doesn’t even know what he’s doing to me.

Because he was gentle. Too gentle.

And that was the thing she never planned for. That this — his warmth, his sincerity, the safety she felt when he was close — would be what undid her. Not power. Not pride. But kindness.

His lips moved against hers slowly, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth. His hand came to rest gently at her jaw, thumb barely brushing her skin. She melted into him before she even realized it — her hands rising, clutching at the front of his jacket, pulling him closer because God, no one had ever kissed her like that before. No one had ever made her feel like the kiss was about her.

It was tender. It was warm. It was undoing her.

She felt the heat crawl up her spine, the way his breath hitched slightly when she deepened it — the smallest shift, but he followed, like it was instinct. And when he finally pulled away, just an inch, she chased after him without thinking, like gravity had shifted beneath her.

He let out a quiet laugh against her mouth, forehead pressing to hers.

“That okay?” he whispered.

She blinked, dazed. Her lips were tingling. Her whole body felt lit from within.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Too okay.”

He smiled, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, still so close.

...

SIX MONTHS LATER

It was one of those quiet late evenings when the world outside seemed to hold its breath.

The flat they were in wasn’t hers, wasn’t his — a borrowed place in Milan between races. Wide windows, soft lighting, the kind of space that muted everything sharp. Rain had tapped at the glass earlier, and now the streets below were slick and glowing, stretching into the distance like rivers of liquid gold. Inside, it smelled faintly of cedarwood and citrus from the candle burning on the sideboard.

The TV murmured in the background, low and forgotten. Neither of them had been watching it.

Lando was lying across the sofa, his head resting comfortably in her lap. He wore a grey hoodie, soft from years of wear, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He looked unusually still — not in the lazy, teasing way he often did, but heavy, like something was pulling him inward. She could feel it in the silence, in the way his hand barely moved against her knee.

Her fingers trailed lightly through his hair. The gesture had started absentmindedly, but now it felt like something else — something steadying.

“Long week?” she asked softly.

He nodded, his cheek pressed to her thigh. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring at the TV without seeing it.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask. Instead, she kept running her fingers through his hair, combing back soft curls, brushing her nails gently against his scalp. A grounding rhythm. Something quiet and wordless to say I’m here.

Minutes passed like that. No need to fill the space.

Eventually, he sighed. Not the dramatic kind, but a slow release of breath like his body had finally started to uncoil.

“You make it stop,” he murmured.

Her fingers paused for just a moment.

“What?”

“Everything. The noise. The pressure. When I’m with you, I forget to worry.”

She didn’t say anything to that. She couldn’t. Because something in her chest cracked open like a secret she hadn’t meant to keep.

She looked down at him. His lashes curled slightly at the edges, dark against his skin. His lips were parted just a little, brow relaxed now. He looked nothing like the image most people saw — no cameras, no tension, no lights. Just a boy curled into her like she was the safest place on earth.

And all she could think — all she could feel — was how obsessed she was with him.

Not just the way he looked. Though God, he was beautiful. It wasn’t just his laugh or his hands or the way he’d started leaving a toothbrush at her place without ever saying it out loud. It was the way he saw her. The way he leaned in when she talked, even when she was pretending not to say anything important. The way he never pushed but always stayed.

It hit her, in that stillness, that she had done all of this — spun every web, pulled every string, laid every trap — just to have this.

To have him.

She had noticed him before he ever noticed her. Months ago. Maybe even years. Not in a fangirl way, not like the others. She saw something in him — something good. Something soft. Something rare. And she wanted it.

No. She needed it.

So she played the game. Showed up. Set the stage. Built coincidence into destiny.

And now he was lying here, curled into her lap, trusting her with the weight of his world.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, tilting his head enough to see her.

She blinked. Realized she’d gone still. Her hand found its rhythm again in his hair.

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?” He asked softly.

She hesitated. For a heartbeat too long.

Then smiled.

“About how this started.”

He smirked faintly, eyes dropping shut again.

“You mean the part where you kept magically running into me?”

“Exactly that.”

“And now look at me,” he mumbled, shifting slightly to nuzzle closer into her leg. “Wrapped around your finger.”

She watched him for a long second.

I planned this, she wanted to say. Every step. Every glance. I built a masterpiece just to be this close to you.

But instead, she whispered, “I like you here.”

He hummed. A low, contented sound. His fingers slid into hers where they rested on his chest, intertwining loosely. A gesture full of trust. Full of home.

She stared at him. At the little freckles near his jaw. At the softness in his mouth when he wasn’t performing. At the way he gave himself to her so easily — when she had spent years clawing control out of chaos.

And suddenly it wasn’t about winning anymore. It wasn’t about strategy or seduction or proving how smart she was.

It was about him.

And how, somehow, she’d fallen in love with the very thing she thought she could control.

Her other hand came up to brush his cheek gently, just once.

He didn’t stir.

“Checkmate,”

But this time, it wasn’t a triumph.

It was a prayer.

...

THREE MONTHS LATER

The night had a quiet sort of heaviness to it. The kind that settles over two people when the world outside has gone still — long after dinner, after the laughter, after the teasing. The soft hum of a movie played in the background, flickering faint blue light across their faces. But neither of them was really watching it.

She was curled up on his couch, legs tucked under her, head tilted just enough to rest against the back cushion. Lando sat next to her, one arm slung comfortably across the back of the couch, his other hand lazily drawing circles over the blanket covering her legs. They weren’t even touching skin to skin, but his presence grounded her.

Until something in her shifted.

It started with the way her eyes stopped flicking toward the screen and instead stared through it. Like something old and rusted had creaked open inside her chest.

Lando noticed. He always did.

"You okay?” he said softly, almost tentative.

She didn’t answer right away.

“yeah I ... I’ve been thinking about something,” she said, her voice low.

“Yeah?”

She took a breath, slow and deliberate. It felt too vulnerable already. She hadn’t meant to let it rise to the surface, not tonight. But something about the stillness — the safety of his company — made it hard to bury again.

“When I was a kid,” she began, carefully, “I didn’t have friends.”

The sentence sat between them, a simple truth, and yet it felt like shattering glass.

Lando’s fingers stopped moving. He didn’t say anything. She was grateful.

“Not in the way people usually mean it,” she continued. “I had classmates, and people who tolerated me when we were assigned to work together. But no one invited me over. No one sat next to me at lunch unless the tables were full.”

Her eyes dropped to her lap. She picked at a loose thread on the blanket.

“There was this spot behind the science building. No one went there. I used to sit on the concrete steps and eat alone. Every day.”

Her voice didn’t crack. It wasn’t sad in tone — just distant. Like she’d gotten used to carrying the memory like a stone in her pocket.

“I remember thinking that if I pretended I was invisible, it would hurt less. Like if I stopped expecting to be seen… it wouldn’t matter that no one saw me.”

Lando’s hand gently moved to cover hers.

She stiffened — not because she didn’t want the comfort, but because it startled her. She wasn’t used to people reaching toward her when she showed the ugliest parts of herself.

“That’s why I plan everything now,” she said, her voice a little faster. “Why I read people, why I control the board. It’s all I’ve ever had. Strategy. Calculation. Making myself useful enough to not be ignored.”

She finally looked up. Her gaze met his.

“That’s what this was, at the beginning,” she admitted. “You weren’t an accident. I noticed you before you saw me. I learned your schedule, knew where you’d be. I… orchestrated everything.”

A pause.

“And now I’m terrified, because I don’t think I can do this if I don’t have control. I’ve never done this before. Not really.”

Her voice softened, broke just slightly at the end.

Lando’s expression didn’t change. There was no shift into discomfort, no flicker of judgment. He just looked at her like she had just told him the most beautiful, heartbreaking thing he’d ever heard.

“You don’t have to plan anything with me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be the smartest person in the room. You don’t have to earn me.”

She looked away. Her throat was tight.

And then he said it.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or loud. It wasn’t declared like some cinematic moment. It was real. Gentle. Grounded.

Like it had lived inside him long before he had the words.

She stilled completely.

“You don’t,” she said, breath catching. “You love what I let you see.”

“I love you,” he repeated, firmer this time. “The you who’s scared. The you who sits behind science buildings. The you who still wonders if anyone really sees her. I see you.”

Her lip trembled, and she turned her face away, angry at herself for letting him in this deep. For needing to believe him. For wanting to.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

He leaned forward, forehead brushing hers, nose to nose, soft and steady.

“I love you.”

She didn’t cry — not then. But she blinked fast, like the weight of his words filled her lungs too full to breathe.

“Don’t say it unless you mean it,” she said, almost as if trying to scare him away.

“I do,” he said. “More than I even understand yet.”

She let her eyes close for a moment, his warmth surrounding her.

“You’re ruining me,” she said with a half-laugh, tears shining in her lashes.

“Or maybe I’m just showing you you were never broken."

landonorris

Liked by carlossainz55, oscarpiastri and 1.580.777 others.

lando The Shakespeare twins couldn't describe how much I love you 🧡 my girl.

comments.

maycombcountry: RUE WHEN WAS THIS?

yourusername: Lanlan❤️(Shakespeare was one man)

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lando: 🧡(I'm saying if it were twins know it all🙄 I need to teach you humor)

maxverstappen1: congrats mate👍

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hippogriffcrackk: Babyboys so in love

oscarpiastri: So happy for you both🫶

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carmenmundt: Finally we can go shopping without hiding all the time!

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lando: let me have my girlfriend for a bit please?

alexandrasaintmleux: not a chance brit

lando: @/yourusername they're bullying me

carlossainz55: Mama said she's invited to the dinner on Sunday

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yourusename: oh thank you miss!

charles_lerlerc: My favorite couple❤️

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hamiltonthemusilabvv: Oscar and max sharing energy in the comments

lucatheone: Youry welcome for the photo and for the whole relationship btw

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lando: in depth with you mate

landonoonefan: He looks so happy🧡🧡

See all comments.

[natsaffection]

Code red. pt 3 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, shooting, gun, blood, trauma, stress situation, death (?)

word count: 7,4k

A/n: 🎢🎢🎢🎢

Part 2

The hospital was humming with the usual afternoon buzz. Overhead lights flickered with a sterile glow, casting long, pale shadows across the linoleum floors. Nurses moved with purpose. Pagers beeped. Phones rang. But to you, it all faded into a low hum as you leaned against the front desk, scribbling notes into a patient’s chart.

“Are you seriously still working?” one of the other interns joked, slinging off their white coat as they passed.

“Some of us aren’t here just to flirt in the supply closet..” you muttered without looking up. The intern laughed, saluted you lazily, and disappeared around the corner. Silence settled in their wake, momentary and oddly comforting.

You flipped to the next page in the chart, pen tapping thoughtfully against your chin. Your brows furrowed in concentration. Then, heels. Sharp, unapologetic, and familiar.

Natasha appeared at your side with the casual grace of someone who knew the entire hallway was watching her. “Well, don’t you look focused.” Natasha purred, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Is it the chart, or are you just avoiding me again?”

You didn’t even glance up. “I’m working, Dr. Romanoff.”

“Ohh, the title now.” Natasha chuckled, leaning casually on the desk beside you. “I like when you call me that. Do it again.”

You finally turned to her, unimpressed. “Don’t you have an OR to seduce?”

Natasha’s grin widened. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

Before you could throw back a reply, chaos struck. A sharp, high-pitched scream cut through the corridor, followed by the sickening crack of a gunshot. Everyone froze. The sound echoed, bouncing off the sterile walls, too loud, too real.

A nurse’s tray clattered to the floor. Then another shot. Your heart seized. Your eyes locked on the source of the noise, a man at the opposite end of the hallway, arm extended, a pistol still smoking in his hand. The nurse in front of him dropped like a marionette with her strings cut, blood pooling beneath her almost instantly.

“Run!” Natasha’s voice snapped in, sharp, low, protective. She grabbed you without waiting, her arm wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close, shielding you as bodies started running, screaming, crashing into each other in blind panic. People shoved past you. Someone was crying. A wheelchair overturned. A monitor crashed from a cart.

Natasha’s hand cradled the back of your head, forcing your face into her chest as you moved quickly through the chaos.

“Don’t look. Keep moving.” Natasha murmured. You ducked into an exam room, the door clicking shut behind you. Natasha turned, bolted it with a trembling hand, then turned to you.

“Are you okay? Are you-” Then she saw it. You blinked up at her, confused, swaying slightly. “What…?”

Blood. Bright and dark, blooming fast across your scrub top. Spreading in thick, ugly circles right below your collarbone, above the ribs. A gunshot, clean, but close. You reached up with fingers that felt suddenly heavy and numb. Touched the blood. Pulled your hand back and saw red.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t need to ask.. No exit wound. Your brain supplied the rest, fast, clinical, single gunshot wound, anterior thorax, upper left quadrant. No exit. Bullet is inside. Close to the heart. Could be the lung. Could be the subclavian. Bleeding is internal and external. Fatal unless treated within minutes.

You looked up at Natasha again. “It’s…not superficial.”

“No.” Natasha said softly.

Your legs folded under you, and you sank to the floor against the wall, your breath turning shallow. Natasha dropped with you, already pulling up your shirt. Her hands didn’t shake. Not even slightly. But her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth ached.

“I need to see.” Natasha murmured, mostly to herself. You winced as your shirt was pushed aside and the cold air hit the wet warmth of the wound. The blood was darker now, thicker, pulsing slower, but still flowing. A hole, the size of a fingertip, right above the fourth rib.

Natasha pressed her hand over it without hesitation. You let out a choked cry, your back arching off the wall.

“I know..” Natasha said quietly, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I have to.”

Your eyes filled with tears you didn’t mean to let fall. “I feel it..”

“That’s good. That means you’re still with me.”

The blood surged under Natasha’s palm again, slippery, thick, warm enough to feel like fire. It soaked through her hand and ran in trails down her wrist. Each pulse beneath her fingers felt weaker than the last. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. You were watching her. Reading her.

“Don’t do the voice..” you whispered. “Don’t do the calm voice. I know what that means.”

Natasha said nothing. Her hand stayed steady, pressure perfect. She reached with the other for gauze and shoved it under the pressure point, fingers slick and sure. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t tremble.

But inside, she was screaming. Too high for lung access, too low for clavicle, subclavian artery? Maybe? Internal bleeding. No exit. God- “You’re bleeding fast.” she murmured. Not a lie. Just…a fact.

You swallowed. “Am I gonna pass out?”

“No.” Natasha lied. “You’re going to breathe with me.”

“I know how this works, Natasha.” You whispered. “It’s going to fill my chest. I’ll drown in my own blood-”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m scared..” you said, and it came out small.

Natasha leaned closer. “Then let me be scared for both of us, okay?”

You nodded, teeth chattering now. You were turning pale. Your lips looked faintly blue at the edges. Natasha pressed harder. And that’s when she felt it. The flutter. Not a heartbeat, something else. A vibration in the wound. A tremor from the heart that didn’t feel strong. Didn’t feel right. Like a failing engine in the dark.

Panic surged. But her hands stayed steady. Then, footsteps. Right outside the door. You tensed, whimpering softly and Natasha shifted fast, one hand never leaving the wound, the other rising to gently cover your mouth. Her eyes didn’t leave the door.

The shooter’s shadow paused beneath the crack of light. You made a sound against her palm, weak, scared. Natasha lowered her forehead to yours, not looking away from the door. “Shhh. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Not even when she felt your blood tickle between her fingers. Not even when it started to cool. She felt your pulse, what little was left of it, under her palm. Please. Walk away. I can’t keep her alive if you don’t walk away.

The footsteps lingered. Natasha pressed harder. You squirmed under the pain but didn’t cry out. Your eyes rolled slightly. And then, finally…footsteps retreated. The moment they were gone, Natasha’s mask slipped. She let out a ragged breath she’d been holding far too long. Blood still ran down her forearms, soaking into her sleeves, dripping onto her pants.

She looked down at you. Your face was slack now. Your eyelids heavy. “No, no. Hey!” Natasha shifted. “You’re staying awake, do you hear me?”

“I’m tired..” you mumbled. Your voice was barely there.

“I know. But you don’t get to sleep yet. You sleep, and you don’t wake up. I know how this works too.”

Your eyes were half-lidded now, your head slumped against the wall. Natasha didn’t have the luxury of time, she felt it, the way the blood was slowing, thickening, but still leaking. The room smelled metallic and wet. Her forearms were streaked in red to the elbows. Think. Do something!

She glanced up at the shelf above the sink, hands never leaving the wound. There, a metal supply bin. Packed with gauze, tape, something, anything.

With one hand still pressed firmly against your chest, she reached up and yanked it down, nearly knocking it off the shelf. The contents spilled across the counter. She grabbed the biggest wad of gauze she could find and shoved it into the wound.

You screamed through your teeth, your back arching. Your body jolted like you’d been shocked. “Hold it.” Natasha snapped. Her voice wasn’t calm anymore. It was sharp. Commanding. Edged with barely hidden panic.

She grabbed your trembling hand and placed it firmly over the gauze, reinforcing the pressure. “I need you to keep this pressed down. No matter what. I’m going to check the hallway, make sure it’s clear so we can move. You let go, and you will bleed out. Do you understand me?”

You nodded weakly, your hand shaking, but you pressed down. Blood welled up around your fingers immediately. Natasha crouched, wiped her own hands on the inside of her coat, and crept to the door. She cracked it open just enough to scan the corridor.

The bodies had moved, or been moved. Blood smeared the floor. Someone’s pager beeped faintly in the distance. A monitor was flatlining somewhere, forgotten. She turned back. You were still upright. Barely. She slid her arms under your legs and shoulders, and lifted. She didn’t ask if you could walk, she already knew the answer.

The second you left the floor, more blood spilled from the soaked gauze, dripped down Natasha’s arm, splattered on the tile behind you. You groaned into her chest. “N-Nat…”

“I’ve got you.” Natasha whispered, tightening her grip. “Just hold on.”

She moved down the hallway like a woman possessed. Every footstep echoed. Her boots splashed through crimson puddles.

She turned the corner sharply and shouldered open a door labeled Trauma Room C. The overhead light was already on. Someone was inside.. Natasha tensed. Her grip on you tightened, ready to pivot out-

“N-Natasha?!”

The relief that hit Natasha nearly dropped her to her knees. Maria stood at the far counter, gloves on, sleeves rolled. Her dark eyes snapped up, and widened.

“Help me.” she said immediately. “GSW, upper chest. No exit wound. Subclavian or lung, I don’t know. Bleeding out. She’s-” her voice broke “-she’s not stable.”

Maria was already moving. Natasha laid you down on the trauma table, her hands now stained in a dozen shades of red. Your eyes fluttered. You were slipping. Maria ripped open drawers. “We don’t have blood bags.. I’ve got one IV, maybe a saline-”

“Then make it count!” Natasha snapped.

Natasha peeled back the ruined gauze- blood gushed fresh. Maria flinched. “Jesus, it’s arterial.”

“I know.” Natasha clamped down hard again, gauze slipping between her fingers.

You made a strangled sound. “I’m sorry..” Natasha murmured instantly, voice raw.

Maria slammed a drawer shut. “We don’t have what we need. Barely anything. No transfusion kit. No sedatives. Maybe half a bag of saline if we’re lucky.”

“There has to be something!” Natasha snapped, her hands clamped over your wound again. The pressure wasn’t working anymore.

Maria paused. Her jaw tightened. “…We can try a thoracic drain. If the lung’s collapsed, it’ll buy you time. Relieve the pressu-“

“No.”

Both women turned toward you. “No..” you repeated, a bit stronger this time. “No. Not without anesthetic.”

Natasha crouched beside the table instantly. Her bloodied fingers curled around your hand. “Y/n-”

“I know what that is..!” you rasped. “A chest tube? You’re gonna cut between my ribs and jam a plastic straw into my lung. No meds. No numbing. I’ll feel everything..”

“You will.” Maria confirmed grimly, pulling sterile gloves over blood-slicked fingers.

“Then no.” Your voice cracked. “I’m not giving you permission.”

“Then I’m not asking for it.” Natasha said softly.

Your eyes met hers. “I’m sorry, detka..” she whispered. “But I can’t let you die for dignity.”

Your body tensed. Maria was already prepping what little equipment she had, a scalpel, an old chest tube from a dusty tray, a single glove that would double as a makeshift valve. It was barbaric. But it was all they had.

Your chest started to heave with panic. “No..No! Don’t let her-”

“Y/n, we have to..” Natasha cried out, sliding one arm under your shoulder, holding you steady. Her other hand wrapped around your wrist, pressing you flat to the table. “I’ve got you..”

“I-I can’t-”

Maria approached, scalpel in hand. Your entire body arched. “M-Maria-”

“Look at me, Y/n.” Natasha whispered, pressing her forehead against yours. “Just look at me. Just me.”

You turned your head and bit down hard, on your own sleeve. You buried the scream before it could start. Then the blade went in. A sharp slice between ribs. A scream tore out from behind your teeth, muffled by fabric. Your body thrashed on the table, muscles spasming under the fire slicing through your side.

Natasha held you. Locked around you. Whispers spilling fast and panicked into your ear, “I’m sorry..I’m so sorry..I’m here, I’ve got you, just a second more..”

Maria’s hands moved fast, slipping the tube between the ribs with a sickening pressure-pop. Your scream turned guttural, strangled by the sleeve in your mouth. Tears spilled down your cheeks. Your body convulsed.

Natasha felt every twitch. Every gasp. Her hands stayed strong, but her eyes, her eyes burned. Pass out. Please just pass out.

But you didn’t. You stayed awake through all of it. “She’s still conscious..” Maria said, her voice tight. “God, she’s still awake.”

The tube took. Air hissed out. The pressure dropped slightly, your chest shuddered, your breathing hitching and slowing. It had worked. A little.

But you were shaking like a leaf. Sweat drenched your hairline. Your lips were bloodless. And still, no transfusion. No fluids. No blood. “Her pressure’s dropping.” Maria said, voice grim. “We bought time. That’s it. She needs more than we can give.”

Natasha stayed bent over you, fingers still brushing your skin. “I’m not losing you.” she whispered. “You hear me?”

Your eyes rolled. You barely nodded. And Natasha held you tighter, tears sliding silently into your hair. You were still trembling under Natasha’s hands, the chest tube taped clumsily to your side, blood pooling slow and steady beneath the table. Your breath wheezed in uneven patterns, but you were alive. Barely.

Natasha crouched beside you, arms gently bracketing your head, one hand still loosely gripping yours. Her face was pale. There was blood under her nails, in her sleeves, in her hair. Her coat was soaked through.

Then, footsteps again. Too familiar. Natasha’s head snapped toward the door. Just outside the thin metal door, a shadow moved. She recognized the boots. The posture. The gun.

The shooter.

Her stomach dropped through the floor. She didn’t think. She moved on instinct. She dropped flat, pulling your hand down with her. Her other arm shot out, grabbing Maria and dragging her low behind the supply cart.

Natasha’s breath hitched as she crouched behind the trauma table, hand clamped over your cold fingers. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You blinked slowly. Barely conscious. Your lips moved, but no sound came out. Maria’s hand rested on the handle of a scalpel, knuckles white. The shadow paused…then moved on. They waited. Ten long, silent, agonizing seconds.

The footsteps faded. Gone again. Natasha stayed frozen, crouched over you like a shield, heart pounding loud enough she swore it echoed off the walls. She counted to ten. Then twenty. Then slowly stood.

She looked down. Your eyes had rolled back slightly. Your breathing was too shallow. “Maria.” Natasha said, urgently now.

“I know.” Maria breathed, rushing to the table. “We don’t have time.”

She grabbed a radio, fingers slick from the blood that coated everything now. “This is Dr. Hill in Trauma C. We need O-negative. Emergency transfusion. GSW. Patient’s crashing.”

The radio crackled. No response. “Come on-” she hit the button again. Natasha moved beside her, brushing the hair from your forehead.

“I'll go get it.” Maria turned, “There's no point in waiting here.” She threw the radio down and immediately turned to the door. Scalpel still in hand.

“Maria, you can’t-“ But she was already gone. Natasha leaned in again, her bloody hand stroking over your jaw. “You’re okay..” she murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

“I’m so tired…”

“I know. But the blood’s coming. We just need to hold on a little longer.”

Natasha did nothing now, no more pressure. No more field surgery. Just stayed beside you. Just held. She didn’t need to play doctor anymore. She needed to be yours. The silence stretched. Heavy. Thick with blood and the too-quiet hum of failing vitals. The only sound in the trauma room was the soft wheeze of air moving through your throat.

You could feel Natasha staring. Watching you. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just breathing too slow. Too steady. Too controlled.

“Hey..” you rasped, voice rough like gravel.

Natasha snapped her eyes to you. “What? What is it?”

You licked your cracked lips and blinked slowly. “Stop staring at my tits.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, Natasha exhaled a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Oh my God.”

You grinned, faint and sleepy. “You’re not even subtle. We’re in a crisis, Romanoff.”

Natasha leaned in slightly, a dry chuckle catching in her throat. “We’ve been here before..” she murmured. “You half-naked. Me looking.”

You raised a brow, voice barely a whisper. “One time.”

Natasha smiled. Tight, but real. “One very memorable time.”

Despite the pain, you snorted. “Guess I make an impression..”

“You do.” Natasha said, softer now. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. You blinked slowly, chest rising in shallow, painful movements.

Natasha caught herself, cleared her throat, forced a smirk onto her lips. “And, for the record…I wasn’t staring at your tits.”

You gave her a slow, skeptical look. “I’ve seen you without a bra, detka. Very thoroughly.”

Your smile faded, but the warmth lingered in your eyes. “Your hands are shaking..” you whispered.

Natasha didn’t deny it. “I’ve got you.” she said instead, voice rough. “Even if I’m falling apart.”

Outside, a new sound finally echoed down the hallway, rushed footsteps. Blood. Help was coming. The door banged open with a force that made Natasha’s head snap up, every muscle coiled to strike, until she saw Maria step inside, a blood bag swinging from her gloved hand and another clenched between her arm and ribs.

“Blood.” she announced, breathless. “Two units. And the shooter’s been spotted on the opposite wing. We’ve got maybe five minutes to move.”

Relief cracked across Natasha’s face like a fault line. Maria was already moving to hang the first bag, attaching the line to the IV she’d placed earlier. “I called it in on the way, three interns are prepping OR 2. They’ll have it sterile by the time we get there.”

Natasha exhaled. “Thank God..” She looked down at you. The blood was already starting to drip through the line, inching toward the cannula taped to your forearm. You looked…worse. Lips pale. Breathing shallower. Sweat beading at your hairline, but your skin was ice.

Then it happened. You groaned, sharp and sudden. Your body twitched violently on the table, hands clawing weakly at your side.

“Fuck, it moved.” Maria said, rushing over. “Something shifted.”

Natasha leaned in immediately. “Hey- hey- what is it?”

Your mouth opened in a silent cry. Your back arched. And then blood poured faster. Soaking through the gauze again. Red. Bright. Fresh.

“She’s bleeding internally, faster now. The bullet moved.” Maria said. “It’s tearing something worse. We need to go.”

Natasha didn’t wait. She grabbed the side rails of the trauma table and unlatched the brakes, turning it toward the door.

“Help me push!” she barked. Maria was already there. They shoved the gurney out into the hallway, blood dripping behind you, wheels squealing against the tile. Natasha never let go of your hand.

“We’re almost there, you hear me?” she said breathlessly. “Stay awake for me!”

Your lips parted. “I c-can’t…feel my legs..”

Maria met Natasha’s eyes over the gurney. They pushed faster. “Door’s open.” an intern shouted down the hall. “OR’s ready!”

They swerved the corner, nearly colliding with a nurse backing out of a storage room. The hallway ahead was clear, lit in emergency red, glowing like a tunnel to salvation.

“We’ve got you.” Natasha said again, her voice breaking. “Just hold on. We’re almost there.”

The blood bag above you drained fast. Not fast enough. The doors of OR 2 swung open with a bang that made the interns inside jump. The table rolled in at full speed, Natasha at the head, Maria at the side, a nurse already rushing to hook up suction and monitors.

“Vitals are unstable.” Maria called. “BP dropping. Pulse thready. She’s losing blood faster than we can give it.”

Natasha barked orders as she moved- “Sterile tray. Chest opened. Crash cart nearby. Be ready to cut now.”

The nurse was already prepping anesthesia. You blinked up at the overhead light, dazed and barely conscious. Your lips moved, dry, cracked.

“..Don’t wanna die..” you whispered, voice soft and slurred. “’m scared…”

Natasha moved immediately to your side, gloves half-on, hairnet already twisted into place. She crouched at the head of the table, face close to yours, hand cupping your cheek.

“You’re not dying.” she said quietly, fiercely. “You hear me? You’re not. Not here. Not now. Not on my fucking table.”

You let out a slow, rattling breath. “H-Hurts…”

“I know..” Natasha whispered, eyes stinging. “But I’m here. Right here. I’m gonna fix it. You just have to sleep, detka. That’s all. Just let go for a little while.”

Your eyes searched hers. The fear was still there, carved deep behind the pain. Natasha leaned down, brushing your foreheads together.

“Look at me. Just me.”

You blinked. “You’re gonna wake up..” Natasha whispered, “and when you do, I’ll still be right here. I promise.”

Your lashes fluttered. The nurse turned. “We’re pushing anesthesia. She’ll be out in seconds.”

Natasha kept her hand on your cheek, voice steady even as her fingers trembled. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your lips moved again, but the sound was gone now. Your body relaxed, too fast, too loose. Then your eyes closed. The heart monitor beeped slow. The anesthetic took you under like a tide.

Natasha froze. Stared at you. Watched the rise and fall of your chest. Slower. Calmer. But still there. Then, she stood. Snapped on the rest of her gloves. The shift was immediate.

“Scalpel.” she said, voice sharp, eyes locked on the chest already stained in blood.

Maria slid it into her hand. And without hesitation, she cut. The first incision split open the soaked gauze and revealed a mess of blood, shredded tissue, and pooling darkness inside your chest cavity.

Natasha barely hesitated. “Retractors.”

Metal clicked into her gloved hand. She forced the ribs apart, opening the chest just enough to get a clear view. But there was nothing clear about it. Too much blood. Too much movement. It was like operating underwater, every shift caused a ripple of red that clouded everything. Her heart hammered behind her sternum.

“She’s still bleeding internally..” Maria said, voice steady but strained. Natasha scanned the cavity. Looking for metal. A glint. A tear. A hint of the bullet. Nothing. She reached deeper, feeling for it, fingers tracing along broken vessels and muscle, and still, nothing.

Maria suctioned, but the blood kept flooding in. Then..A flash. Metal. Near the pericardial sac. Wedged behind tissue. Nestled close to where no foreign object should be.

“I’ve got it.” Natasha breathed. “Clamp..clamp- hold suction steady.”

Natasha reached in deeper, angling around bone and flesh. That’s when it happened. The monitor let out a flat tone. A scream of static silence. Your body went still.

“No pulse!” Maria said instantly, grabbing paddles. “She’s gone into cardiac arrest!”

“No..” Natasha’s voice cracked. Not you. Not again. The smell of blood hit her harder than before. The lights overhead blurred. Her fingers froze, still inside your chest.

It was the same. The same rhythm. The same mess of anatomy soaked in blood. The same smell that had followed her home after that night weeks ago, when a patient with a nearly identical GSW bled out right here on this same table. Bullet hidden too deep. Lost too much time.

She hadn’t found it fast enough. And she watched the light fade. Her hands shook then, too. And now? You were on the table. Pale. Open. Heart stopped.

“Natasha.” Maria said, sharper. “We need to move.”

Natasha’s hands snapped into motion. “Starting internal massage.” she said hoarsely. She pressed two fingers around your heart, massaging rhythmically. One, two, three, four…Her gloves turned even darker.

“Charging defib, 150.” Maria said. “Clear.” The shock snapped through your chest. Your body jolted on the table.

Flatline.

“No, no, no, charge again! 200.”

Another jolt. Still flat. Natasha bent forward, forehead nearly touching yours as she pumped manually again.

“Come on..” she whispered. “I didn’t hold you through that just to lose you here!”

She felt the muscle under her hands, soft, slow. Still. Refusing. “Charging again, 300. Ready.”

Natasha pulled her hands away. “Clear.” The jolt arced through again. The light above flickered.

And then..Beep. A blip and another. “She’s back..” Maria said, voice softer, almost stunned. The monitor climbed, slow but steady. Your heart beat again.

And Natasha, covered in your blood, arms buried in trauma, let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding since the moment they rolled you into the OR.

She hadn’t lost you.. Not this time. The monitor let out a single shrill tone. A scream of silence. Flatline. Again. The steady rhythm they fought so hard to bring back..gone. The surgical team froze. Maria’s hands dropped from the paddles, her eyes locked on the screen.

“Natasha…” she said softly. There was no judgment in her voice. Just the sound of someone tired of watching people die.

Natasha didn’t move. “BP’s gone. Pulse gone. Pupils dilating.”

Still, Natasha didn’t speak. Maria took a step back. “There’s nothing else to do.”

It was protocol.

She was saying it like they always said it. The quiet, dignified way. And for a second, Natasha wasn’t in this OR anymore. She was weeks ago. Same sterile walls. Same too-bright light. A man on the table. The same wound. The same blood-soaked gloves. And a nurse in a pale blue mask saying, “Time of death: 03:47.”

She remembered how the silence felt after. Heavy. Hollow. Like the room had swallowed its breath and never let it go. And now…You were on this table.

You.

Not just a patient. Not just another name.

You.

The girl who cracked jokes through fear. The one who held on through a chest tube with no anesthetic. The one who smiled with blood on her teeth and said “stop staring at my tits.”

Maria reached out again. “Natasha…let her go..”

Natasha’s jaw clenched and shook her head. “No.”

“Nat-”

“I said no.”

Her voice was steel now. Cold. Final. “She’s not gone.”

“Her heart-“

“She’s not gone!”

And then she moved. She slammed her hand back onto your chest, blood squelching beneath her palm. “Suction. Now.”

“Natasha-”

“I said suction!”

The interns and Maria hesitated for half a second, then obeyed. The suction cleared the cavity, blood drawn away in hot, thick rivulets. Natasha reached inside again, direct heart massage. Her hands coated in gore.

“She’s not cold yet..” Natasha whispered, mostly to herself. “She’s not cold. She’s not blue. She’s still here.”

The monitor stayed flat. Still, Natasha pumped. One, two, three, four.

“Come on..” she hissed. “Come back.”

“You don’t get to go, Y/n! You don’t get to fucking leave me!”

The silence stretched. Another second. Beep. The tiniest sound. Soft. Fragile. Then another. A slow return of rhythm. Maria’s head snapped to the monitor. “She’s back. Sinus rhythm.”

Natasha’s body slumped. Just a little. Her hands trembled now. Truly trembled. But she kept them steady over your heart. She didn’t have time to cry. Didn’t have the right to fall apart. Her hands were still inside your chest, gently compressing, guiding the blood as your body tried to remember how to live.

And then, the OR door creaked open. Slow. Too slow. Everyone froze. It wasn’t a crash this time. No screaming. No barking orders. Just the quiet, deliberate sound of danger arriving.

Natasha’s head snapped up. The shooter stood in the doorway. No urgency now. No chaos. Just calm. He stepped inside like he was walking into a church. Quiet. Reverent. Almost…grieving.

His eyes fell on you first. Chest open. Heart exposed. Breath shallow. Something shifted in his face.

“She looks like her..He muttered. “My wife. In the ICU. Just like this. Tubes. Open. Pale.” He stepped closer. Maria held her breath.

“She was warm..” he whispered, staring at you. “I remember her hand. She was warm. And they told me she was gone. But you know what that means? They didn’t even try.”

Natasha’s body tensed as he leaned in. As his hand rose. Fingers reached for your face, blood-streaked glove hovering just inches from your cheek.

“Don’t you dare touch her.” she growled, voice feral. The room froze. Maria turned sharply. “Natasha, stop.”

“No.” Her jaw was clenched. Her chest heaved. “You don’t get to come in here and touch her like you didn’t just slaughter someone in the goddamn hallway.”

The man stared at her, stunned, but only for a moment. Then his gaze turned elsewhere. Drifted. It flicked past her. To the far corner of the OR. To a nurse. Young. Nervous. Pale as a ghost. Backed up against a medicine cabinet. Recognition hit the man like a freight train.

“I know you..” he whispered. The nurse froze.

“You were there..” the man said, louder now. “You were in that room. You lied. You said my wife coded on her own. But you let her choke! You all let her die!”

The nurse shook his head, tears already falling. “I-I didn’t- I-I wasn’t-”

The gunshot cracked like thunder. The nurse dropped instantly. Screams filled the OR. Someone dropped to their knees. A tray clattered to the floor. Blood pooled across the tile like spilled paint.

Natasha flinched violently. Even she wasn’t immune to the sudden, unrelenting violence. You were dying on her table. And now, everyone else might die too. The shooter wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t raging.

He was talking to himself. Muttering about names. About files. About how none of this was fair. About how he just wanted someone to hurt the way he hurt. Maria’s eyes flicked to the monitor. Your heartbeat was slowing again.

Too much blood lost. Too much trauma. And now this. Her mind raced. She turned to Natasha- hands still trembling, and stepped back from the table.

“Let her go.”

Natasha blinked. “What-?”

“Back off. Now.”

Confusion hit first. Then rage. Then fear. “What are you doing?” Natasha snapped. “She’s alive- she’s right here-“

“Natasha, trust me!” Maria hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a low, desperate warning. “Do it. Please..!”

No!” Natasha’s voice cracked open like a damn fault line. “Don’t do this- don’t do this! Maria, she’s right here. I can feel her, I’m still-”

“He will kill everyone in this room!” Maria hissed. “She’s already bleeding out again! If you keep fighting- he will shoot all of us, including you!”

“Good!” Natasha screamed. “Let him shoot me! I’m not letting her go!”

The shooter stepped closer again, gun raising, twitching now. Maria’s voice rose sharply. “Hands up, Nat. Now.”

“I can’t..” Natasha said, trembling, breaking. “I can’t let her die. Don’t make me-”

Natasha’s hands were still red. Her forearms were covered in blood. Your chest was still open, exposed, glistening. The last thing she’d done was press two fingers around your heart to keep it beating. She couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t.

“D-Don’t make me do this..”

“You have to.” Maria said, louder now. “He’ll kill all of us.”

Natasha stared at you. You looked so small. So pale. Still. “Goddammit!” And she raised her hands.

Tears streamed down her face as she stepped back, your blood dripping from her fingertips. Maria turned to the shooter. “If she doesn’t get blood in the next two minutes..” Maria said, “her organs will shut down. Her heart will start fibrillating. Then it’ll stop.”

She glanced back at your body, pale, carved open, barely alive. “After that,” she continued, “the brain goes. She won’t feel anything. Won’t know it’s happening.”

Her voice was quieter now. Gentle. Measured. “She’ll just…stop.”

One soft pulse. Then another. Slower. Then, Flatline. A long, unbroken shriek of sound sliced through the room.

Maria stood frozen, eyes on the monitor. When the sound didn’t stop, when the line didn’t blip, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment. To shut out the heartbreak. To hide the way her own hands were shaking.

The shooter stared at your body. Silent. He didn’t cry. But something in him broke. You could feel it in the way the gun slowly lowered. The way his breathing changed. How his shoulders sagged.

And Natasha broke. Her hands fell to her thighs, blood soaking her scrubs. Her whole body shook, shoulders hitching with grief so violent she couldn’t speak. It was like she felt it inside her own chest, the second it happened, like her own heart stuttered in sympathy. A void opened behind her ribs and swallowed her whole.

She pressed her fists to her forehead and sobbed silently. Teeth clenched. Face wet. “No..” she whispered. “No, no, no, please, no..”

The shooter lingered in the doorway. “I didn’t want this.” Then he turned and walked out. The door closed behind him. Silence. No one moved.

Maria stood frozen, then, carefully, turned back to the table. She waited. Five seconds. Ten. Then..She reconnected the ECU cable.

Beep. A single, tiny sound. Natasha didn’t hear it at first. Not until Maria turned and said, gently, “She’s not gone. Nat. Comon.”

Natasha’s head jerked up. Her eyes flew to the monitor. A heartbeat. “We’ve got a window. Do something.”

And Natasha, she surged off the floor like fire. “S-Scalpel..” she gasped, voice shredded. Her gloves slid on with a sickening squelch as she gripped your heart again, every muscle tight, every motion purposeful. Desperate. Her face soaked with tears.

She looked at Maria. Her eyes were on fire. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

Maria nodded. “I know.”

Then they got to work, elbow deep in blood, horror, and hope. Then, another gunshot outside. Everyone in the OR jumped. Had he killed someone else? Had he turned the gun on himself?

Then, Footsteps. Quick. Purposeful. Heavy. Not panicked. Disciplined. The sound grew louder, approaching fast, accompanied by the clipped mutter of radios and low commands shouted through headsets. The door burst open. Natasha turned, body rigid, ready to throw herself over your corpse again if she had to.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the shooter. It was SWAT. A line of police officers stormed into the OR in tight formation, weapons raised, but held at a cautious distance. Muzzles lowered slightly, not aiming at anyone. Not yet. Helmets. Body armor. Shields.

One officer barked, “Clear the back wall. Move away from the patient!”

A nurse cried out. Another stumbled backward. But no one moved fast. It was still an operating room. And you were still open on the table.

Maria raised her hands quickly, voice sharp. “We’re in surgery! We have a patient open, guns down!”

A second officer stepped forward, voice steadier, calmer. “Shooter is down. He’s in custody. We’ve secured the south wing. Repeat, the shooter is down.”

Maria’s knees nearly buckled. But Natasha? She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She didn’t even hear the officer say her name. Didn’t notice the way one medic gestured toward the blood pooling at her knees.

The lead officer took one step forward, his voice firm but no longer urgent. “What’s the status?”

Natasha’s hands were moving, slow, uncertain, but moving. As if by sheer force of will, she could make your heart remember how to beat. As if she could physically stop you from slipping through her fingers.

Maria stepped forward, shielding both of you from the officers like a mother lion despite the tremor in her spine.

“The patient is female.” Maria said, her voice clipped and controlled. “Mid-twenties. Gunshot, entry just beneath the clavicle. No exit. Severe thoracic trauma. We performed an emergency thoracotomy. No transfusion available during surgery.”

He glanced at Natasha again. “Doctor, do you need assistance?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Her bloodied fingers had returned to your chest, moving carefully, gently, searching. Hoping. Begging. Her hands were shaking. Her breaths were too shallow. Her lips were pressed together like if she opened them, she’d start screaming.

Maria stepped between them. “She’s not done. Don’t ask her questions. She won’t stop until she’s sure.”

The officer lowered his radio slightly, watching Natasha. “She’s in shock.”

“She’s in..something else.” Maria said softly. Then, more firmly: “Give her a second.”

And the OR fell into a delicate silence, broken only by that single, steady, heartless tone. The line that hadn’t budged. The one Natasha was fighting like hell to outrun.

Two days later.

The news anchor’s voice echoed faintly from the TV in the breakroom, but no one was really watching anymore.

“…ongoing investigation into the hospital shooting… 12 confirmed dead, multiple injured. The suspect, currently in custody, is said to have entered the OR during an active trauma surgery…“

The screen showed aerial shots of the hospital. The emergency entrance. The ambulances. A photo of the hallway with blood still staining the tile.

A nurse watching from the corner of the room sobbed quietly into her sleeve. Another sat beside her, holding her hand. A doctor passed through without speaking, his face pale, jaw tight. Somebody turned the volume down. But the silence was worse.

In the women’s changing room, everything was still. Cool fluorescent lights hummed above rows of lockers. The floor smelled faintly of antiseptic and old metal.

Natasha sat alone on a bench, still in the same pair of hospital-issued sweatpants and an undershirt. Her duffle bag sat at her feet, untouched. Her hair was damp again, she’d showered. Twice.

But the blood never really left. Not in her mind. She stared at the floor. Or maybe through it. Her elbows rested on her knees. Her hands hung limply between them, fingers twitching with phantom movement, like she could still feel your chest beneath her palms, still feel your pulse flutter and vanish.

She remembered everything. The scream. The gunshot. Your blood on her hands. Maria yelling. Her own hands shaking too hard to keep compressions going. The flatline. Your lips turning pale. That moment she’d said goodbye with her body but not her heart.

They’d sedated you after the surgery. Twice. Once for the pain. Once because you were fighting the ventilator. She hadn’t seen your eyes open since. She hadn’t heard your voice. She’d sat by your bed until they made her leave. Until they said she needed sleep. Until Maria gently took her shoulder and whispered, “Go breathe. Just for a minute.”

So she came here. But she didn’t breathe. She just stared. The door creaked open. Maria stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind her. She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at her. The way her shoulders were slumped. The way her fingers twitched like they wanted to dig back into a body and fix something. Anything.

Maria crossed the room and sat beside her, slow and careful. “Don’t.” Natasha muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I brought you water.” she said gently, setting a bottle down on the bench beside her.

Natasha didn’t look at it. Or her. “I’m fine.”

Maria’s sigh was quiet but sharp. “You’re the worst liar in this hospital.”

Natasha kept staring straight ahead, like if she just kept watching the tiles long enough, they’d start making sense.

Maria crossed her arms and leaned back against the lockers. “You haven’t checked on her.”

“She’s sedated.”

“She’s awake.”

Natasha froze. Maria looked at her fully now, eyes searching. “She asked for you. She’s groggy, and sore, and confused.” Maria said. “But she said your name. First thing out of her mouth.”

Natasha’s fingers twitched again, her nails digging into the heel of her palm. And then she said the one thing she hadn’t let herself say out loud:

“I don’t know why this hurt so much.”

Maria blinked. Natasha kept going, voice quieter, like the words were dragging their way out of her throat.

“I’ve lost people before. Friends. Teammates. Strangers on the table. But this…I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I can’t breathe right. I keep thinking she’s gonna flatline again if I look away. I haven’t slept. I haven’t even let myself breathe.”

Maria watched her. Then, gently: “You love her.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp, defensive, panicked. “She doesn’t know.”

“Do you?”

She looked down. Didn’t answer. Maria leaned in a little. “You didn’t just break because she died. You broke because she’s the only one who made you believe you could have something more.”

Natasha’s hands curled in tighter. “She doesn’t know.” she said again, more fragile this time. “What if she finds out?”

“She already has.”

Natasha flinched.

“Maybe not in words,” Maria continued. “But if you think she doesn’t know what your hands feel like when they’re the only thing keeping her alive, you’re wrong.”

The silence stretched long between them. Then Maria stood, quiet and calm. “You didn’t lose her.” she whispered. “Go remind yourself.”

The hallway smelled like lemon-scented disinfectant and something warm and sterile and sad. Natasha walked slowly. Not because she was unsure.

But because every step felt like a step back toward that moment. Toward the table. The blood. The line. The silence. When she reached your room, she didn’t enter at first.

She stood outside the door, her hand braced against the frame. Through the glass, she saw you. Propped up slightly. Pale. Worn. Eyes closed. Machines humming quietly around you. Your hand resting weakly over your stomach.

But your chest rose and fell. Steady and present. She exhaled, and only then realized she’d been holding her breath since Maria spoke.

She pushed the door open slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, sluggish. You blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. Then your gaze shifted and landed on her.

“…Hi” you croaked, voice raspy.

“Hey..” she whispered back. She didn’t ask how you were. She could see it. You were weak. Worn. Still there, but fading in and out of clarity.

So she moved to your side. Sat. Reached for your hand, but waited before touching it. You lifted your fingers slightly. That was all the permission she needed.

Her fingers wrapped around yours. Firm. Present. Steady. Just like before. Except now, there was no blood. No gloves. Just skin.

“There was a shooter..” you mumbled.

She nodded. “It’s over.”

“I got hit?”

“You did.”

“And…the OR?”

She froze. Just for a second.

“I don’t remember anything..”

Natasha didn’t speak. Your eyes flicked to her. “Did something happen?”

She squeezed your hand. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You watched her carefully. The way her voice dipped on you. The way her shoulders looked tighter now than they did during training runs or briefings. The way her thumb kept brushing across your knuckles, back and forth, like she was trying to remind herself you were warm.

But your body was heavy. Your brain foggy. You knew there was more. But you let it go. You weren’t strong enough to carry it.

And she..she wasn’t ready to speak it. So you squeezed her hand in return. Weak. But enough. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Her eyes flicked down. And this time, her voice cracked. “So am I.”

-

-

-

-

[jungkoode]

5 SECONDS TO FREEDOM | prologue

˗ˏˋ debts unpaid ˎˊ˗

"In Tokyo's underground, there are only two currencies that matter—respect and reputation. When someone threatens to take both, you don't just race them. You destroy them."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 3.5k

content: street racing culture, debt collection, first meetings, midnight races, dangerous driving, Spanish endearments as provocation, the dynamics of Tokyo's underground scene, and your first defeat in nineteen months.

✧ author's note ✧

Soooo here we fucking go.

I've been obsessing over this story for months—I think we all know that lmaooo I think I posted the teaser like a couple months ago and I was devastated because it barely got 50 notes. But you know what, this was still in my head so I did write some drabbles—and I kind of shaped the prologue, which is what you’re gonna read below hahaha.

“But Kiki we just sent you 45 asks telling you to rest” AND I SAID SIKE??? No actually, I’m okay I promise! Usually writing different stories is what prevents me from burning out, because I get frustrated with the same storyline so it’s like… I write something else and my brain goes ‘yay thanks’. You know, ADHD—shiny new toy, mind dances to the music.

Anyways, so. I love this. I love this because as always I get to experiment with different personalities and psychological backgrounds and what I fucking love about these two is the masks they wear and how opposite they are. He’s cocky and arrogant, but in a different way FMU!jungkook is. She’s determined and ambitious, always pushing for more, but still very distinct from all my other Y/N’s because she’s handling different situations (you’ll see in later chapters).

And Hachiroku and Jaque aren't just racing personas—they're escapes. And what makes this delicious is that they're running from opposite lives. One from privilege, one from struggle. Both finding freedom in the same five seconds at the starting line.

And yes, the cars matter. They're not just vehicles; they're extensions of identity. The AE86 is legendary for a reason—not the most powerful, but perfectly balanced in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they're doing (sound familiar?). Meanwhile, the R34 Skyline is raw, unapologetic power held in check by someone who understands precisely when to unleash it.

AS ALWAYS—READ THE AUTHOR INTRO AND TW listed in the index post. This is a must before reading this story.

Fair warning: this isn't going to be a clean race. These characters are messy. They make decisions that will make you want to scream at them. They'll crash into each other's lives and leave debris everywhere, and the kind of attraction that feels like a guardrail giving way on a mountain pass.

But that's the point, isn't it? The most interesting stories happen in the dangerous curves.

So buckle up. We've got a long road ahead.

Ready? Light’s about to turn green.

Also. Notes for this one are pretty high, that’s intentional. Like I just wanted to post the prologue to have it out for a bit but I still need to work on the arcs and major plot points. So I don’t have the story fully shaped out for now, which is why I want this to rest and check for engagement and reactions. Seriously—don’t crash out, I know this one will take time and that’s absolutely my intention!

Edit: prologue takes place 6 months before the main storyline!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Respect isn't given in Tokyo's underground—it's paid in cash or blood.

You roll the cherry lollipop against your teeth, counting seconds in your head like engine timing.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since you left Kalo and his overpriced Supra in your rearview on the Hakone downhill, his taillights disappearing around the corner while you took the perfect line through the hairpin that everyone else brakes too hard for.

It's nighttime at Daikoku.

You cross one leg over the other, letting your heeled boot dangle casually off the edge of your AE86's hood. The mini skirt wasn't a random choice. Neither was showing up without your racing gear.

Because tonight isn't about driving—it's about collecting.

"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."

You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.

"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."

"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."

You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.

The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.

Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.

"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"

You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"

"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"

"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."

Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."

"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."

"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"

"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."

The memory brings a slight smile to your face.

The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.

The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.

"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"

You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."

"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.

"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."

A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.

Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.

"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."

Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"

"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."

"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."

You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.

You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.

"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."

"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.

Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.

"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."

"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.

"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."

You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."

"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."

Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."

"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"

"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."

The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.

Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.

Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.

Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.

"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.

Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."

You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.

Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.

Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"

"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."

Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.

Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.

"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.

"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."

That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.

Hayato's record has stood for three years.

This guy has broken it in a month.

Who the fuck is this?

Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.

Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.

"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."

You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.

His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.

Or more specifically, on you.

He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.

You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."

But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.

You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.

You've never been the first to look away.

"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."

"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.

Just because you had to look back at Kenji.

"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."

You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.

"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."

Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.

"You want to find out, don't you?"

"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."

You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.

Kalo.

Your head snaps toward the source.

The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.

"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"

Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"

"He just mentioned Kalo."

Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"

No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.

"Excuse me," you say, already moving.

Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."

You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.

Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.

He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.

Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.

And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.

Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.

Not subtle about it at all.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.

One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.

You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"

He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.

Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.

"Why so serious, princesa?"

It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.

"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.

"And I asked you one too."

He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.

"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"

The description is so accurate you almost smile.

Almost.

"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."

His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.

Smart.

Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.

"And how would you know about that?" you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder.

"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)

"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."

"I'm observant."

His eyes lock with yours.

"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."

Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.

Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.

"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.

"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"

"Nineteen months," Maya corrects automatically.

You shoot her a look.

Jaque's smile widens. "Nineteen months. Impressive."

"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."

"From a guy who isn't here."

He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.

"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.

"And you know that how?"

"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."

You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.

"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."

That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.

"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."

You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.

"I'll pay you double what he owes you."

The words stop you mid-step.

You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.

"Excuse me?"

Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.

They’re gleaning.

"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."

Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"

You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.

But he’s not done.

"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."

"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."

"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."

You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.

"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."

"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."

You narrow your eyes.

Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"

You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.

But.

Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.

Like he already knows your answer before you do.

And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.

"One race," you hear yourself say.

Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.

"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."

"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."

"If," you correct.

"When." He doesn't back down.

One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.

Hinoki.

"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"

The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.

"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."

He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."

From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.

Word travels fast in this world.

"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."

He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.

"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."

You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"

His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."

Death has a rhythm.

Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.

The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.

Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.

He's not even looking at the road.

Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.

Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.

You grip your steering wheel tighter.

Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.

"Ready!" Kenji shouts.

You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.

"Set!"

Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.

Winks.

What the fuck is his problem?

Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.

"GO!"

You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.

The Skyline stays even.

First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.

Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.

The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.

Should.

Doesn't.

The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.

Until the straightaway.

The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.

But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.

He passes you.

Not aggressively. Not dangerously.

Just... efficiently.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.

"No fucking way."

You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.

No guardrail. No room for error.

Normal people brake early here.

Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.

You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.

You exit the corner a car length behind him.

"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.

The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.

It's where precision matters more than power.

You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.

The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.

You know exactly how much space you need.

You dive for the gap.

For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.

Then he does something impossible.

Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.

The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.

You brake.

The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.

But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.

"What the actual—"

The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.

And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.

For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.

It's not enough.

The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.

The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.

You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.

The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.

You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.

Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.

Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.

His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.

And something stops the words in your throat.

He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.

When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.

Just... satisfaction.

Like he's found something he's been looking for.

His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.

"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.

You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.

goal: 500 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @jkrailme @graydolan12

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© jungkoode 2025 | banner/div credit: @dailynnt no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[zephyrchama]

This is a piece for @obeymevents's Obey me! Prompt Roulette event! We submitted random prompts, and received a random prompt in return. The prompt for this piece is...

Too Many Beds

It's longer than most of my pieces so it's hidden below the read more (but it's fully SFW!). I tried to include every character, and there is a handy chart of where everyone is sleeping. Hope you enjoy!

🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️

“I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to test out our new overnight package.”

Diavolo was in high spirits. He walked with a pep in his step down the quiet carpeted hallways of the latest Corvo hotel. Everything smelled faintly of fresh paint and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen.

The group following him was only half listening. Some were so far back, engrossed in their own idle chit-chat, that even Diavolo’s vigorous voice didn’t reach them. The modern, dim hallway lighting was exactly opposite of the large ballroom they had just been in, wherein massive glitzy chandeliers reflected off of polished champagne glass towers. There had been no shortage of indulgences. Fine food prepared by professional chefs, a wide open dance floor with a live band, and the best of company that you had the pleasure of personally inviting.

Diavolo left the guest list for this exclusive party up to you, as there are few beings he trusts so unconditionally. Not wanting to disappoint him, you thought it best to keep invites limited to your closest friends at RAD. Sixteen people, including yourself, was a good, round number and you were confident the company would never be dull. It made for a memorable night of partying.

Now that the ballroom had been thoroughly christened and you were extremely tuckered out from dancing, your group moved as one to their accommodations for the night. Diavolo, leading the pack, guaranteed it would be an experience like no other. The hallway had few doors, each spread noticeably far apart. The rooms inside must be large. You wondered if they were suites fit for royalty. Past the vending room, past the ice dispenser, your group finally came upon a simple set of double wooden doors.

“Here we are!” Diavolo exclaimed. “Again, this is something new we’re offering only at this hotel. I’d appreciate your feedback in the morning.”

There was no lock. Barbatos demonstrated that it could recognize a guest’s handprint, requiring no key to open. He waved you in with a smile.

The room was massive. You were greeted with a sophisticated wood paneled wall with lights installed around the floor and ceiling. Next to the entrance was a locker room of sorts for luggage. Your possessions had already been carried up and neatly stored away.

Next up, a communal bathroom with multiple rooms for baths, showers, and toilet facilities, all attached to a powder room with floor to ceiling mirrors.

The bedroom itself rivaled the ballroom in size and it was filled, from corner to corner, with beds. Queen sized bunk beds. Each expertly made up in fine silk sheets. Chocolate mints wrapped in gold foil sat atop the fluffy pillows and folded robes sat squarely at the foot of each bed.

You paused in confusion to take in such a unique sight, but people were filing in one after another behind you. Solomon put a hand on your back to safeguard you from the parade of tipsy non-humans. You moved forward. Beelzebub followed with a half-asleep Belphegor latched to his side.

“This setup is for large groups. We took inspiration from days of old, when travelers would all reside in one common room. There are more than enough accommodations for everyone,” Barbatos explained. “Perfect for the budget-friendly school trip, work retreat, or group celebration. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You squinted. There was a reason people didn’t sleep together in giant rooms anymore. A good reason.

“We’re all sleeping here?” you confirmed. Barbatos’ coy smile affirmed it. This was going to be a headache.

“There are no assigned arrangements,” he confirmed, “so feel free to pick whichever bed suits your fancy.”

Multiple hands grabbed your arms. Mammon, Asmodeus, and Luke exclaimed, “I wanna sleep with you!”

Leviathan followed their enthusiasm with his own, “I-I-I also want to s-s-s-sleep w-with you!”

At the same time, Mephistopheles could be heard, “Lord Diavolo! I’d like nothing more than to sleep beside you! Just like when we were kids.”

Diavolo was already half-shouting, “I want to sleep with Lucifer!”

You faintly caught Satan snickering, “yeah, I bet you do.”

“You guys reek of alcohol,” Luke complained as he pinched his nose. He waved his hand towards Mammon and Asmodeus. “Nobody wants to sleep near you!”

“Does this hotel even allow pets?” Mammon snarked. “Who let this chihuahua inside?”

Luke kicked Mammon in the foot. While the two squabbled, Beelzebub offered, “it will be quiet with me.”

You were pulled back and forth in a nauseating three way tug-of-war. Even those who weren’t making physical contact had their eyes on you, their intentions clear.

“Nobody is sleeping with anyone.” Lucifer raised his voice above the din. It was getting late and he would not tolerate a stupid fight. “There are more than enough beds to spread out. One person per bunk bed. Nobody is allowed to sleep in a bed directly next to anyone else. I don’t want any funny business happening tonight. That’s final.”

Multiple sighs could be heard, ranging from relieved to annoyed to straight-up disappointed. Mammon could be heard saying, rhetorically, "Who said you get to make the rules?"

“That’s the most fair option,” Simeon stated. “On the bright side, we also get matching pajamas. That makes it feel less lonely”

“Come now, Lucifer. We can’t even sleep in adjacent beds?” Diavolo asked sadly. That defeated half the purpose of sleeping in a big room together.

“What about diagonal?” Raphael asked. He had his hand on his chin. Despite the room being massive, it was unlikely there were enough beds for all sixteen beings present to sleep with multiple beds in between one another.

Lucifer put an end to the discontentment once and for all by announcing, “Diagonal is fine. I want you all in a bed in ten minutes. If anyone doesn’t like it, you’re free to sleep in the street.”

Barbatos showed his full agreement with a smile that gave you chills. He had such a way of expressing himself without really changing his expression at all. It was enough to get everyone moving.

Beelzebub carried his twin over to a bed at random and placed the dozing Belphegor in a lower bunk, then took his pillow mint as compensation. It was a hefty treat coated in chocolate, larger than your typical pillow mints, one that befit the luxury status of the Corvo hotel.

People began milling around the room. Barbatos mentioned something about a lilac scent on the pillows to make falling asleep easier. They inspected the beds but didn’t actually claim one. Many side glances were thrown in your direction.

Thirteen had been quiet, refusing to get tangled up in everyone’s petty bickering until now. The reaper boldly pushed past everybody loitering in her way. Upon reaching the farthest, most isolated corner of the room, she turned and announced, “I’m sleeping here. If any of you come near me, I’m going straight home and blowing out your candle.”

The room went silent as everyone stared. She continued, “Well… except one. If there’s an emergency, you know who to send as your representative.”

With a cute wink in your direction, she turned her back and disappeared up a ladder to a top bunk.

“Ooh, scary,” Solomon laughed.

Thirteen’s manicured middle finger poked out from the edge of her bunk in response.

Solomon responded with another laugh. Though, this wasn’t the time to poke fun at Thirteen. He had more interesting things to focus on.

He asked you, “Have you decided where to sleep?”

It was obviously the question everyone was dying to know. You didn’t care. All of the beds literally looked the same. They were so sparkling new, even the metal screws holding the mattress frames together had the same shiny luster, without a speck of rust. It looked like someone copy and pasted the same bed in a repeating pattern until the room was full. You wouldn't doubt if this were a low budget VR game.

Any show of preference would start a war. You decided it was best to choose at random. “I’m going to take… this one.”

“Then, this one’s mine!” Mammon declared, diving into a bottom bunk as close to yours as Lucifer would allow.

“No fair! I wanted that one!” Luke anxiously balled his hands. While paralyzed thinking about what to do, Solomon happily claimed the bed opposite of Mammon's. Options near you were quickly running out.

“This diagonal space looks open,” Simeon remarked. He and Lucifer chose beds directly diagonal to you, giving Luke the idea to jump headfirst into the other open diagonal space before Asmodeus could take it.

Diavolo began climbing a bed close to Lucifer. As unofficial chaperones, the two of them in top bunks would be able to keep an eye out for any late night funny business. Leviathan followed suit, scrambling into a top bunk in the hopes of being able to spot your sleeping figure several rows away.

Finally, everyone had a bed to call their own.

There was a minor scuffle to the bathroom while the tired group performed their nighttime routines. Teeth were brushed, pajamas were donned. Shirtless glimpses were stolen from a select few who couldn't be bothered to change in private. Simeon helped you figure out how to get warm water when the sink spout wouldn’t budge. Asmodeus came out wearing a nourishing face mask that garnered some stares.

“I’ll be turning the lights out now,” Barbatos announced after some time had passed.

Leviathan and Diavolo were leaning on top bunk edges, engrossed in a mighty battle on their handheld games. “Hold on a moment.” Diavolo was rapidly mashing buttons as he explained, “we’ve almost got him down to half HP.”

“How’s your ult? Is the meter filled?” Leviathan asked. His eyes did not stray from the screen. He was a master at work.

“This thing on the side? No, it keeps going up every time I land a hit. Is that good?”

“As soon as that’s filled, get close to him and hit R2! With the gear I gave you it will take out at least another 20% of-”

“I’ll be turning out the lights now,” Barbatos repeated. He turned the lights out.

The night had officially begun.

“Satan, would you mind turning that off?” Raphael’s whisper carried through the dark. “It’s hard to sleep.”

Satan was making full use of the bed’s built-in reading light. It was tiny yet powerful. Unlike Leviathan’s handheld game console, Satan couldn’t hide it under the covers.

“Is this any better?” He tilted it down further, so the light shone directly on the page. So much so that the letters were hard to see, the light reflected right off of the ink. It remained a burning beacon in that otherwise dark half of the room, made worse by the fact that Satan was on a top bunk.

“It’s not much better,” Raphael said.

Satan huffed and adjusted his light again. “How about now?”

“No.”

One low growl later, Satan adjusted his light for a third time. “Better?”

“Now it’s in my eyes,” Asmodeus whined. “I can see it through my eye mask. Can’t you just read in the dark?”

“Can’t you get a higher quality mask?”

There was the shrill whistle of a projectile flying through the air, followed by the shattering of glass. Then there was no more light. “Hey! Watch it!” Satan roared. He was met with a colorful chorus of “shh!”, “shut up!” and “quiet!”

Asmodeus chucked a pillow towards his angry brother.

Raphael whispered, “That’s better.”

Just as his head found its way back to the pillow, Barbatos could be heard. “You will need to pay for that in the morning.”

Satan was left to seethe quietly. Instead of counting sheep, he counted the different ways he could curse Lucifer to vent his frustrations. He didn’t get very far. There was another loud disturbance, this time from the back. An ear-splitting buzzing sound preceded a deep shout.

Thick smoke filled the air around Thirteen’s corner.

“What is going on now?” Mephistopheles demanded. He was cranky, with a massive frown plastered across his face as he lifted his silk sleep mask. This was the most testing night he had ever experienced.

“I told you not to get near me!” Thirteen huffed. She waved her arms, clearing the air to see who was stupid enough not to heed her warning.

“Sorry.” Beelzebub was stuck coughing under a massive electric net. Miss Soaring Buzz Buzz Junior wasn’t a very painful trap, but the static shocks and heavy smoke were an unpleasant sensation even for the strongest of demons. There were a trail of foil wrappers that once contained mints pilfered from the empty beds, and they lead up to the paralyzed Beelzebub. This supported his case when he claimed between coughs, “I got hungry.”

“Haha, I should have known.” Diavolo was finding this whole ordeal to be very exciting. One unexpected event after the next. He had no intention of sleeping to begin with, lest he miss out on all the fun of spending time with his friends. It was a good thing Leviathan was also a night owl. The otaku helped the prince stay busy in between bouts of chaos with highly recommend handheld role playing games, to be enjoyed under the thick covers.

“Can you let me out? This net is really uncomfortable.” Beelzebub wiggled like a worm. The net didn’t budge against his strength and his arms were pinned against his stomach. “Also, are you going to eat your mint?”

“I’m saving it!" Thirteen exclaimed, "and I’ll let you out in the morning.”

“I’ll get you out,” somebody yawned. Belphegor plodded over to his twin, half asleep with eyes half closed. “Consider it thanks for carrying me into bed.”

“Belphie, thank you.”

Undoing Thirteen’s trap was not easy. It was clearly going to take a while, especially with Belphegor fighting sleep every step of the way.

“Can we all be quiet now?” Mephisto was exasperated. “Please? Thank you.”

“Now you see what I put up with every day,” Lucifer muttered. He was staring up at the ceiling, reconsidering his life choices. Was it a mistake to have adopted all of these buffoons as his brothers? No. Lucifer was never wrong about their potential and greatly enjoyed seeing them grow. They were just idiots.

This was further proved around half an hour later. Half an hour of blissful silence, during which a few members of your entourage were able to doze off. Things were finally calm. Asmodeus sat up. He slid out of bed, tugging at the belt around his robe to ensure it was properly tied and would accentuate his beautiful waist.

Asmodeus tip toed towards your direction, dancing lightly on his feet as he imagined how happy you’d be at his little midnight rendezvous. Lucifer might’ve said you couldn’t sleep near each other, but he never said you had to stay apart all night long.

“Whaddya think you’re doing?”

Out of the dark, Mammon thrust an arm in front of his younger brother, allowing him no further.

“Just a trip to the bathroom,” Asmodeus sang with a quiet lilt.

“Bathroom my foot. Get outta here,” Mammon spat. “I’m on to you. No one gets past me. Go on, shoo.” His command was accompanied by the classic hand motion, shooing Asmodeus back from where he came from.

“Hmmph! You could be a little nicer about it.”

Mammon stood guard at the foot of your bed until Asmodeus was good and settled, albeit sulking, back under his sheets. Mammon then turned and promptly began to crawl right into your bed. He was slow, careful not to make much noise. His full attention was on safely completing this mission. You would make for a top tier prize once that hurdle was cleared.

“Hey, were you up waitin’ for me?” he asked in a low whisper, careful not to be too loud.

“Actually, yes,” Lucifer whispered in response, lowering the covers away from his face. Mammon shrieked, leaped up, and crashed onto the ground in a scramble to get away from his older brother.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Mephistopheles complained. “When will it end?”

Mammon stammered, pointing a shaky finger at Lucifer, “You were supposed to be over there! Where’d-”

Lucifer cut him off. “They are in bed. Just like you should be.”

“Yeah, but which bed?”

The question went unanswered. Lucifer sat up, swung his legs over the side of the mattress, and slipped a pair of complimentary fuzzy slippers onto his feet. “Let’s go. I’ll tuck you in.”

“No thanks!”

“I’ll be sure to do it very snugly.”

Mammon was unable to protest as Lucifer grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back to the proper bed. Mammon’s belt would make for a suitable chain to tie his hands to the metal bedpost, ensuring a repeat of this incident would not occur. A teary and frustrated Mammon caught your eye for the briefest of seconds as you peered over the top bunk of what was originally Lucifer’s bed. You gave him a little wave. With bound hands, Mammon opened his mouth to say something, but the space was quickly filled with a small accent pillow from Lucifer. 

From your new top bunk perch, you looked around to see how everyone else was fairing. Squinting in the dark, you could make out a few people. Beelzebub had successfully escaped Thirteen’s trap. You noticed his feet going right up to the edge of his bed. Diavolo was grinning like a kid in a candy shop. Beyond him was the still figure of Barbatos, laying face up with eyes closed and his hands crossed over his chest. On the opposite side, you craned to see Simeon. It was hard to see what he was up to. Same with Belphegor behind him.

You wouldn’t find out until morning that Lucifer’s no bed-sharing rule was broken. Belphegor, in a sleepy haze, couldn’t properly find his way back after helping Beelzebub. He wound up in Simeon’s bed, clinging to the angel’s side, pinning him down with an arm and a leg. Simeon would have found it pretty adorable if only Belphegor wasn’t so heavy. No amount of wiggling, prodding, or whisper-shouts would get the Avatar of Sloth off of him. Simeon did not want to risk texting you and waking you up if you were already asleep, so he resigned himself to his fate underneath Belphegor.

It wasn’t long before another large sound woke just about everybody in the room up. You jumped. It sounded like someone threw their suitcase from the ceiling. There was a small commotion on the other side of the room.

“Thirteen?” Solomon accused.

“Hey! Watch your tone, that wasn’t me.”

“I see… Then maybe Satan mistook reality for a dream and threw somebody across the room?” he mused.

Satan sighed, “Don’t make me come over there.”

As it turns out, Solomon wasn’t too far off the mark. Soon it was clear to all: Leviathan had fallen asleep and, soon after, fell out of his top bunk. It was impressive. He basically sleep-climbed over the low walls of the bunk bed by gradually throwing his limbs over it one by one. When the amount of Leviathan on one side was higher than the amount of him on the other side, the demon’s body slipped and came crashing down in one of the top five most unpleasant wake-ups Solomon had ever experienced.

“Aaaaaahhhhh.” Leviathan’s voice was surprisingly weak for the strong blow he’d just received. He curled up on the floor and rubbed his aching head while Diavolo and Solomon watched.

“Leviathan, are you alright?” Raphael asked.

“Aaaaaaaaahh,” he repeated. He was more in shock than anything.

“He sounds fine,” Satan turned on his side and pulled his blanket up.

Leviathan shakily stood to his feet. This was not his beautiful room, and this was not his beautiful bathtub. It was a room of judgement. An introvert’s worst nightmare. “Wow, thanks for the concern.”

He crawled back into bed, into the bottom bunk this time. He grabbed the covers, swirling them around himself in a protective cocoon. “I’ll be just fine, don’t you worry about me,” he complained.

“Good to hear!” Diavolo responded with sincerity. “Good night, Leviathan!”

“Oh. Uhh, good night?” Leviathan mumbled back. He was caught off guard by actual good will and snuggled his embarrassed face into the blanket.

“Good night, Lord Diavolo!” Mephistopheles called out, not one to be outdone.

“Why, good night Mephistopheles. And good night, Lucifer.”

“Enough.”

[emsromanoff]

Lazy mornings | N.R

Summary: A typical morning between your girlfriend, who is hard to get out of bed and you, being the morning person.

Warnings: none, just fluff, grumpy x sunshine trope

Pairings: Natasha romanoff x reader

Word count: 1k

The sun had barely cleared the tops of the buildings outside when you stirred. The light was already beginning to peek through the half-open blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. You blinked sleep from your eyes, stretching slowly before rolling onto your side to face her. Natasha was still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, red hair a mess across her back. She looked peaceful, which was incredible rare. You smiled and wrapped an arm around her waist, snuggling closer to her, chest pressed against her back. You stayed still, taking the scent of your girlfriend and tracing mindless patterns on her skin. You decided then to wake her up. You brushed a hair strand out of her face and whispered.

“Natty wake up. It’s morning.”

She didn’t move. You smiled a little.

Of course not.

So you tried again — this time brushing your lips lightly along the bare skin of her shoulder.

Natasha made a low sound of protest, something between a groan and a growl. She burrowed deeper into the pillow. “M’sleeping.”

“Time to wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Natashas eyes stay closed and she pulls the blanket over her head, trying to hold onto the last bit of sleep. “Thats the worst nickname you gave me this week.”

You laughed softly, nose scrunching as you moved closer, slipping your arm further around her waist. Her skin was warm under your touch, the kind of warmth that made it hard to leave the bed, but you weren’t interested in leaving. Not yet.

“Don’t blame me,” you murmured, lips brushing her shoulder again. “You’re the one who looks all soft and fairytale-ish when you sleep.”

A muffled groan came from under the blanket. “I kill people for a living.”

“And yet here you are, hiding under a blanket like a grumpy kitten.”

She didn’t answer, but you could tell she was smiling. Barely. Just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. That was the thing with Natasha. she didn’t give much away, but when you knew her like this, you didn’t need much to know everything.

You let your hand drift up her side, slow and light, tracing the slope of her waist to the curve of her ribs. “I will make coffee,” you whispered, kissing just below her ear.

No response.

“With cinnamon.”

Still no reaction.

“And I’m not wearing anything under this shirt.”

There was a pause, and then the blanket shifted. Her head emerged slowly from beneath the covers, red hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep but fixed on you now. She blinked at you, half-dazed but clearly amused, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her eyes drifted over your face, down to where the oversized shirt clung to your frame - just barely covering anything - and to the panties peeking out from beneath the blanket.

“You’re trouble,” she murmured, voice still gravelly with sleep, eyes darkened by something far more awake.

You grinned at reaction. “The kind you like.”

Natasha didn’t argue. Instead she reached out, fingers cool against your bare thigh as she pulled you closer. Your body temperature always differed. Cold and warm hands. Almost like a reflection of your opposite personalities. But somehow, you balanced each other out.

You went willingly, sliding one leg between hers as your bodies pressed together again, chest to chest.

Her hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, resting on your hip, thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. “What time is it?”

“Still early,” you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against hers — soft, barely there. “No reason to rush.”

She hummed in agreement, tilting her head to catch your mouth in a proper kiss. It was lazy, warm, and deep. the kind that tasted like safety and morning breath and domestically. She kissed you like she wasn’t in a hurry. Like the only thing in the world worth focusing on was you.

Your fingers tangled in her hair, gently pulling her closer as your lips moved in sync, slow and teasing. She kissed you again, then again — less sleepy now, more present. Her hand moved up your back under your shirt, fingertips tracing your spine.

She pulled back just enough to press kisses to your jaw, your cheek, the hollow just below your ear. “You always smell like vanilla in the morning,” she muttered, her voice barely above a breath.

You smiled against her mouth. “That’s just my shampoo.”

She chuckled softly, low and rough, then leaned down to kiss along your collarbone. Her lips were warm, soft, and unhurried like she had all morning to worship every inch of your skin. You hummed softly, the feeling of her hands under your shirt and lips on your skin made it hard to imagine ever wanting to leave the bed.

You let her stay there, pressed beneath you, head resting on the pillow, red hair spread across the sheets like something out of a painting. She looked up at you with barely-there amusement.

“You’re unusually cheerful for this hour,” she murmured, voice raspy and thick with sleep.

“I’m always cheerful,” you whispered back, brushing your fingers through the ends of her hair.

A low chuckle escaped Natashas throat. “Right.”

“You’re staying home today, right?” you asked quietly.

Her hand moved to your cheek, thumb stroking gently. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” You kissed her again, lips brushing hers like a promise. “Because I want to spend the whole day doing nothing with you.”

Her lips curved into a small smile against yours. “That sounds… tolerable.”

You laughed, the sound soft and full of affection. “You’re such a romantic.”

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

And she was. In her own quiet, grumpy way — wrapped around you, holding you close, kissing you like she finally knew what it meant to stay.

[bettystonewell]

There Were Only Two Beds

Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Reader

If you steal the blankets from your charming, adorably cute and sexy best friend with whom you’ve shared more than just a kiss with, then, well, you might get quite a fright, and perhaps never live it down. 4.1k words

Tags: Smut, Fluff, Vulnerability, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, One Night Stands, Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, P in V Sex, Motel Sex, Dean Winchester Doesn’t Do Too Badly With His Feelings, Dual POV MDNI 18+ Only

The sex was—it was great sex. The kind you gossip about with your girlfriends over every single detail. 

Was he big? Was he wide? Did he curve in the middle?

Dean was a yes to all three. He was long, thick as a trunk, and he had a way of hitting all the right places. Places you could still feel where his round tip had hit thanks to his ingenious angling. 

Your clit was…well used. He strummed you like an instrument. Plucked and brushed the sensitive bundle with both fingers and tongue. It stung a little when he wiped you over with the warm cloth. Felt the cool air when he retreated to the bathroom again. 

You’d go there yourself, only your legs are jelly, also thanks to the angles he put you through, except when he came. That was by simple missionary. Your hands in his, his eyes on yours. 

Dean Winchester was gentle then. His face contorted but euphoric. Mouth half smiling, making a rounded “oh,” with creased brows and a chuckle unlike any other you’d heard before. The moment captured when he stilled, all but down below. 

The sounds he made were god given. Like his touch, his taste, his smell. 

Like the leather from his father’s jacket hanging off his shoulders, giving him a shadow you’d liken to that of Yogi Bear; to the cheap whiskey he insists on drinking even though you swear it’d keep Baby going on a single drop. The Impala herself, with whatever oil change and wax he’s given her throughout the day while you weren’t looking. 

His musk is musky like the earth itself. Full of the things you’d find in nature if nature was a thing you liked to surround yourself with. 

It’s in the sheets. It’s in the room, and it’s only been two hours. 

Your bags are on the table in the corner. His shot gun pokes out of the hole made by the zipper. The light from the street outside spills through the thin fabric of the ghastly curtains. Makes the silver of his colt sparkle.

The door does little to house you from the world. Trucks passing the motel on the nearby highway rattle the foundations, and wooden paneling opposite you. 

You can hear Dean gargling beyond the walls of the bathroom, though that door is ajar. 

What a charming place for your first tryst. Really sets the mood after the gruelling day of monster guts and dental-floss stitches, but you’re alive. And you had that really great sex to ease the tension. All thanks to Dean’s needless worry and martyrdom.

You stretch your limbs, crack your toes. Raise yourself up on your elbows and take a peek at what’s taking him so long. Should probably try to move. Get up and take a leak or cover yourself. How is this going to go down when he returns?

Fuck it.

You’re upright, standing, two feet on the ground. Tits out, panties remain…somewhere, so you reach for his flannel on the edge of the bed where you left it and slip it on. The worn material is soft, and the Dean smell only intensifies. 

Great sex. Great smell. You could get used to this if this is to become a thing.

“You done in there?” you say, trying your best to put on your most normal voice. Let’s not let him catch on that you’re scared shitless of the after effects of what you just did. 

You can keep telling yourself how wonderful he felt inside of you. How delicious the stretch still is as you take a tentative step. 

The man just gave you aftercare, what little he could, but it was something, for fuck’s sake. For someone so hellbent on not wanting a relationship, his courtesy for a bed partner is wasted. 

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want this again. Give him his refractory period and you’d let him fuck you, here and now. Tomorrow? Next week even? Oh god, don’t fuck this up. You’ve gotta play it by ear.

At the bathroom door now you call his name, and there’s no way he can’t hear you. You hear the faucet being shut off and his face with its huge grin appears. His eyes look you up and down.

“Nice shirt,” he says. 

You don’t miss the linger when his gaze falls where your bra would be, but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t hold back the tug in your own mouth either, going for the playful, sultry lip bite. Making sure your lower lip plumps out just right. 

“You done?” you’re asking again.

Dean nods. “Yeah.” His voice, just as practiced as yours was.

He’s under the covers of his bed when you return. His because there’s technically two. That one, where you fucked, and the one you didn’t, that’s yours because of its proximity to the main door. 

His head’s nestled in his hands that’re nestled in the pillow. The white crisp sheets, full of too much starch, a blanket, no doubt scratchy, and the duvet cover his lower half. 

He’s grinning at you. His eyes travel the length of your body once more, and if that’s not an invitation to slip under the blankets with him, you don’t know what is.

Still, you ask, “Care for some company,” keeping it cool and suave, of course.

“Haven’t had my post sex snuggle yet. Even a guy like me needs one of those.” And there’s that chuckle of his again. 

“You’re an idiot. You know that?” you say, but you’re lifting the pile of bedding and slipping in underneath it all the same. 

Dean lets his arm down and pulls you closer.

“Might be an idiot, sweetheart, but you just slept with me. What does that make you?”

“Thoroughly fucked.” 

You can’t tell whose grin is bigger.

There’s an ease to this, and for the most part, what butterflies you had when you got up before are gone, but there’s still the unspoken hanging over your head. The what now? What do we do come morning?

You need to know.

Tentative as your steps were, you raise your knee and drape your thigh over his. Nothing unusual about that. This is a post coital snuggle after all. He used the word first, not you. This is just what you do with your partners. 

You just don’t normally hold yourself still as a statue, waiting for them to flinch or move away.

But Dean grabs your hand. Intertwines his fingers with yours and even goes as far as bringing them up to kiss your knuckles.

“Thorough, huh?” He hums. The cracks of his crow’s feet, prominent so you know he’s smiling with his eyes. “It was good sex.” 

“Damn good,” you add, ignoring the hammer in your heart that comes with like-minded thinking.

Your foot strokes his leg - the closest thing to a tail wag, were you a dog. It does that. During usually. Grounding your body further into the one you’re with. 

His hair is soft. He doesn’t have much covering him in the scheme of things. You learnt that when you fell into bed, all but your underwear discarded.

Your legs were locked when the real kissing started. Like an involuntary action, spurring you both on. Your lips parted, tongues swiped, your calves caressed each other. 

Ankles wrapped ‘round ankles. Your thighs wrapped ‘round his torso. There was that way he angled his hips and just…went for it. Pounded into you.

Women in the movies call it a jackhammer or something of the like. The speed, ungodly, you’d think him a vamp or wendigo, yet somehow he still hit that sweet spot inside again and again without slowing down the intensity. Your muscles pull from the bruising, most likely up in there. 

He did it with his mouth, too. Well, his lips and tongue. You don’t really know what it was. besides, he had you begging for it. The pressure of his suction teed with his fingers dipping in and out of you just as fast. Your cheeks feel warm just thinking about it. 

As does your cunt.

“Is that, ah, thing you did? Is that like a signature move or something?” you say.

Dean huffs through his nose. “What thing?” His bared teeth tell you he knows what you’re talking about.  

“You know.” You raise yourself up on elbow and palm and look down at him. “What you did with your mouth?” 

“Ah. That thing.” He chuckles. “I did good, huh?”

Your free hand drags his arm up, lays a faux punch to his cheek. You’d do it for real, but then you wouldn’t know where you stand, and you really need to find out. So, “Guess so,” you say, keeping the peace without giving him a big head. He has one of those already. Everything about the guy is big, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder what Sam might be like. 

Lol - you just had sex with Dean - you’re lying in bed with Dean, and that’s where your mind goes? 

Squash that quick smart. This has been a long time coming. The flirting. The looks. Arguments just ‘cause it’s more fun to rile him up. And let’s face it, “I wouldn’t complain if you did it again,” you say. 

No time like the present, right?

It’s got him interested. At least he shuffles and turns to face you, letting go of your fingers to drape his arm over your waist and splay his hand across your back. 

“Yeah?” He squeezes.

“Yeah,” you breathe and the world shifts so that all you see and hear is him. Sure, there are still the street lights with their fluorescent glow; the same rattling semi trailers screeching past, but there’s no place you’d rather be. 

His eyes flit over your face, and he scooches in closer. The legs of his underwear brush against your own, and it’s him placing his thigh over yours now, his thing stirring behind them. 

His breath is minty from brushing. The leather, the whiskey, the earth is there, too. 

Moisture from the tip of his tongue leaves a trail when he plants generous kisses over your lips, cheek, jaw and into the dip by your collarbone. It cools your skin and sends shivers up and down your spine, but you’re not complaining. 

No. Wait. You are.

“De?” you say. First time for everything. Voice caught in your throat when he sucked the crease made by your shoulder. 

His answer is to hum, and that just sends more signals south, and it’s not what you want—no, yes, it is. 

It’s exactly what you want, but you need to know the conditions, ‘cause you want more than just one more roll between the sheets.

Your, “No. Dean. Stop,” is said between pants. Takes everything in you to do so. Every touch, every nip, every graze electrifies your nerves, and, “I mean, I wanna keep doing this,” pushes through. “Not just tonight.” 

Your fingers find his bicep. It’s firm. Nice. Stong. The way your hand fits ‘round it is fascinating as it is grounding. Yeah, you definitely want this again and again. 

Your body tenses like it’s made of stone or steel, though glass is more fitting. You will break depending on what he says, and fuck - you’ve screwed it up, haven’t you? You can’t move forward and you can’t take it back. Friends being friends again never works out. Not on TV, not in real life, and Dean doesn’t do commitment.

He’s dangerous, he’s lost too much, and he’ll spiel some self righteous crap to keep you safe and distant. 

So when he props himself back up. When he doesn’t let you go, doesn’t run straight for the hills or the bathroom ‘cause it’s closer, he stares at you instead. 

Those green eyes of his flit again, and soon his mouth joins them. 

It’s not quite a smirk. The corners raise just enough to mark the dimples on the sides. His top lip twitches and there’s a flash of white teeth beneath. It’s breathtaking. 

Why does he have to do that?

“Me, too,” he says, and nope. Nope. That line’s the real breath stealer. “Least I wanna try. Maybe every second week?” He snickers, and the butterflies return. Warm you from within. 

“Asshole.” You pat his cheek with your entire hand, hard. The soft slap reminds you of others you’ve made together during the night. When he had you from behind and his crown jewels slapped against your lips. When him above you made pockets of air that escaped on impact. 

As does his hand, striking your rear. He soothes it and stretches the surrounding flesh. “Well, I have one. You do, too. Seemed to like it when I—”

“Dean.” Your voice is chastising to start, but it calms, grows uncertain. Jaw tenses, and your cheeks puff out when you say, “You really wanna?” 

His do the same through his, “Yeah.” 

It’s you who kisses him this time. Hand still on his cheek holds him in place as you press firm on his lower lip, tongue presses further into his waiting mouth. 

His fingers roam the skin beneath his shirt. Hips bump and grind against your naked core. His hardness glides over your stomach. He’d be right up in there if it weren’t for the thin barrier keeping him shut away and his leg still over yours. 

You weren’t expecting things to happen so soon. Well, you hoped, but as he bends and dips lower into the one between your boobs, questions, more troubles than they’re worth, come to mind.

Your hand moves to thread through his hair. Your fingers scratch over his scalp, and soon you’re tugging and bringing him back to look up at you.

“Does this mean no more girls at the bar?” you say, and his plump lips purse. 

You’re at just the right angle to see his jaw tick when he swallows. See his eyes change from lust blown to deep in thought. And then his brow quirks, and the smirk is back. “Could say the same for you, sweetheart,” he teases.

“I’m serious.” You pull to turn away, but his thigh squeezes you. 

Hands find yours and he rolls until you’re pinned and staring up at him. He lingers on his elbows above you. 

“So am I.” His forehead nuzzles yours. “You’re gonna need to keep the short shorts and mini skirts home, darlin’.”

“What?”

“I can’t fight off every guy that looks at ya. Gotta save my strength for the real monsters.”

“But I don’t—”

It doesn’t matter when he kisses you again, attentive, slow. 

His pelvis rocks against you and his fingers thread through your hair and you’re enveloped. He almost cradles you. His lips on fire, your lips, both sets, on fire, too.

“You want me, you got me, alright? We’ll make it work,” he says when he pulls back enough to hover inches from your face. “What do the normal people say? Exclusive?”

“We are normal.”

He snorts, and you can taste the mint still on his breath. “We just ganked a pack of wolves.”

“And then we came here and had sex.”

“No. We came here, and you stitched me up.” He smirks and his brows wag. “Then we had sex.” He dips and pecks. “‘Bout to have more.” Another. “If you can handle it?”

Your smile tugs at the corners, a thin line for someone being kissed. But all your blood has gone lower, and the ache between your legs makes itself known. 

Your muscles are sore as his hands glide over them. The swell of your chest, tightened abdominals, and pangs in your lower belly that still throb when you shift. But his fingers caress you. Move, loving and tantalising. They make their way to your pillowed mound, where they breach your seam, and though you’re hissing at the contact, further in, you squeeze and flutter. Need everything he’s giving.

However long it lasts.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says even though he’s gliding through your wet heat. Eyes bore into you when he finds your entrance, and breaches it, too. You feel him twitch on your stomach at your surprise. “Gonna sing my name again when you come?”

His face is straight-laced, but his lips part when he twists and strikes. Adds another finger and he’s pulling at those crow’s-feat once again.

Deliberate and slow, he stretches you all over. Whispers more words, more encouragement. Speaks the dirty talk like it’s going out of fashion. You just won’t tell him he’s good at it. 

You respond to it, of course. Encourage him to continue. All discomfort, replaced with longing the second his kisses move over you again.

Your hands are in his hair and you’re shoving him down. Anticipating the first strike of his tongue and it doesn’t disappoint. Who knew Dean Winchester was so willing to give head? You’d return the favour, but you want that thing he does again, and you ain’t afraid to beg now that he’s there.

“Whatcha need, darlin’?” he says against your lips. Gives you another swipe before pulling away. His hand is still there, though. His fingers coat more of you in your own slick. Slips his thumb down lower and places light pressure there.

You can just see his eyes looking back up at you behind his arm, holding your pelvis down. Hear the confidence when he adds, “You like it when I do that, huh?”

Dean knows you do. He sees it in your eyes. 

But he also sees the hesitation, the nervous breath you keep dragging out that rattles your stomach muscles under his touch. The way your thighs try to creep in on him on instinct to cover yourself. 

He’s not letting you. He won’t fuck this up. He’s already had you once, and he means what he says when he says he wants to make it work. He’ll try just as hard, if not harder, to keep you close by. Keep you safe. 

He didn’t jump in front of you without reason. Would never take the fall for the hell of it, regardless of what you want to believe. No. He wanted to protect you. Needed to. Unaware that this right here is what he needed more. What was to come.

Dean moves his thumb. Slides his fingers back through your sweet cunt and brings his nose and lips down to treat himself again. 

It’s you. Plain you, and nothing’s ever tasted better once he fights through the initial remnants of latex and lube.

“You want me here?” he says between tentative licks. Puckers his mouth over your clit, sucks, then looks right at you. “Tell me like you did before.”

He grins when you say, “There.”

His mouth is sore, if he’s honest. He’s been grinning since the first kiss. Whole body’s had a workout, but his dick is still rearing to go. So hard it’s almost painful, but he won’t wrap and tap until you coat his fingers and chin again. He sees your shift in movement. He knows what he’s doing alright.

Fingers curl and move in and out of you, searching for that spot each time. Doesn’t take long for your fingers to leave him. They grip the sheets and tug while his tongue laps and swirls. Increases in speed. Strains those muscles, but it’s worth it just to hear you cry.

“De—” you say. He loves it when it gets cut off. Knows he’s done right before your back even arches. 

He pushes you down and presses his mouth firmer into you.

You reward him with more juices. Makes his slit leak and his stomach tighten. Fuck. He’s gotta make this quick.

He works you through it, albeit painfully slow. Then pulls away to rid himself of his damn boxers and grab another rubber. 

He’s sheathed up, covered and back up top in no time. Well, he coulda been more graceful. But he’s here now, and you’re beneath him, and fuck - think unsexy thoughts.

“You okay?” you say. Your grabby hand has left him, but the other still rests on his cheek.

“Yeah.” He huffs. Counts backwards, four, three, two, one. “Just ah. He’s oversensitive. Wanna give ya a good time so you don’t change your mind.”

“You think I’m that shallow?” you ask, and shit, he’s done it now. But you’re grinning wider than he is and his attitude turns back to cocky.

“I’ve just been deep clam diving.” He cringes. “You’re perfect.” He saves.

Your brow quirks, but he’s capturing your lips. Pulling you close and rolling. 

Dean’s head hits the pillow, and he stares up at you. Grabs your hands and looks on in wonder as you sink down and ride him for all he’s worth.

His hands grip your hips, he falls asleep still gripping them, but when he wakes, you’re not there.

He’d be happy about it normally. He would. His morning wood is the last thing you wanna feel if you’ve left him during the night, but as his heart takes in the aches and pangs of his body, and his eyes adjust, he’s also somewhat relieved to see your lump under the covers of the other bed.

You haven’t left the room at least. He’s not so high and dry. Guess you woke up with your senses. Must realise he’s not all you thought he was. 

He thought you were going to make things work, but he must’ve got it wrong.

He sits up, looks around the room and narrows in on his underwear. Dives for them, coordinated as the sheet wrapped around him allows. He has to wriggle his hips a little to pull them up over his legs and around the bedding, but he soon stands covered, no longer naked inside and out. He could face the world. Just not you.

Dean dresses. Tucks and folds his dick into his jeans. Shirt over that. Flannel…wait.

You’re still wearing yesterday’s. He spots the sleeve peeking out under the blanket. Fingers curled, hand relaxed, light snores and steady breaths that move the shadows the morning light outside casts over you. 

You didn’t leave the room. You didn’t change your clothes. Just—changed beds. 

Why?

Should he… Should he join you? Wake you? Shut the bathroom door a little too hard when he goes and takes a leak. 

Yup. Let’s go with that. Clicks the lock a second time for extra measure.

It’s enough to wake you. At least you’re awake when he returns. Sitting up, messy bed hair. You’re beautiful. Your plump lips are so damn kissable, but he’s wary of what you’ll do. What you’ll say.

Your “Morning” comes first. A smile creeps into your cheeks second and that has to be a good sign. You had great sex, twice. Asked him not to hit on girls at the bar. 

You were thoroughly fucked. Twice!

“Hey,” he says, and you’re on to him. Your eyes pierce his. He may as well be still naked. Thank god his dick has gone down, for now. 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. You stand up and walk over to him, too. 

His flannel is still open and there’s nothing underneath, nothing except smooth skin, soft curves and warmth, care, love?

Hold the phone. Nope. He’s not going there. Not unless you say something first. He loves you like family. It’s just, regular families don’t want to kiss and taste each other and he’ll definitely have more of that 

He nods to the bed. Bides his time to choose his tone and words so you can’t contrive them for anything else, but nothing eloquent is coming. “You, ah, you jumped ship.” He swallows. Creases his brow. 

Didn’t mean to do that.

But you’re grinning at him again. Your arms stretch up and wrap around his neck. You’re pressing against him now, and he’s resorting back to unsexy thoughts. 

“You’re a blanket hog.”

His neck ticks. His hands are on your ass and he ticks there, too. Grabs a handful of the plump flesh and digs his fingertips in to stop himself from spinning. “What?”

“I got cold,” you say, and peck his lips. There’s a definite shoulder shrug because your waist is lifting and your rack is brushing against him. “I tried to wake you, but you didn’t move. Though you did mumble something ‘bout five more minutes.” You chuckle. Pull back. 

“But I’m definitely not Sam.” You stare into his eyes.

Yup. His cheeks are hot and his gut is doing flips. His lower stomach and the contents of his sack pull tight. “No. Definitely not.” 

He presses his mouth to yours, presses you into his crotch. Feels your lashes flutter against his skin. 

The sex was great. The second round was better. But this right here is where it’s at. His heart is full, his world is bigger, and for a few more hours, he’ll keep you to himself, and the blankets, too, if you’re gonna hold him to it. 

And that’s how I spent my long weekend - besides dealing with fights from too much chocolate! Hope you liked it! ❤️

DEAN TAGLIST:

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[crescenthistory]

while we're both here; part one

Pairing: Remus Lupin x fem!Reader

Synopsis: Your chronic illness makes you a frequenter in Madam Pomfrey's infirmary – at some point you're bound to make a connection with her other favourite patient.

Words: 3.5k

Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, dislocations and syncopes, remus struggling with his lycanthropy, slightly avoidant!reader, infirmary wing romance, madam pomfrey being your makeshift mother and angel, some hurt/comfort, sick fic of sorts, fluff, meet cute, flirting, no established relationship yet

A/N: this is based on my own experiences with POTS, hEDS and autoimmune conditions! your condition is never specified in the text though and apart from the specific flare ups and injuries it is left vague on purpose:) there will be more parts because i think these two are adorable

series masterlist | next part

As you were coming to, you were once again reminded that if there is one person you would go to war for, it would be Madam Pomfrey.

You’re aching as always, right-side joints feeling particularly distraught at having to remain inside your body, signalling that you likely landed on that side as you fell, rattling what was already coming loose. It’s enough to drag a hoarse groan from your throat, but even as you do, you feel the effects of the warm blanket resting over your body, stopping just below your neck, which is wrapped up in a towel with some sort of cooling spell on it, keeping your headache delectably soothed. Addressing your body’s two separate needs at once, minimising your discomfort – she truly was an angel among monsters.

With your eyes closed, you shift around, not quite ready to face the world post-syncope, but needing to address the bite in your hip somehow. At your movements, you notice a shift in the atmosphere around you, and as your hearing is coming back in, you realise someone had hushed their voices upon noticing you waking up. You’re not sure if it’s to accommodate you or to hide their conversation.

At this moment, you cannot bring yourself to care. You’ve got enough on your plate, or, well, your bedside.

Your eyelids flutter as you check whether it’s safe to open your eyes yet. When the light doesn’t burn your retinas, you allow them to open more fully, adjusting and taking in the room that you see more often than you’d like. Though, you suppose it’s time to get over such sentiments, they don’t do you any good.

This is the inner corner of the hospital wing where Pomfrey kept her regular patients or those who were staying for more than a night or two. A few years ago, she gave you permission to go straight here each stay, regardless of length or severity, as you got more acquainted. It allowed you the privacy you had not voiced a desire for, but that the maternal woman saw in your crumpling posture at having to be on display for the students coming in for a mere potion or doctor’s note. Add it to the list of all she has done for you that you suppose is her job, but that still melts your heart with remorseful gratitude. You wish things were different, but if they aren’t going to be, then you’re happy to have her by your side.

Due to the general lack of traffic in this room, there usually aren’t any privacy screens up or curtains drawn, but you notice some thrown up haphazardly in the opposite corner. Between some of the lopsided screens you see red and gold along with a mop of black hair that anyone in the castle could have recognised. 

Propping yourself half-up on your left elbow, you rub roughly at your eyes – perhaps doing more harm than good – in an attempt to clear your gaze. The hushed voices are coming from behind the half-secluded area and you notice that both Black and Potter are there along with the matron. Hair is being pulled at and feet are shuffling fast, voices desperate despite their lowered volume.

When Madam Pomfrey moves the curtain to reach for a tray of more equipment – you see flashes of white bandages and metal you recognise as suture needles – you catch a glimpse of the boy laying in the bed. His tawny curls are matted against his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut in severe pain, face turned into his pillow.

Worry rises in you on their behalf, because you know more than most that if Pomfrey has brought them in here, there must be a good reason – and any good reason is a bad thing. Without being able to explain why, you itch to help, to stumble over and see what is happening for yourself.

It requires more strength than you would like to quell your concerned curiosity and do the one thing you know will actually help.

You lay back down and turn over onto your bad side with your back to the commotion.

No disturbance to the matron and no stinging pierce at being perceived in his weakest moments to the patient. That is what you always silently beg for from your own onlookers. You can grant him as much, and take the opportunity to sleep this flare up off.

You didn’t sleep too well, but you stayed there until you vaguely heard the matron shoo the visitors away and the room fell back into silence. In your lucid dreams you stretched out well wishes to the other occupant of your safe haven.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

That was the first time you encountered Remus Lupin in Madam Pomfrey’s infirmary wing. Later on, you would laugh at how ironic it is that it took years for your paths to cross like this, somehow always just missing each other before then. Once you did, though, you could never seem to miss each other – all of a sudden, Remus was always there.

It’s not that you didn’t know each other; you have been in the same class every now and then, and despite Hogwarts’ size you did at least know of every person in your year, even if you did not spend a lot of time with them. Nor was any student lucky enough to miss the boisterous laughter that seemed to follow the Marauders around as they made the castle their own. It was pure happenstance that you had never been in the same social circles, the same stores in Hogsmeade, the same corners of the library. When you saw Remus, you would smile and he would return it in that reserved yet warm way of his, but you had not had any reason to talk to him beyond that.

It was this damn hospital wing that changed that and served you an opportunity on a blood-splattered metal platter.

The next time you saw Remus was around two weeks after the incident you decided not to have witnessed.

He was sitting in the same bed as before, propped up against the pillows with a tired expression over his face and a jittery leg. He was not hidden away this time, so when you trudged in half-heartedly, you gave him a small smile when your eyes met. It took him a second to return it as he searched your face, but you simply walked past him and sat down on your regular bed with a groan.

Your arm was held against your chest and you were breathing with purpose as you fixed your gaze on the chip of the paint on the right side of your bed frame. Your treacherous shoulder had decided to dislocate during Care for Magical Creatures today when you tried to lift a bucket that wasn’t even heavy, mind you, and you just felt thoroughly defeated. You popped it back in immediately, but when the pain did not ease, your professor sent you away to this odd second home of yours. Despite your complaints that it was not necessary, Pomfrey had asked you to wait in here so she could come wrap it for you. 

“Hey.” At the sound of his voice, you snapped yourself out of your dissociation to meet Remus’ gaze where he watched you carefully from a few metres away. “Erm, pardon me, but are– are you alright?” He stuttered slightly and his tone was laced with the slight awkwardness of being in close proximity to a classmate outside of your usual environment, but his sentiment seemed genuine enough.

“Oh, yeah, this is normal for me. Don’t worry about it.” You quickly brushed him off with a polite smile before looking away again, knowing that explanations never ended up being short if you first started. You didn’t feel like answering an onslaught of questions.

Undeterred and maybe even slightly emboldened by your casualness while you clutched your clearly injured arm, he pressed. “What exactly is it that is normal for you?” 

“I dislocated my shoulder, but it happens often, so I should be fine,” you explained as succinctly as possible, speech ready on your tongue for his next line of questioning.

You glanced over at him, expecting to see confusion or perhaps some light horror at the concept. Instead you saw him nodding shortly, pressing his lips together in a way you supposed was a sympathetic smile. “That blows,” he said matter-of-factly. 

It was simple, but it pulled a slight laugh from you nonetheless. “Yeah,” you chuckled. “I suppose it does.”

His smile turned genuine at the sound of your laughter, and he looked down in his lap, seemingly pleased with himself. No further questions. It made you breathe a sigh of relief before you regarded him quizzically. 

“What about you?” you couldn’t help but ask, despite your own feelings on the matter. “Are you alright?”

Remus seemed to ponder the question for a moment, as if he was trying to find his own bite-sized answer. “Yeah, I am. This is normal for me too, except that in my case this is… easily broken bones instead of easily dislocated ones.”

“Ouff,” you said, letting out something between a sympathetic laugh and sigh. “Sounds like that’s not a walk in the park either.”

“Hear, hear,” Remus muttered, leaning his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes. “Guess we’ll just both have to stumble through, eh?”

“Sure thing, Lupin.” 

You made yourself more comfortable as well, realising the matron might not be coming for a while. You had put your own shoulder back before moving to the infirmary, routine at this point, but she always wanted to ensure it was put back correctly and then wrap it to put as little pressure on it as possible. There were some first years coming from a failed Potions lecture, though, so you figured you might be waiting for a while. 

At least you weren’t alone in the room, and Remus’ steady breath was audible in the silence. You found yourself zeroing in on it to deal with the pain, and you had to admit it made the experience more comfortable. 

Neither of you spoke much for the rest of it, apart from when Madam Pomfrey came in and greeted you both at the same time. A joke or two were volleyed back and forth – a “hope you’ve been okay while waiting” from Pomfrey answered with a “don’t worry, I made sure she was on her best behaviour, Madam” – some weary smiles and eventually an almost shy wave from Remus as he left the room before you.

You returned it with your good hand and felt your heart squeeze oddly as he disappeared around the corner.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Remus didn’t mean to think of you as often as he did.

He had seen you in the passing multiple times in the infirmary before he finally had the opportunity to speak to you the other day. He kicked himself for it, for having been observing you enough to know you were there often, for feeling like the talk you had was an opportunity and not just a conversation. It wasn’t wrong per say, he knew that, but he also knew that these were emotions, wants that someone like him shouldn’t be feeling. The very reason he was in the infirmary was why he shouldn’t be seeking companionship there.

But when he saw you next, he couldn’t fight the warmth spreading in his chest. Not to mention intrigue.

He was stopping by the infirmary to pick up some wolfsbane and pain potions when he saw your usual bed was very much inhabited. Pomfrey let him walk in and pick up his potions from a stash in his bedside table, should she be busy, and it made it impossible to miss you.

Curled up on your side beneath what seemed like a sea of blankets, his overly sensitive ears picked up on your wheezing breaths. Remus carefully stepped into the room, walking towards his own bedside to pluck out what he needed, but his eyes remained trained on you. His mental lecturer was giving him a tirade about how he should leave this poor girl alone, that the last thing she needed now was his bothersome face in her vision.

Yet, his bones seemed to have a melody of their own, as he left his bag on his bed to trek over to yours and sit down gingerly on the bed beside you, leaving a mere metre between you, if that. Your face was just barely poking out of your blankets, hair messy and seeming to be quite miserable. Your eyebrows twitched, as if you had caught on that you now had company.

I should go, he thought.

“Good afternoon, love,” he said instead, making sure his voice was quiet enough not to startle or hurt. “I must admit, this does not look like a dislocated shoulder.”

Your eyes squinted open at the same time as a small smile took over your previously downturned lips, and Remus felt something squeeze in his heart at the sight. “If it isn’t Lupin again.” Your voice was hoarse but not unkind, and you groaned as you shifted so that you could see him better.

“It’s Remus,” he said softly before he could think better.

“What?” You were mid-stretch, and Remus was uncertain of whether you hadn’t heard him in your movement, or if you were caught off guard by his poorly-phrased offer. Regardless, a slight flush spread across his cheeks as he looked abashedly away.

“Uh, it’s just, you– you can call me Remus. If you want.” Idiot.

It seemed you didn’t agree with his estimation of himself though, as your smile grew just a tad bit wider, a certain glee in it that he was yet to see if was at his expense or not. He thought it might be both.

“Alright then, Remus. What brings you to my bedside?”

His flush spread down his neck, but at this point Remus was digging his heels in and standing his ground – he was taking one of his few chances to talk to a hauntingly beautiful and intriguing girl, and he might as well make the most of it now without shying away. The embarrassment was already carved in stone.

“I was picking up some of my prescription potions,” he said then, pointing absentmindedly over to the bag laying on the bed across from you. “And recognised the pile of blankets over here as a certain someone. Thought I ought to… check up on you? See how you are.”

Your gaze seemed to take its time flickering over his face, studying him as you tilted your head to the side, some messy strands falling in your face. Remus fought the urge to reach out and tuck them back in.

Whatever you had been searching for, it seemed like you found it because you settled back into your pillows with a painfully knowing smile. Remus felt utterly opened. “How sweet of you. Do you usually check up on all patients you come across?” A quirked eyebrow at him, a challenge he tried not to read as flirtatious. Yet, on the off chance… 

“Just the awfully nice ones. So far, only you’ve fit the bill.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully as you snorted, and he had to look down to hide the severity of his grin. 

“Glad to hear I’ve made an impression on you, Lu– Remus.” His heart warmed yet again when he looked up to see the slightly abashed look take over your face at correcting yourself.

“You have.” His voice was gentler than it perhaps should be. “Anyway, I figured that while we’re both here, we might as well look out for each other, yeah?”

You seemed to narrow your eyes at him as you processed his words. “Like… like friends?”

There was no way Remus could describe the pang he felt in his chest at that, unable to understand whether it was a bloom or a bomb, gratitude or guilt. Yet, he nodded with a smile playing over his lips that he only now realised he was biting the inside of.

“Something like that, love.”

“That kindness would make you a good doctor, Remus. Ever thought of applying as Poppy’s apprentice?” Your deflection was a relief to him, as he settled more in on the bed, leaning back on his hands. 

“I’ve never heard any student but me call her Poppy,” he said with a delighted laugh. “But I think that poor woman already sees too much of me, unfortunately.”

“I can’t imagine.” Remus so wished he could decipher your tone as you said that. 

He couldn’t, so instead he asked, “Is there anything I can do to help you today, though? Not as an apprentice, just a friend?”

To his great pleasure, you seemed to actually mull it over – he realised how deeply he desired for his extension of help to be received and well-used. Might as well be of use to you if he was to take up your time.

“I’m not sure,” you concluded. “I’ve mostly just got a common cold, but those knock me out like they’re the plague.” You furrowed your brows as you seemed to realise not all wizards might know what that is. “Oh, the plague is–”

“I know,” Remus interrupted with a laugh. “My mum was a muggle, so I’m mostly caught up on muggle history.”

You didn’t at all address the cracking sounds from your neck when you laughed at that. “Sorry, sorry, I’m so used to translating.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, I understand. My three best mates are all raised in wizarding families, you have no idea the shit I’ve had to translate to them.”

“I mean, in their defense, you did befriend a Potter, a Black and a Pettigrew – you were kind of asking for awkward situations like that.”

Remus gleamed at the way you volleyed back and forth, how free you seemed to be with him already. You were pale compared to your usual skin tone and seemed weak, yet you were so welcoming of him. “Yeah, I kind of did. They’re great mates though, so it makes it worth it to explain what cars and Broadway is.”

He wondered if others would pick up on the way your eyes sparkled at that. Before you could reply though, a coughing fit took over you, the type where Remus could just tell it made your chest ache. Within seconds, he hurried quickly away to grab a cup from the other side of the room, ignoring his aching hip as he did so, filling it to the brim with a quiet aguamenti.

He held it out to you, your fingers brushing as you readily accepted it, swallowing mouthfuls. 

“Thank you,” you croaked out when you were able to speak once more. Remus had the audacity to carefully settle down on the end of your bed this time. “Merlin, how I hate being sick.”

“I feel you on that,” he murmured. Though Remus hadn’t had a common cold since he got bitten, the wolf’s autoimmune system taking over his own, he also had not had a day of feeling good either – close enough. “D’you want me to get you some honeyed warmed potions?”

You were drinking more from the cup, but you smiled at him over the brim and nodded wordlessly. 

Hoping Madam Pomfrey wasn’t actively using those potions this very minute, Remus accio’d one to your bedside, helping ease it into your hands so it wouldn’t burn you. For a few seconds, you sat in silence together as you drank, Remus taking the time to drink you in. He couldn’t put his fingers on what drew him to you, but he knew in his bones he was on some form of hook.

You let out a sigh, placing the empty cups on the bedside table and burying yourself back in your pillows. “Thank you for checking on me, Remus.” Your words were a weary mumble, but your smile didn’t feel weak. “You’re awfully nice yourself.”

Remus looked down at his hands, as if they held the answers to his warming heart. When he looked up at you, your eyes were drooping shut. “Anytime, dove.” The nickname slipped out, and he froze for a second both at the implications within his heart and from fear that you might dislike it.

Your smile only grew more content as you closed your eyes properly.

With a relieved sigh, Remus got up from his seat, careful not to jostle your bed too much when he did so. “Sleep well. I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll be here,” you mumbled in parting. As Remus walked out the door, he wore a more pleased face than he ever had picking up wolfsbane. 

If Pomfrey was giving him a curious glance from her office, he didn’t pick up on it.

part two

[kurooh]

☆ ， SATIVA ! — takami keigo, todoroki toya

⊹₊˚. a simple sesh with your two closest friends in the league of villains—hawks & dabi—quickly turns into something else once you start smoking too.

word count ★ 4.4k

warnings ★ 18+ content — mdni, f! reader, smoking weed, mfm threesome, very subtle dabihawks, unprotected sex, oral [f&m giving/receiving], creampies, hawks has a crush on you, wing play, spitroast, squirting, hawks is a lil submissive

xoxo, juno ★ created because of this ask! i had so much fun writing & i spent forever trying to do this idea justice and i seriously hope i did. first ever ‘long’ fic so i pray this doesn’t flop hahaha please give me some feedback and rb/comment if you liked it <33

the sun sinks low in the sky, peeking over the horizon and casting orange rays of light through the torn curtains hanging over the hallway windows. finally being off the clock and done with patrols is always rewarding in its own way, but this is different — you’ve been invited to hang out in one of the more private rooms in the villa.

dabi and hawks had always proved to be an interesting duo: one a hero, the other a villain. as if their positions in society weren’t enough to stop them from becoming friends of some kind, they shared very different interests, tastes, and quirks.

however, the only thing they could seem to agree on was you — the three of you were inseparable, spending time together often, despite having very opposite personalities.

“hawks?” your voice is hushed, awkward as you push open a dusty door, unsure of its location. “dabi? you guys are in here, right? you better not be fucking with—”

“oh relax.”

“we’re right here, dove,” hawks’ sugary sweet voice draws a loud gag from dabi, mustered from the very depths of his soul.

you huff, stepping in and slamming the door.

“it stinks in here, what the hell is that?”

“lock the door,” dabi vaguely gestures behind you, lifting one of his legs over the other as he leans against the bottom of the beat up couch. in his lap sits a copy of the hardcover hawks can’t seem to stop reading, the meta liberation army book. his darkened fingers carefully sprinkle a smelly substance into a rolling paper, and his eyebrows furrow as he focuses.

hawks sees the confusion on your face. “dabi’s making magic over there.”

“you owe me, hawks. damn fiend.”

“i am not a fiend!” the blonde snaps his head to the side, crossing his legs tightly. “you suggested it and i agreed. i’ll chip in for your efforts, though.”

dabi cackles, sealing his creation with a delicate swipe of his tongue against the paper. vermillion wings ruffle in shameless interest, gold eyes locked onto dabi’s hands. not wanting to be the only one standing, you take a seat on the old couch, both of them on either side on the floor below you.

with no encouragement necessary, dabi pushes what looks like a thick cigarette between his lips and lifts a finger to light it.

“what is that?” you ask curiously, gesturing towards his lips.

“‘s a joint,” he mumbles in reply, lighting the end of it with a small blue flame.

“don’t disintegrate it now, dabi.”

“fuck off, bird brain. as if i can’t control my quirk.”

dabi inhales deeply, taking a long drag on the joint before pulling it from his lips and passing it to the man on the other side of you. curiously, you watch as hawks takes a small inhale, then hands it back to dabi.

“pacing yourself this time? that’s new for you.” dabi remarks, sharp teeth gleaming as he smiles. hawks scoffs, staying quiet although he looks away awkwardly.

“you know what weed does?” dabi rolls the joint back and forth between his lips, looking up at you from his spot on the floor.

“i-i’m not sure, i’ve never tried it before,” your voice falters and you clear your throat, fidgeting with your fingers. “what does it do?”

“it’ll get you high,” hawks offers simply.

“it does way more than that,“ dabi shoots him a glare and shakes his head. “it’s relaxing. it’ll make you feel different, in a good way.”

he turns to the side and exhales smoke, then offers you the joint. “come on, princess,” you’re watching the wisps of smoke dissipate in the air behind him before your attention snaps back to dabi. “i, for one, think you’ll come to like it.”

“aw, don’t pressure her, dabi.” hawks takes the joint from dabi with a mild glare, and shakes his head as he slips it between his lips. crimson wings flutter as he takes a deep, long hit and fills his lungs with smoke. dabi watches with a smirk, unable to hold in his laughter when his body trembles and he starts to cough, spewing smoke from his nose and mouth.

“you’re only talking like that cause you’re not all that experienced either,” he scoffs, reaching to the side to grab a bottle of water, then tosses it to the other side of the couch.

tears from the intense coughing cascade down hawks’ flushed face as he sucks down the water, clearly embarrassed. truthfully, he’d been trying to show off a little, as well as unwind from a long day.

you take the joint from hawks before he drops it onto the carpet, then you hand it back to dabi, who shrugs. “if you really don’t want to, that’s fine, doll.”

you’re nervous, heart racing at the prospect of smoking with them. drinking liquor was always rare for you, and even when you did, you didn’t get anything more than tipsy. oftentimes you’d be wrangling hawks out of the sky and reminding him that smashing into a building while flying drunk would be a very bad look for him as a hero. he never seemed to care, though, and dabi didn’t either; he’d be equally drunk but less stupid, standing behind you and just laughing.

what if you took too much? what would you say? more importantly, what would you do?

dabi’s husky voice snaps you out of your thoughts. he offers you a smile full of faux sympathy, eyes pink and just a little shiny from the high.

“you’re just missing out.”

missing out? something about his words makes you squirm, thighs clenching. if you were to say no and leave, you’d miss seeing these two high. drunk was one thing, but high was another; you’d heard a few stories, here and there, about what weed could do. in most cases, people tend to stay the same as they usually are, although they may become a little more giggly. occasionally, weed could cause serious arousal. not to mention the date for the paranormal liberation war: it’s coming up, and hawks’ fate has been weighing heavily on your mind.

the definition of magnetic, you weren’t the first to gravitate to him; but you definitely ended up being one of the only people he actually spent the most time with. well, and dabi. closer than most friends, neither of you could even think about pulling away: what if this was one of the last times you could spend time together?

part of you feels like you’ll regret this, but you bite the bullet anyway, stammering, “uh, okay. yeah, i’ll try it.”

proudly, dabi scoots closer and hands you the joint. the smell is strong, and your nose crinkles as you lift it to your lips.

“be careful, you have to inhale a certain way—”hawks starts to say, seemingly recovered from his coughing fit, but dabi rolls his eyes at the hero’s concern. he fake gags once again, then sets his rough palm on your knee, which doesn’t go unnoticed by the hero.

“i’ll show you how, doll. i taught this dumbass but clearly he does indeed have a bird brain.”

“fuck off,” hawks grunts, leaning over to hit him lightly with a wing before slouching back to watch, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth.

“bring it to your lips—right, just like that. so, you’ll need to inhale slowly because the smoke can be a bit overwhelming at first..”

you follow dabi’s instructions, closing your eyes as you take the smoke into your mouth, letting it pass through your windpipe and coil in your lungs for a moment.

“wait a second, then slowly blow it out through your mouth.”

your eyes open, and you look at the tendrils dissipating in front of you. beside you, hawks offers the half full bottle of water.

“good girl,” dabi chuckles, leaning his head back against the edge of the couch. dark, spiky hair sticks out in all directions, and hooded turquoise eyes observe you thoughtfully. “you’ll want to repeat that a few more times, alright? make sure you stop when you’re feeling it, it kicks in pretty quickly. don’t wanna overdo it, you’ll end up puking. i’m sure hawks can tell you all about that, huh?”

“dabi, seriously!” the vomiter in question whines, feathers puffing out as his blush darkens. “she doesn’t need to know about all that shit.”

it starts as a giggle, slips from your lips before you can stop it. then it’s a few, all at once. before you know it, you’re curling up and laughing so hard tears run down your face. from the corner of your eye, you notice hawks’ bewildered stare, which only makes you laugh harder.

“she’s definitely high,” dabi clicks his tongue, finding it difficult not to join in with you. hawks continues to stare, shifting in his spot on the floor as he takes in your laughter and smiling face.

maybe it’s the haze that’s taken over your brain, or the fog that’s settled in every corner of your body, but you find yourself slowly coming down from all the laughter, sliding down to the floor between them, joint between your fingers.

“you alright?” dabi pulls the joint from your grasp, sticks it into a nearby ashtray.

“my throat’s a little dry,” you rasp, overwhelmed by all the new sensations.

again, hawks hands you the water bottle, but this time he presses it into your hand. rather abruptly, you twist to the side and lean in, kissing dabi.

he makes absolutely no effort to stop you, parting his lips and letting your impatient tongue into his mouth while his rough hands wander beneath the hem of your shirt, palms dragging against your skin and only moving higher.

by the time you’re pulling away to breathe, he’s panting, eyes cast downwards at the carpet; just before his eyes meet yours, he remembers that the two of you aren’t alone.

heavy wings rustle behind you, the noise likely unintentional. when you turn back, hawks is watching, still cross-legged but now shamelessly pitching a tent in his pants.

”hawks,” you pant, body burning hot. eagerly, you beckon him over; there’s no hesitation crossing over his face when he slides towards you, squishing you between himself and dabi.

dabi watches quietly as you pull the hero into a kiss by the chin, insistent and everything but gentle. you’ve got him breathless against your lips, his wheezes pitched and clearly overwhelmed.

“alright, princess,” dabi scoffs, tugging you off the hero by your shirt and into his lap. “that’s not fair.”

he feels like he’s melting a little when your face falls, your expression becoming pathetic and sad in a way that’s utterly filthy.

“but, i-i want both of you.”

the two men look towards each other, sharing an unreadable look. hawks swallows nervously, “at the same time?”

“same hole?” dabi jokes, eyebrows shooting up when you nod to both of their questions. “well, shit. you heard her, bird brain.”

“on the couch,” hawks murmurs, patting a worn out cushion. on trembling legs, you stand and take a seat.

“nuh uh, on your knees,” dabi grunts, pushing you into position and settling behind your clothed ass.

meanwhile, hawks sits in front of you and pulls his clothes off, stripping down to his boxers. the outline of his thick cock is obvious, as is the shift of his hips as he awaits your touch.

saliva pools inside your mouth at the thought of having his cock down your throat, stretching it out and filling it up.

“off,” one simple word and his whole lower half is already fully naked.

“suck him off,” dabi’s arms wrap around your waist as he unbuttons your shorts and yanks them down to your knees. “and don’t you dare stop, or i will too.”

hawks guides his cock into your mouth, rising to his knees and cupping the back of your head. his face crumbles in pleasure, and he’s only pushing past your lips. “oh my god— fuck, your mouth’s perfect.”

his wings spread out behind him, crimson feathers quivering out of his control. “show off,” dabi mutters, pulling your panties down next. he watches your cunt closely, glossy strings of wetness stretching as your panties slide down your thighs.

“so fucking pretty, christ.” your pussy clenches from his words, his hot breath fanning over you and only adding to your anticipation. hawks stares, gold eyes honing in on rough hands and the way they grasp your plush skin.

“deeper,” hawks murmurs, head falling back as he pushes your head down further.

at the same time, dabi experimentally licks a long stripe down your pussy, the tip of his tongue dipping between your folds. the light stimulation combined with the sight and sound of hawks’ pleasure has your hips thrashing, bucking backwards for more.

“she’s real needy, huh?” dabi spits onto your cunt, a glob trailing down and dripping a little from your clit.

“looks like it,” hawks chuckles, lips moving into a pleased smile at the needy sounds you can’t stop making on his cock.

the air in the room is hot, thick with the scent of smoked weed and sex, heavy with shameless arousal. your head is cloudy, only full of thoughts of hawks and dabi. it’s like being shocked with electricity when your face is pressed into thick thighs, hawks’ cock pushing deep and causing you to choke. he grunts and starts to fuck your mouth, his thrusts carelessly deep. as if that wasn’t enough, dabi’s fingers push inside you and he attaches his lips to your clit.

“mmm,” he groans deeply, roughly tugging you backwards and into his face for more.

“does she taste good?” hawks huffs, his chest heaving. against your tongue, his cock throbs.

dabi smacks his lips behind you, then gifts your ass with a harsh slap. the sudden sting makes you moan, and he smirks.

“oh yeah. she’s so fuckin’ sweet, hawks.”

“tell me about it,” the hero gulps, his lower lip wobbling as he only grows closer to the bliss he’s been dreaming about.

“well, she’s real tight inside. sucked my fingers right in, didn’t you, princess?” to prove his point, dabi nudges two other fingers against your dripping entrance and you clench, greedy pussy begging to be stuffed full.

hawks nods, waiting for more.

“oh my god, i couldn’t even describe the taste,” dabi curls his fingers inside you, rubs your clit in methodic circles with the pad of his thumb. “‘s sweet, for sure. definitely a little sour.”

turquoise meets gold, and dabi watches hawks’ eyes roll back, wings spreading out and straining behind him, like an angel.

“you’ll have to taste it yourself, bird brain. i’m sure she’s more than willing.”

that’s all it takes to push the both of you over the edge — with a choked moan, hawks spills into your mouth, hips stuttering but still jerking forward sporadically. dabi pays close attention to the way you shake, pushing towards him for more but practically running away the second he touches your swollen clit.

dabi blames the heat in his cheeks on the weed.

“o-oh,” hawks fights back a whimper as he pulls his cock from your mouth, too sensitive to even speak.

“it’s so hot in here,” you whine, sitting up to pull your shirt and bra off. the bounce of your tits and perkiness of your nipples has dabi groaning, painfully hard.

“get the hell back on your knees.”

hawks sits and observes dabi, eyes focused on the way his fingertips run down your back and pause at your asscheeks, gripping the skin in an effort to ground himself.

he races to take his pants off, tossing them and his boxers to the floor in a hurry. he’s shaking when he lines his cock up with your entrance and shoves in, falling against your back with a loud hiss.

“holy shit,” he gasps, startled when he feels like cumming already. in a flash, hawks is in front of you again, stroking his fingers over the nape of your neck and shushing your pathetic whining.

hawks would be lying if he said he wouldn’t fuck you harder and make you sob.

“you can take it,” dabi grunts, clearing his throat to keep his voice from faltering. “it’s not you’ll be getting any breaks, doll.”

“that’s mean,” hawks says with a pout, fully hard and waiting for attention.

“shut it, bird brain. fuck her mouth again, why don’t you?”

“you heard him,” hawks shrugs, seemingly apologetic although he definitely isn’t. “open up, dove.”

his wings rustle and he groans as he pushes his cock into your mouth once again. dabi’s pace doesn’t falter, and he tugs you up a little to fuck his cock deeper.

“dabi!” you sob, his name muffled but still audible to both men, “right there, pleasepleaseplease—”

heavy balls smack into your clit with each thrust that you can feel in your lungs. even as dabi pulls you impossibly closer, it still isn’t enough to be fully satiating — what if you all shared each other like this on the regular?

“g-gonna cum soon,” you whimper, a few tears rolling down your face and forcefully falling from your jaw with every hard shove of hawks’ cock into your mouth.

electricity races through your entire body, shooting through your veins in stinging shocks as the pressure in your pelvis increases. then you feel rough skin and hot breath at the nape of your neck, along with a strong hand wrapping around your throat.

“what’s that, princess? you’re gonna cum?”

“yes, y-yes, ‘m gonna—”

“greedy, aren’t you? go ahead and wait for us.”

“i-i can’t,” you moan, eyes rolling back when dabi’s fingers dig into the sides of your neck, “i’m so fucking close, dabi, please—”

he pulls back, but before he returns to fucking you as he did before, he shoves your head down hard, only letting go once he hears you choke.

the room fills with needy groans and the hushed whimpers you keep letting out as you struggle to do as he’d asked. it’s as though hawks is facing the same predicament, a nervous hand tangled deep in blonde strands and tugging to keep himself grounded.

after what feels like an eternity, dabi finally keels over with a drawn out groan. “shit, i’m gonna cum,” the pace of his hips starts to falter and you’re less than a moment away from cumming yourself. “i’m gonna fucking—”

he cuts himself off by biting into your shoulder hard, just before you feel him gushing inside you, filling you to the brim. hawks pulls out of your mouth to take in the scene, and commit every detail to memory.

you fall over the edge with a mewl, gummy walls squeezing dabi’s cock and absolutely draining him. all you can do is moan beneath him, trembling from the strength of your second orgasm of the night.

it’s frustrating that he’s throbbing against your cervix and then pulling out immediately after, beckoning for hawks to come over. entirely spent, you collapse onto your belly, heart racing and breath coming in heavy puffs.

“god,” hawks all but groans at the sight of the mess between your legs — cum pouring from your cunt and smeared around your clit thanks to dabi. then, almost as though he’s hungry, “looks so fucking good.”

“hey now, turn over.” dabi offers you the half full bottle of water from earlier and chuckles at how quickly you open it and begin to chug. it’s gone in seconds, and the bottle falls to the ground with a crinkling sound. you sigh, exhausted and still high as hell — for a moment, you close your eyes.

“round three,” is all you hear before your legs are being spread open. your hole flutters at the prospect of some more, and you’re startled that you’re even considering it.

“i just came twice, hawks,” you cry, lower lip wobbling. a third round will most certainly break you.

with the pad of his thumb, dabi sweeps away a stray tear on your face. “let him fuck you once, yeah? god knows how damn long he’s been wanting to.”

“dabi,” the blonde whines, flushing pink. “stop it.”

with a sigh, he lifts his arms and pulls his shirt off for this final round, exposing the rest of his body. his nipples are a light pink, and he’s got a defined chest and abs with lines that look sharp enough to cut stone. he wiggles his eyebrows, eyes creasing at the corners once he notices you checking him out.

“like what you see?”

behind you, dabi rolls his eyes, but you spread your legs wider with a playful expression. “absolutely.”

thoughts of nothing besides fucking you full of his cum and making you his flare in his mind as he gathers dabi’s cum on the tip of his cock and pushes it inside you.

“o-oh,” hawks gulps down a whimper once he pushes inside, leaning forward and meeting your lips in a bruising kiss. as he pulls back, lips dragging against your cheek, you swear you hear him say something like feels better than i could’ve ever imagined.

“want me to mess around with your tits or use your mouth?” dabi rasps, cupping your chin and tilting your head to make you look up at him.

“do what you’d like to me,” your back arches off the couch after an experimentally deep thrust from the hero, your tits bouncing nicely from the movement. he takes one into his hands, squeezing the soft flesh but mostly focusing on the pebbled nipples.

with a tinkling sound, hawks’ gold chain bounces wildly at his neck. noticing your distraction, dabi slips his fingers beneath your chin and turns your head to face him.

“how’s it feel to be fucked like a slut?” he questions, pinching your nipple harshly; you moan loudly, tilting your head to the side, tongue lolling out of your mouth. dabi thinks the twisted expression of bliss on your face is so fucking hot.

“f-feels so fucking good—” you cut yourself off with a needy, pitched moan, bucking towards hawks and wrapping your legs around his waist. “fill me up, please, i need it.”

the hero chews on his lower lip, closing his eyes and choosing to lose himself in this perfect moment. behind his eyes, he feels the hot prickle of tears; is he really about to cry right now? out of bliss and in front of dabi? but the thought is whisked away the second he focuses on the sound of his balls smacking into your swollen clit.

it’s a mess between your spread legs, cum and spit and slick smeared across your skin and dripping onto the couch.

“fuck, you’ve got no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this,” he grits his teeth, wings spreading out and beating the air hard, sending icy wind straight into your face and dabi’s. “b-been waiting to make you fall apart on my cock.”

“not to interrupt, but you’re blowing the mood out like a candle,” dabi bites, rising from his spot on the couch and stepping around crimson wings.

“don’t fucking start— dabi,” he gasps when he feels hot hands pulling his wings back into their usual resting position at his back. they tremble in his grip, stray feathers falling to the floor.

“sensitive there?” he roughly prods a finger between the feathers.

hawks ignores him although the answer is definitely yes, bending forward to wrap his arms around you and pull you as close as he can. the gold chain bumps against your sternum, and hawks buries his face in your shoulder with an embarrassing moan.

“i-i’m so close— dabi, rub her clit for me,” it takes a lot of strength not to stutter when his brain’s melting like this.

with a grunt of acknowledgement, dabi’s hand slips between your sweaty bodies, fingers pushing through your pubic hair as he searches for your clit.

“right here, doll?” he pinches the swollen bud and rolls it between two fingers.

“fuck yes,” you moan, hips jolting towards him.

he’s got a hand wrist deep in feathers, scratching lightly at the skin beneath, and the other sandwiched between you and hawks as he rubs your clit furiously.

“just like that,” you whimper, eyes meeting dabi’s, whose pupils are blown. against your neck, hawks chants your name like a prayer, lips dragging against your cheek when he pulls away for a moment.

“i’m gonna—” he groans loudly, eyes rolling back and hips stuttering against your own, “take it, take it all, fuck..” his voice nearly cracks as he finally lets go, pushing deep and shooting ropes of cum from his swollen cock.

hawks shudders, wings fanning out and pushing against dabi, who groans as he takes in the whole scene.

“cum hard for me, doll,” dabi urges, his sticky fingers maintaining the rough pace he’s had this whole time; a unique tightness swells in your pelvis, begging to be released. despite having been fucked dumb, you manage to register that something big is about to happen.

“dabi, d-dabi,” you sob, legs trembling and heels pushing hawks closer. “‘s coming, ‘s coming..”

dabi’s hand slips into blonde hair, and he yanks hard, pulling hawks’ head up so he can watch you fall apart.

it happens fast; you clench down on hawks’ cock, squeezing out a moan from deep within his chest. liquid sprays from your spasming cunt, soaking hawks’ pelvis and dabi’s fingers.

“‘s too much,” you cry out, a tear racing down your cheek when you feel dabi’s fingers dragging against your overly sensitive clit again.

“why don’t we see how fucking sloppy she is?” he groans, watching closely as hawks pulls out.

you can only whimper when cum gushes from your swollen cunt and someone’s fingers push it back in. you watch as the two men rise to their feet, still on your back and panting.

“t-this was perfect,” hawks tries to catch his breath, choking when his back is slapped. “minus you ripping my hair out and slapping me just now, damn it.”

“all for good reason,” dabi snickers, helping you to sit up. “you alright? that was a lot, heh.”

“i need to take a shower so bad.”

“let’s just relax before anyone leaves,” hawks says with a sigh, plopping down beside you.

“don’t tell me you get all soft after sex,” dabi stretches and pops his neck before he sits down on the other side of you.

“better than being hard,” he mutters in reply, gesturing to dabi’s boner.

the comment only makes him spread his legs and wrap an unbothered arm around you, knuckles brushing against hawks’ face.

“gotta do this again sometime,” you say, eyelids feeling heavy. “just like earlier, both of you at the same time.”

“same hole?” they both ask at once, more serious than they’d been before.

you wink at them, not so tired anymore.

“most definitely.”

[chrissv4mp]

VIDEOS GIRLFRIEND!BILLIE WOULD SEND YOU .ᐟ

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: lookin 4 something???

the video starts quickly—billie holding her phone up above her head, resting comfortably in what looks to be the couch on her tour bus. she hums softly, a soothing melody that you wish you had the chance to hear again face-to-face. then the camera pans back down, her fingers fumbling with the device before successfully setting it onto the couch opposite of where she was perched.

it's only then do you realize what she's wearing—a purple hoodie that's quite similar to yours... and as you squint, trying to remember where you recognize it from. before the answer can click in your mind, billie speaks up.

"i know you're probably wondering where i got this," she grins, cheekily. "or maybe you're wondering why i have this?" she adds, smile breaking out wider. "and—okay, don't blame me—but i snuck it in my bag before tour..."

your favorite hoodie.

and, clearly, hers as well.

"but!" she exclaims, then whips her head to the side at the sound of one of the cabin bunks creaking. then, quieter, "but i wanted to know that you're always here—or, at least, a part of you."

you can see the pink tint of her cheeks flushing even in the dim lighting of the tour bus, and it only becomes more apparent as she pulls the hood further down—covering her face in embarrassment as she giggles quietly, the sound muffled behind the thick, cozy fabric of your hoodie. the one that you'd been losing your mind while trying to find over the past few days. guess it's a huge weight lifted off your chest knowing that the person you trust most has it.

the room goes quiet for a moment too long—and then a long yawn rips through billie's throat, resulting in the girl lifting her arms up and stretching dramatically, a habit you'd also picked up on a few months into the relationship. billie sits up, scooting to the edge of the cushions and snatching up her phone again. she pulls the device close to her face, anything below her nose unseen in the camera.

"okay, well," she exhales, sleepy. "that's my cue."

her eyes flick to the camera, pulling the phone away a bit to grin at you through the phone. "i love you, pretty girl. i'll call tomorrow... if the timezones aren't fucked up—but if they are, still expect a call. just... later."

she blows a kiss, a tired smile pulling at her lips. "g'night."

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: i'd wanna fuck me too !!

"damn," billie purrs, tilting her head to the side. the sunlight from the open curtains of her hotel room illuminate her face. her lips part, eyes flitting across the screen—checking herself out shamelessly. "not to be conceded but... i see why you want me all the time, baby," she teases, leaning back on the couch, maroon and plush.

her hair is in a low bun, loose strands falling on her neck—so effortlessly perfect it's almost like she pulled them out herself. the video is nearly silent for a few seconds, the low hum of the A/C in the background setting a soft, quiet mood, almost like she's at home. her shoulders are relaxed, brows not furrowed like you'd seen them the last time she jumped onto facetime with you.

billie whistles low as she sets her phone down on the table, probably propped against her water bottle. "holy shit, i might actually start drooling over myself right now," she smiles, turning her head to the side and humming upon seeing the sharp line of her jaw.

"woah," she muses, giggling as she turns back to face the camera. "okay, baby—i need to call you, like, now."

she grabs her phone, tugging it off the table. the video still plays for a moment, even while billie looks like she's deep into finding your contact. then, with a quiet—needy—huff from between billie's pouty lips, the video ends.

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: bts for europe pt2... ur lucky...

the first thing you notice is her camera—not her phone, but an actual camera. the thought of billie taking the time to export the video off the camera just for you already had your heart warming. what made your heart warmer was simply just seeing her face, inverted in the mirror yet still looking as beautiful as ever. the camera view shakes a little in the awkward position of her hand, moving a bit closer—showing the background of what seemed to be a closed shop.

"aaahh!" she whispers, mouth opening in a low roar. her nose scrunches as she takes a step back, focusing the camera on the clean mirror for a second longer before stepping away fully and showing you where she was.

there's multiple racks of her merchandise—a plethora of reds, blues, yellows, and whites, colors that she'd been fixated on even before the meetings for her tour plans began. you remember her always coming home with boxes of her first samples of hoodies and t-shirts. unbeknownst to you, she'd ordered one of each sample in your size—feigning surprise whenever you slid the piece of fabric on and found out that it fit you perfectly.

her voice breaks throught the quiet murmur employees in the background. "nobody passing by knows that i'm in here... well, except for you," she thinks out loud, voice trailing off. "wait, but you're not passing by, so—nevermind, still counts."

"this is going in the vlog, by the way," billie announces in a quiet whisper, like it's a secret. "and you're the first person to seee!! i'm so excited for this next part, baby, you don't even know."

her shoes pad on the concrete floors, the camera view getting closer and closer to a rack of multiple hoodies, the designs varying—fabric in red with a graphic of billie from her rolling stone photoshoot ranging from a darker black hoodie featuring a lighter graphic of her name and a photo taken on her latest tour stop, amsterdam.

"dude, this shit is so sick," she admires, flipping the camera to show her happy expression. "might have to get a few to take home to you—gosh, you'd look amazing in the red."

then, she comes closer, murmuring much quieter, "and, preferably, nothin' underneath..." quickly, the camera pulls away from her face.

"okay bye!"

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: BERLINNNNN

billie's hand is on her cheek, jaw open wide in faux surprise as she points at a poster of herself with her free hand—eyes wide as she frantically taps against the window like she's seeing something that's a once in a lifetime experience. someone—ava—giggles behind the camera, shaking the view for a moment to point at the poster as well, a surprised gasp of her own falling from between her lips.

they're standing outside a shop, the window showcasing a display of billie's latest perfume release—your turn. the gates were still closed due to the early hour, the sun still slowly rising above the mountains. ava zooms in on billie just as she sticks her tongue out—then, unexpectedly, she sprints off camera, nearly tripping over her jeans with her suddenly fast steps. ava trails not too far behind, giggling.

"billie, i'm coming go the show tonight!" someone screams in the distance, loud enough for the camera to pick it up.

she doesn't stop running, and neither does ava—her head just whips around as she stuffs a hand into her pocket, her smile clear in the way she screams, "love you!"

"i love you!" the fan screams back, and ava can't hold in the giggles crawling up her throat.

ava chases after billie until they tumble into the back of their car, breathing heavily as their backs finally hit the seats, lips parted to take the chance to breathe after the sudden interaction. her blue eyes meet the camera again, a dopey smile playing at the corners of her lips. she slumps in her seat, falling to the side and laying across her side of the car with a few quiet chuckles. ava joins in on the laughter, the little sounds escaping billie's throat contagious.

"that was... unexpected," ava comments through her fit of giggles, the words cut off a bit at the end due to the engine of the car rumbling to life.

billie nods. "ugh, i love them," she huffs, pushing herself up again and buckling herself in. the click of a seatbelt echoes in the camera speakers as ava does the same. "if we weren't in a rush i would've ran over and tackled them."

ava huffs a laugh.

"lightly—" billie clarifies. then, with a deep squint of her eyes, hums and whispers, "maybe not, actually. don't wanna catch an assault charge in the middle of tour..."

the blonde behind the camera hums. "they'd probably cherish the bruise, billie."

billie bursts out into laughter—then, the video cuts.

letters. will this get me out of the motivation drought.... fingers are tightly crossed rn bcus i have something big and exciting planned 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @love4madii @livvydunneness @chxhir0 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @mybluebossanova @fleurfiles @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @bilsova @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @ma1spa @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @eilishssiennaa @skinnyhmhas @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize @canthelpit0 @hailwiggly @karaeilish @bilswifee @drunkinyourbenz @aka-persephone @bitchesbrokenpromises @jayjaywetforbils @slvt4subchratt @cantlandonmyfeet @tezzzzzzzz @emi-inspace