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sp4ceboo · 3 months ago

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The Princess's Guard: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader x Kirishima Eijirou

genre: medieval au, fantasy au, a/b/o au, omegaverse au, alpha!katsuki x omega!reader x alpha!eijirou, non conventional a/b/o dynamics, porn with some plot, afab!reader, princess!reader, smut

summary: you recognise something is amiss the moment you step into your quarters. getting rid of the kidnappers is the easy bit - the challenge is teaching your two bodyguards a lesson.

tw: 18+, smut (p in v, knots, overstimulation, one spank, one slap, double penetration, anal penetration - both fingers and dick 👍, oral f receiving, everyone's a switch, some knife kink, spit kink, size kink if you squint, cum eating, kats highkey loves the pain, reader is mean, degradation & praise), violence, blood, death, sword fighting, attempts at kidnapping, lil izuku cameo!, about 33% plot and 67% smut

wc: 5.9k

other works

You recognise something is amiss the moment you step into your quarters. The careful balance of scents - your own, and the comforting mix of campfire smoke and musky citrus - has been interrupted, invaded by a foreign odour that, though faint, is dirty and reeks of the undercity. Your ears prick, and your eyes find the rumpled curtains of the furthest window.

A sloppy job, then.

They may not be the subtlest, nor the most precise, but whoever they are, they certainly have their timing mastered (or they simply got lucky; a fluke of sorts), since both members of your personal guard are absent as of the current, busy quietly dispatching a nobleman you’d ordered them after. It had taken time, but you and your brother had discovered him guilty of covering up various crimes including some less than savoury instances with his underpaid scullery maids.

You know what the intruders are here for. It is not for the relative finery of your rooms, though they are not nearly as gaudy as they should be for a princess, nor the jewels gifted to you by neighbouring nations that nestle with all their lustre in the darkness of the small chest on your mantel, but for you.

It would not be the first time mercenaries and bounty hunters have been bribed exorbitantly to face your two guards and steal you away into the night. After all, you are of a rare kind. You are an omega: the youngest of the twenty that survive the ancient bane that still ravages the lands your father rules over, and those beyond your borders too.

When the nation found out that the princess had presented as an omega, they had rejoiced, almost elevating you in status over the crown prince, your older brother. Izuku had not minded - rather, he enjoyed the peace, as for once, it was you who the people wanted blessing their babies and mediating their problems, not him.

You were, and still are, a sought after omega princess in a sea of alphas and betas, and so your father had hired your personal guard. Most of the kingdom is still under the impression that you will be married off to some lucky noble or foreign prince, but little do they know that you are already claimed; anyone who sees you and your guard up close will notice the way their eyes follow you at all times, the way they wear the grooves down their backs from your nails proudly.

They too have littered you in their marks, drenched you in their scents, claiming you as theirs without question, and you would have it no other way. You have your guard, and they are all you need.

But your alphas are not here, and though it is not the first time someone has tried to break into your quarters, it is the first time you are alone when it’s happened. Still, in the years of omegas’ absence, people have forgotten their strength; they have forgotten that the blood in your veins and the instincts woven into your being are just as potent and intense as an alpha’s.

You take a deep breath. The smell of the undercity has grown stronger, enough so to tell you that whoever lies in wait for you, concealed somewhere in your quarters, has crept closer, maybe even entered the antechambers you stand in. Your hand drops down to your sword, your fingers curling around the hilt as you spin slowly in a circle, scanning the room.

There is the soft scuff of the sole of a boot against floorboards.

Unsheathing your sword, you whirl to face the man who stands just behind one of the sofas: he is a beta by the looks of it, which explains why you couldn’t pinpoint his exact location. What little scent he has is fully masked by the stink of undercity on him.

His hand blurs, and a loud clang rings out as you slash your sword in a tight arc, deflecting the dagger he hurls at you. You trap it beneath your boot as it skitters across the floor - you can see a dark substance lacing its tip. Some sort of mild sedative, most likely, which means that he must have come with others to help transport your unconscious body.

Sedatives are a smart idea, if a little hard to carry out. If your alphas had been with you, the sedatives would have taken them out of the picture soon enough, allowing for less required brawn to take them out, but it’s only you, and you’re nimble enough that this beta’s rather shaky aim is not enough to finish you off.

You drop low, moving fast, skidding around the sofas and tackling him to the floor, pinning his throwing wrist to the ground with your knee. It’s a struggle to keep yourself from skewering him at such close distance while he wriggles futilely in an attempt to throw you.

“Who sent you?” You demand, pressing your sword to his neck hard enough to draw blood.

He takes a deep breath, but instead of speaking, he whistles tremulously - a signal of some sort. Cursing, you dispatch him quickly, briefly mourning the fate of your nice fluffy rug as your attention is drawn to the grappling hook that you hadn’t previously noticed on your window sill pulling taut. You’ve gotten soft, too reliant on your alphas. Back in the day, you would have noticed something like that immediately.

The two men that climb up the rope and into your antechambers are both alphas, and greed glows bright in their eyes at the prospect of the omega princess all by herself, only dimming slightly when they spot their fallen comrade. You take a few steps back, wanting to judge their abilities before you dive in.

Two against one are the sort of odds you like, even if you’ve deskilled enough to stupidly overlook warnings so obvious it’s like they’ve been left out for you. A grin pulls at your lips, even despite the way the two alphas look at you - your own barely let you lift a finger, and though they are perfectly happy to spar with you, you like it when there’s a little more at stake.

“Even from outside, you smell so sweet, pretty omega,” the one on the left croons.

He cackles, and the other laughs with him, the two of him like deranged hyenas. Fatally, they have underestimated you, unable to see past the fact you are alone and without your infamous guard. They think you are ripe for the taking. You will prove them horribly, horribly wrong.

You decide to kill the one who spoke first.

Lunging forward, you easily slip past his guard and deliver a sharp crack of your knuckles against his jaw; aghast, he gapes at you, and you don’t waste your time as you clash your sword with his, the sound of steel on steel ringing out. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his companion is frozen in shock, mouth hanging open. It means that the fact they’ve gotten this fair is certainly down to beginners luck, and you’re a little disappointed they won’t prove more of a challenge.

You’re not being cocky - you understand how badly the kingdom needs you, as a figurehead of the omegas and a resistance against the bane if not someone for your brother to fall back on and your parents to gain support from. Still, you do not call for guards, and you do not run from this fight: something you’re sure your alphas will berate you for not doing later.

In truth, you miss the adrenaline rush. You miss duelling with people who aren’t terrified of slicing your precious omega skin open, and the bitter smelling alpha opposite you certainly doesn’t seem to be scared of such a thing as he recovers from the blow you landed.

He rushes at you, but he’s unsettled and a little frenzied, like an angry bull, and in a precise parry, you disarm him. His sword clatters to the floor. Swiftly, you bury your blade into his chest and yank it out again, letting him fall to the floor as you turn to the other, your shoulders squaring. This one’s face has gone pale, and frantically, he whistles - gods, of course there’s more of them.

Though the fear sours his previously overbearing scent, he’s more skilled than his late companion. You clash with him, feinting left before striking right, but he’s fast enough to dodge, only getting nicked in the forearm: still, he stumbles backwards, and you lash out again, sword glittering like quicksilver.

A glance over his shoulder reveals a hand on the sill as another attacker climbs up the rope, and you curse. There’s no way of knowing how many of them are waiting out of sight. You need to dispatch this one and get that hook off your window sill before the odds go from fun to mildly threatening.

Lunging forward, you take him off guard by twirling right past him instead of attacking; seizing the poker from by the fireplace in your left hand, you dart closer to him and bring it down hard on his wrist, using your sword to flick his out of his hand and backing him up against the window. You brace your feet, widening your stance in preparation to deliver the final blow.

“Gotcha.” Hot breath brushes your ear, a cold blade at your throat. The poker clatters to the floor. “You’re a feisty one, omega. Now drop that sword.”

You swear. You weren’t fast enough, and another must have climbed through the window when you were by the fireplace, your back turned. Opposite you, you can see your former assailant’s eyes fill with relief, his fingers clutching the mantelpiece as he pants, gasping for breath.

A furrow forms in his brows, and he looks past your shoulder before walking over to the window sill and securing the grappling hook - the one holding you must be communicating with him somehow.

The dagger at your throat presses into your flesh. “Don’t make me tell you twice, fucking bitch.”

At first, you stiffen, but then you force your muscles to relax, feigning surrender as you let your sword arm droop. The attacker behind you chuckles, the blade at your throat easing, and you bring up your free hand to paw at his forearm, producing a breathy, frightened noise from deep in your chest. Anyone who knows you well enough would see right through it, but it works like a charm on the self righteous alpha you’re using it on.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve, yanking it away from your neck as you slam your head back, crunching it into his nose. He howls, stumbling backwards, and you keep a tight grip on him, heaving him forwards and right into his companion - the momentum sends them both right over the sill, and you don’t bother to watch them fall as you unhook the grapple and let it plummet after them.

Disgruntled, you step back from the window and stare at the bodies on your floor and their growing pools of blood. Sheathing your sword, you stride through the rest of your quarters to check if there’s any lurkers. You’ve just finished scouring your bedroom and have begun to unbuckle the plate armour you’d previously had on when you hear the door to the antechambers open, and two familiar scents wash over you. Your guards are back.

Katsuki smells like bonfire smoke and burnt sugar, while Eijirou is citrus and gentle musk; remnants of their essence linger on you and all over your quarters, woven deep into the well worn spots they often take up on the sofas of the antechamber and even deeper into your bedsheets.

Their scents spike suddenly, and you know they’ve seen the bodies. Katsuki calls your name, and suddenly the two of them barrel through your bedroom door - the space in your room seems to decrease rapidly as they enter, two huge, imposing alphas protective and ready for a fight. Eijirou deflates at the sight of you unscathed, but Katsuki bristles.

“Are you hurt, omega?” He barks.

“I’m fine,” you soothe, patting his broad chest. “Nothing I couldn't handle.”

Eijirou steps forward from where he fills the doorframe, inhaling, checking your scent for the distinct metallic tang of blood. You watch as he scans the room, skimming it for anything wrong despite knowing you’ve probably already done so.

Remorse is clear on his face, and you know that if Katsuki was less frustrated with himself, it would be on his too; though you are not hurt, though you are capable on your own, and though you are the reason there were gone, they still were not there to protect you when you needed them. You can see they are both painfully aware of it.

Slowly, Eijirou gets to his knees in supplication, and after hesitating, Katsuki does too.

“My lady,” Eijirou says softly, eyes downcast. “We have failed you.”

Katsuki remains silent, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He cannot meet your eyes. Taking a step forward to stand directly in front of them, you cannot help but relish the way the power rushes to your head. There they kneel, at your feet, heads bowed. It’s at odds with the pure strength that sings in their veins and permeates their very beings, strength that is so clearly evident in the ripple of muscle that lines their every movement and the patterns of scars on their skin.

“Two of you, and still you can’t do your job properly,” you sigh, bending down so you can look them in their eyes. “Pathetic, good for nothing alphas.”

Intertwining with Eijirou’s sweet musk, the warm scent of caramel floods the room as Katsuki immediately catches on to the cruel, saccharine tone of your voice. You laugh softly, prowling over to him, amused by the way he unashamedly breathes in your scent.

Picking up the silver dagger on your desk, you wrap your fingers around its ornate hilt and roughly fist a hand in Katsuki’s blonde hair, yanking his head back. He glares at you, his crimson eyes defiant, the muscles in his neck straining, and you flip the dagger in your hands before pressing the tip to his throat. A low growl sounds low in his chest as you trace the line of his jaw, clenched to perfection.

The burnt sugar flavour to the air only grows.

With a flick of your wrist, you nick his skin with the blade - another flick, and his shirt is in shreds; he snaps at your fingers with his teeth like he can’t help it. Quickly, you seize his face in your hand, holding him steady. He snarls again, deep and churlish, and you glance down, smirking at the sight of his cock tenting his trousers.

“Fucking bratty, aren’t you, Kats?”

“Omega,” he replies, a raging inferno behind his eyes.

You ignore the way his chest heaves and the way he looks at you, instead turning your attention to Eijirou. He ducks his head, and though you like the way he grovels, you’re aware that it’s only because he knows you’re feeling mean today. You tip his chin up so you can look at him head on.

“And you, Eiji,” you coo, simpering. “You act all sorry, as if your dumb puppy eyes will make me go easy on you.”

Like he’s aching to touch you, his hands twitch, but he knows not to without permission, instead balling them into fists; you swipe a thumb over his lower lip before hooking a finger into his hot mouth, coaxing it open, careful of his sharp teeth. There’s something pitiful and pleading in his gaze, like he’d kneel at your feet to worship forever if he could.

His eyes glaze over when you spit in his mouth.

He whines, low in the back of his throat as he swallows like a good little alpha, and you tell him so with a fleeting kiss. Chuckling when he leans desperately into you, you pull away from him, perching on your mattress and beginning to undress: they remain kneeling on the floor, you the empress and they the reverent subjects of the kingdom inside your bedroom.

Carefully, Eijirou attempts to train his gaze on the mattress, loath to be on the receiving end of your ire, but Katsuki goads it, staring openly at your body with blood red eyes burning with hunger and wanting. When you remove your underwear, parting your legs for them to see, he surges up to his feet, his restraint at the end of its tether, but you halt him with a hand on his wide chest.

Firmly, you push him backwards, and his knees hit the floor with a dull thud. He scowls, and you drag your nails softly down his cheek. You know he likes the pain. In fact, he relishes it; both he and Eijirou wear the marks you make like badges of honour, of worthiness, for the omega princess deems them deserving of her touch.

“Move from there again, and I won’t let you touch me all night, alpha.”

A deep, rebellious rumble emanates from his chest like thunder, and this time, you strike him across the face - his head snaps to the side, and though he fights it, though he bites down hard on his lower lip in effort to stifle it, a muffled, helpless groan leaves him. Triumphantly, you smirk as he pants, great shoulders heaving, hands clenching to form fists.

You look to Eijirou, and he gazes up at you starstruck, so eager to please, to have a taste. Beckoning him forward, laughing at his hesitance, you kiss him hard before lying back against your pillows, helping him undress and directing his head between your legs. He moans into your pussy, licking so earnestly into your heat the moment he’s boxed in by your thighs it’s as if he might die if he doesn’t, so fervent that you're half inclined to believe it.

Burying your hands in his red hair, you tug lightly - just the way he likes it. You’re rewarded with a delicious, depraved sound that vibrates right against your clit, and you buck your hips against his face, eyes rolling at the friction.

“Please,” he whines when your thighs close around his head.

“He’s fuckin’ useless,” Katsuki spits. “I could do a better job, omega.”

You arch a brow. “Keep on like that, and you won’t get a chance.”

That shuts him up, the floorboards creaking as he shifts uncomfortably from his spot on the floor. He knows your threats are not empty, still, you can see his cock is hard, achingly so, because he likes, craves, the torture and the constraints just as much as he hates them. In the same way, Eijirou likes the way you give him space to let go, fucking him until he’s dumb as if he’s nothing but a toy, a knot.

You can feel the mattress rocking beneath you. Desperately, Eijirou humps the soft blankets beneath him, gasping into your cunt, his fingers clenching in the fabric as you grind against his face. Throwing your head back, you cry out his name; your orgasm builds molten in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck,” you hiss, tugging hard on his locks to yank him right against your cunt, and then you’re coming on his tongue.

Sparks of overstimulation begin running down your spine as he continues to lap at your pussy; you pull insistently at his hair, and he lifts his head from where he’s lost in you, breathing hard as he gazes at you with lidded eyes. He’s amusingly fucked out from the taste of you, dazed and drunk and a little teary, still weakly rutting into the mattress.

“C’mere, alpha,” you laugh.

Eijirou scrambles to slot himself into the space made by your outstretched arms, and you kiss him sweetly. He’s fucking huge, broad shouldered enough that he covers your body completely with his, engulfing you in honeyed citrus and musk and still adorably struck dumb. The essence of you is laced on his tongue, and it makes you giddy.

He nuzzles against your scent glands, hiding his face in your neck, and you let him recover there, instead beckoning Katsuki over - he curls his lip at the easy way you call him but comes as you bid him anyways, too impatient for your touch to do otherwise. Eyes blazing, he glares down at you, his weight creating a dip in the mattress.

Lifting your hand, you pull him down to you. All it really takes is a kiss, and he’s tearing his trousers off like they burn him. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans into your mouth, pumping his dick in his hand, once, twice, trailing his tongue down the column of your throat, holding your waist in a grip that’s bruising.

“Don’t make me wait any fucking longer, omega.” His lips are hot in your skin.

You smirk. “Oh, I think I will.”

Eijirou begins rolling his hips against you, wanting to steal your attention back. He’s painfully hard, his cock flushed red and pulsing against your thigh. Curling your fingers around him, you kiss him ardently, like you’re trying to taste the syrupy whimpers that fall from his lips. A short cry leaves him when you swipe your thumb over his cockhead; he bucks up into your touch, sensitive from how long he’d been grinding against the mattress.

You begin jerking him at a pace he can’t keep up with, savouring the sweet gasps and moans that you coax from him like treasures. Katsuki nips rather pointedly at the curve of your shoulder and you casually shrug him off, enjoying how you hold him in the palm of your hand maybe a little too much. It’s altogether too easy to ignore him with sweet, sweet Eijirou writhing in the sheets beside you, moaning your name like it’s worship.

“That’s it, alpha,” you coo. “Just like this, yeah?”

Frantically he nods, and the scent of citrus heightens, like an orchard of orange blossom has sprung into existence in your quarters, filling your nose with its fragrant perfume. It doesn’t take him long to unravel and shatter under your hands.

His thighs tremble as he comes, over his chest and yours, and still you do not let up, squeezing his knot tight - he sobs, begging you incoherently, and you groan, half because of the mess you’ve made him into, half because you can feel Katsuki’s cockhead rubbing against your pussy as he litters your skin with hickeys from behind.

Eventually, you ease up, and Eijirou goes limp, gasping and shaking like a newborn calf, hips twitching from the aftershocks; you laugh when he buries his face against your neck, his breath hot against your collarbone as he laps at your scent glands, still eager to please after you’ve worn him out. Carding a hand through his hair, you studiously ignore your other alpha as he nibbles at your earlobe, instead pressing gentle kisses to Eijirou’s face.

After some contemplation, you scoop up some of his release from your skin and twist around to face Katsuki. Holding his eyes, you bring your fingers to his lips, smirking at the soft whimper from your left as the blonde takes you into his mouth up to the third knuckle. Unsurprisingly, he’s impatient when you kiss him, as eager to taste you as you are to taste Eijirou on his tongue.

You’ve made him stay himself long enough.

Pressing him into the mattress, you pin him flat on the bed and straddle his hips, grinning triumphantly down at him when he has no time to curse at you for forcing him to hold back for so long - he’s too busy curling his fingers around the base of his fat cock and lining himself up. A soft groan slips from you as you sink down on him, unravelling from somewhere behind your sternum.

Being on top of an alpha like Katsuki is a thrilling thing, wholly different from Eijirou. Eijirou obeys, does everything he can to please you, and it gives you the type of power rush that leaves you giddy. But Katsuki, Katsuki fights, and even now, as you ease his cock slowly in and out of you, you can see the challenge in his eyes. In response, you rake your nails down his chest, carving red lines into the strength of him, and he could not hide the way his body responds to the twinge, the sting, if he wanted to.

Bucking up, he twitches inside you, and you bare your teeth at him, pinning his wrists and snarling when he surges against you, hips snapping up into your heat - you bend over him, grazing your canines over his jugular in warning, and though he goes still, a rumble thrums deep in his chest.

Katsuki is taut beneath you, muscles tensed as he strains against your hold, eyes gleaming with a hunger that makes your stomach twist. The view is enough to make you clench around him, and you hear a quiet whine from Eijirou, no doubt enjoying the sight of the other alpha with his hackles raised as much as you do.

“Sweet omega,” Katsuki pants, a note of desperation leaking into his tone. “Let me fuck you.”

Something coils in you and pulls tight, so hot it burns, and you yank him upwards so you can claim his mouth, sweeping your tongue against his and biting down on his lower lip: as you do, your hands release his wrists, and you feel every inch of him stiffen at the non verbal permission.

Caramel floods your nose, so potent you almost taste its sweetness on your tongue, and strong, calloused hands flip you onto your front, wrapping tightly around your thighs and tugging them until your back is arched for him. Hard, his palm cracks down on your ass, and your eyes roll back, hips jumping back towards him as the pain frissons down your body, tugging indelibly at your insides.

Your jaw goes slack as Katsuki runs his cockhead through your folds, your insides coiling as you brace yourself for the moment he thrusts in.

It doesn’t come.

Whining, you arch your back further, and then, softly, Katsuki chuckles. You grit your teeth, too easily able to imagine the smirk on his face, the way he’s gloating about how he’s got you to change your tune so fast - how he’s got you presenting for him like you’re in heat.

“Eager, aren’t we, princess?”

You snarl. “I’m warning you, alpha.”

This threat is empty, though, and he knows it as well as you do: any admonishment you make means nothing with how much your cunt is slicking up, hungry for his knot. Still, he knows not to test you any further, and in truth, he probably doesn’t want to. You made him wait, after all.

Unceremoniously, the air is knocked from your lungs when he sinks himself inside you to the hilt. The wanton sound that slips from deep in your chest is embarrassing enough that you bite down on the sheets beneath you, fingers fisting in the silky fabric, but Katsuki’s used to you, and he yanks at your hair until he can hear you clearly, the way he likes.

He stays there for a moment, drawing out the equilibrium, the sweet balance of every inch of his cock buried inside your heat, your walls clamping down on him like a vice. This alpha is petty, remembering his pride now he’s got you beneath him, and he wants to make you wait. It’s a good thing you’re more patient than he is.

You clench around him, on purpose this time, and the sound that leaves him is feral.

The pace he sets is brutal, avid, everything that is Katsuki. He is never one to do things half hearted, and fucking you is no different: he pounds into you like he means to imprint his family’s crest on your womb. You cannot think of anything but the heady pull of his cock through your walls, the slap of his skin against yours, the bruising grip he has on your hips.

Your hair is still twisted around his fist, and punishing, he tugs on it, keeping your back arched for him, keeping you there so all you can do is take what he gives, pussy fluttering around him, desperately trying to suck him in. The way your slick drips down your thighs is lewd, the sound of it lewder.

“Kats,” you gasp, and then his cock finds somewhere deep inside you, somewhere that makes your eyes roll back. “Katsuki!”

He chuckles, releasing your hair, and your head flops down onto the mattress - you’re too boneless to hold it up yourself. A gentle hand cups your jaw, and then you’re gazing blearily up at Eijirou, his kind eyes taking up your field of vision, a wide, ruby red sea to lose yourself in; with one hand, he holds yours, the other reaching up to pet your hair.

“You’re taking him so well,” he praises. “Good, yeah? Is Katsuki making you feel good?”

You try to respond, but you’ve been robbed of your words, your tongue stolen, so instead you moan, panting and trembling and twisting the sheets in your left hand; in your right, you grip Eijirou so hard you think you hear his joints crack, but you can’t be sure over the rough noises Katsuki is making - or the sounds he’s drawing out of you. Something stretches tight in your stomach, and you gasp, feeling yourself begin to tip over the edge.

Wickedly, still railing into you, he rolls his fingers over your clit, collecting your slick, and then you feel his thumb at the rim of your ass, not quite entering you yet, but there, almost there. Tears well up in your eyes, and Eijirou’s face blurs before you, your mouth falling open as Katsuki practically wrings the orgasm from your body.

Katsuki pushes his thumb all the way in. You come, voice hoarse as you scream his name.

He stills, and you realise there’s no knot stretching you out. Your breath hitches, thighs jumping as you brace yourself - he’s perfectly capable of fucking you through an orgasm and overstimulating you until you’re sobbing. He’s done it before, and you wouldn’t be at all shocked if he did it again.

To your surprise, all he does is pull out and pat your ass cheek fondly: confused, you attempt to push yourself upright, but your arms give out before you make it halfway. Laughing, Katsuki runs his fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness and obviously relishing the soft whine that escapes you, and then he’s pushing his thumb into your ass again. Something goes molten inside you.

He’s not done with you yet. He’s far from done.

Your thighs are still shaking as you come down from your high. You fight the urge to squirm, either backwards on him to ask for more, or forwards and away because you’re a little raw, a little sensitive. Katsuki scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you out: it’s clear now, he’s preparing you for his cock.

“Just relax, omega,” he soothes. “Breathe.”

Playing with you a little more, he leans over you and trails kisses down your spine - you glance over your shoulder, eyes flicking down to the length of his cock, rock hard and slippery against your thigh. You catch a glimpse of his eyes, glittering and hungry, and your pussy clenches around nothing. Eijirou curses under his breath, and you turn back to face him, noticing he’s hard again.

And then strong, calloused hands are lifting you up, and Katsuki is sitting you down on his cock, settled with his back braced against the headboard of your bed. A whimper escapes your throat, your nails digging into his thighs from where they frame yours, toes curling at the glorious stretch of him.

You’re panting again by the time he’s buried all the way inside. Eijirou is watching, his fingers wrapped around his cock, eyes fixed on where Katsuki’s cock enters you. Katsuki wraps an arm across your front, cupping your breast and kneading your flesh in his palm, easily drawing the other alpha’s attention - once he has it, he hooks your knees over each of his forearms and spreads your legs wide, and finally, you understand what he’s up to.

“Think Eiji wants to join us, my lady?” He taunts.

“Yes - ah!” You yelp when he rocks his hips, muscles jolting. “Fuck, p - please.”

That’s all he needs to hear before he’s crawling forward on the mattress, eyes fixed on you, on the tremors running down your legs, on your heaving chest. You whine his name, tipping your chin up to expose your throat for him. Eagerly, he trails wet kisses along your collarbone, turning his head to mouth at your scent glands and drink you in, laving his tongue over your sweat damp skin.

Eijirou lines himself up, easing himself in. You’re trapped between two deliciously warm, muscled chests, and gods, you’re full, so full you can barely breathe, so full you’re seeing stars before your eyes, a galaxy condensed into your room. Lips claim yours, citrus blooming on your tongue, and then they’re moving, they’re moving -

“Our omega princess needs two cocks to satisfy her, hm?” Eijirou croons. “Isn’t that right?”

Katsuki grunts. “Can’t - fuck - can’t leave her wanting,”

You sob, for it is divine, the friction, the pleasure, breaking you and mending you over and over until you lose your voice calling their names. Beneath it is the sharp bite of overstimulation, ever looming, electric in your veins. You’ve been launched in orbit, leaving you anchored only by their hands on you, lost in the cataclysm.

And then, shaking, enraptured, you are falling, flying. Behind you, Katsuki buries himself in your ass, spilling his load, his knot already beginning to swell. You’re convulsing around Eijirou, sucking him in, greedy, and that’s what pushes him over: he comes with a groan, grinding his cock into you so his knot sits snugly in your walls.

Gently, Katsuki rubs his hand up and down your side, a comforting purr already kicking up in his chest - you sigh as Eijirou strokes your hair, tucking your head against his shoulder and pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your eyes are already closing, soothed by the smell of caramel mixing with citrus to form a perfect half and half, sugary but a little tangy.

“You okay, sweets?”

You melt at the deep rumble of Katsuki’s voice, nodding with your nose pressed against Eijirou’s scent gland. Someone is drawing patterns along your side with their fingers, someone else’s breath is ruffling your hair: this is heaven, sandwiched here between your two alphas.

“We’re sorry about the intruders,” Eijirou mumbles.

You summon enough energy to half heartedly punch his arm. “Eiji. I can’t ask you to be a bodyguard all the time - I don’t want you to be. Besides, you two are the best alphas I could ask for.”

“Mm, we take care of you, don’t we, omega?” You can hear the grin in Katsuki’s voice.

“Yeah,” you smile, content. “You do.”

a/n: u can literally see the point where i lose patience w it all 💀 whoops

taglist: @gethexxed @rori-ol @fashominnie

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prettygirl-gabi · 2 months ago

Text

“To the Moon and Beyond”

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd x Reader (Pazzi x Reader)

Fandom: NCAA Women’s Basketball / WNBA

Warnings: cheating, revenge cheating, eventually in later parts there will be 18+ content (smut, alcohol consumption, strong language), polyamory, public teasing/flirting (in later parts)

Summary: A tangled history of love, heartbreak, and hidden desire leads three elite players—and the WNBA spotlight.

A/N: yes this is hella long… I got in a groove and couldn’t stop writing… but yeahh enjoy!! This is also one of the longest fics I’ve ever written… will be multiple parts….cause it’s too long for tumblr…

Also thank you @paige05bby for the banner/header

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @shikaizer

I’ve known Paige Bueckers since we were nine.

We met on the cracked hardwood of a middle school gym, both drowning in oversized jerseys and the too-big dreams of becoming something. She was all bounce passes and bubblegum, the blue-eyed blur who wouldn’t stop until she got the bucket. And me? I was defense and discipline.

Together, we were unstoppable.

From AAU weekends that blurred into each other, to our high school championship banners, we grew up in sync. On the court and off, our chemistry never missed. What started as inside jokes turned into shared playlists. Glances turned into touches. Eventually, the line between friendship and something more? It blurred until it didn’t exist.

We never defined it. Not back then. We didn’t have to.

But then college happened.

She chose UConn. I went West. USC was my dream, and she knew it, even helped me rehearse my pitch for the admissions interview. We still talked every night at first. FaceTimed after practices, sent voice memos, traded selfies. And when I flew home for breaks, we picked up like nothing changed.

Until it did.

It’s a blurry memory now — that final night. We were in her dorm in Storrs, both sweaty and breathless, tangled in each other under those awful fluorescent lights. I was wearing one of her UConn hoodies, the one with the frayed sleeve. My lips were still swollen from her kiss when she sat up suddenly, like something hit her mid-breath.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.

I blinked, propped myself on my elbow. “What?”

“With you. Like this.” She didn’t look at me. Just stared at the far wall like she couldn’t bear to see my reaction. “I’m with Azzi now. For real. I want it to work. I have to try.”

She didn’t say sorry. And maybe that’s what stung the most.

After that, I stopped texting her. Not out of pettiness, but because it hurt too damn much.

I’d open my camera roll and there she’d be a memory— in baggy shirts, goofy grins, wearing my hoodie instead of hers. And I’d almost hit send on a message just to say something like, “Remember when we—” But I didn’t. I’d remember the look in her eyes when she told me it was over.

And then I’d put my phone down.

She kept liking my posts.

Subtle ones. Always with our secret emoji: 🌝.

A photo of my game-day shoes? Liked. The mirror selfie I took before our media shoot? Liked. A blurry boomerang of me and my teammates on the bus? Liked. Always that damn moon.

I never liked hers back. Not even when she dropped 30 on South Carolina and the whole world was reposting her highlight reel, calling her “Huskies Paige” like she hadn’t been lighting up the league already.

It didn’t feel right.

I couldn’t be hers anymore. Not really. Not after how things ended. Not after she chose her.

Even if she still wanted me.

Azzi’s POV

I wasn’t snooping.

That’s what I told myself.

I just needed the charger. Paige always left it by the couch cushion. But her phone lit up when I grabbed it — and I couldn’t look away.

unknown number: last night was unforgettable. I can’t stop thinking about you.

The photo attached was blurry — a hotel bar, maybe. Champagne. A smile I didn’t recognize.

But I recognized the timestamp. One week ago. New York. A brand event.

My stomach turned.

Paige was asleep down the hall. I didn’t even bother waking her.

I didn’t cry either.

I just packed a small bag. Enough for a few days. Hoodie, jeans, chargers. My passport. And my headphones — couldn’t risk listening to the quiet too long. I left a note on the fridge:

I know. I’ll be back. Don’t wait up. —A

Then I turned off my location the second the plane touched down in Southern California.

Y/n’s POV

I was mid-scroll when I got the DM. No greeting. No emojis. Just:

Azzi: Can I crash at your place?

I blinked.

And then again.

Me: …yeah. You okay?

Azzi: No.

She showed up two hours later. No makeup, no jewelry. Just a black hoodie pulled over her braids and shadows under her eyes like she hadn’t slept in days.

She dropped her bag by the door and slid onto my couch like it belonged to her.

I stayed standing.

Azzi met my eyes. “I found messages on Paige’s phone,” she said, voice like glass cracking. “Some girl from a brand event. Said it was a night she wouldn’t forget.”

I didn’t move.

Azzi laughed, sharp and dry. “Isn’t that cute?”

I cleared my throat. “Why are you here?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“Because cheating with a random is one thing. But cheating with your best friend?” Her gaze flicked up to mine. “That’s a different kind of pain.”

I froze. “I’m not—”

“I know you’re not with her,” she said, too quickly. “That’s not what I’m saying. But you’re still the one she wants. Always have been. And maybe, if I’m honest…” Her voice faltered, vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before. “Maybe I just needed to feel like I had the power to break something too.”

There was silence after that.

Heavy. Loaded. Everything unsaid filling the air like smoke.

I should’ve told her to leave. Should’ve drawn a line. Closed the door. Asked why she thought I’d ever want to be someone’s revenge.

But instead…

We kissed.

It wasn’t slow. Wasn’t delicate. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like fury and desperation, like something beautiful that had been starved too long. Her hands were cold. Mine were shaking.

And even as part of me screamed not to—

I let her.

And I hated how much I liked it.

The sunlight in L.A. always hits too sharp the morning after something like that.

Azzi was quiet when she woke. This had been her second and last morning here. She stretched out in my bed like she hadn’t moved all night, her hoodie thrown across the floor, my sheets wrinkled where our bodies had tangled in the heat of it. I was already sitting up, hugging my knees, staring out the window like it could tell me what the hell I’d just done.

She didn’t say good morning. Didn’t apologize. She just blinked slowly, then rolled toward me, hair falling across her cheek.

“I have to go,” she whispered.

I nodded. “Yeah. You do.”

She didn’t move yet. “Last night…the night before…”

She paused.

I waited.

But she didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe if she said too much, it would shatter whatever fragile justification we’d both built in our heads.

Instead, Azzi got dressed in silence. She slipped her hoodie back on, pulled her hair into a loose bun, and only broke the stillness when she looked into the mirror and noticed the mess we’d left behind.

Red, purplish bruises dotted the delicate skin beneath her jaw. One curled under her ear. Two more across her collarbone.

She didn’t even flinch. Just adjusted her hoodie and looked over at me with a thin, unreadable smile.

“I’ll text when I land.”

Azzi’s POV

The plane ride back was quiet. I wore my hood up and my headphones in, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest and the phantom touch still lingering on my skin.

I knew what I’d done. I knew the weight of it before I even touched her. But it didn’t stop me. That was the part that scared me the most.

I got back late. Paige was in the kitchen, barefoot in sweatpants, stirring something on the stove that she was probably never going to eat. Her eyes shot up the second she heard the door click.

“Azzi,” she breathed. She looked like she hadn’t slept.

I didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” she said instantly, voice cracking. “I swear—whatever that was in New York, it didn’t mean anything. I was drunk and—God, I messed up.”

She crossed the kitchen, reaching for me like she could still fix it with proximity. Like closeness could erase betrayal.

I didn’t cry. Didn’t yell.

I just stood my ground and said:

“I slept with Y/N.”

Paige froze. The words hit her like a punch straight to the gut.

“What?”

Her voice was barely there. Fragile.

I didn’t repeat it.

She took a step back, her expression cracking all at once. “You—what do you mean you—?”

“I mean I flew to L.A.,” I said, slowly, deliberately. “I turned my location off. I showed up at her door. And I didn’t leave until the next morning.”

The silence was heavy. Deafening.

I watched her chest rise and fall, watched the devastation settle behind her eyes like stormclouds.

“You went to her?” she whispered.

“I figured,” I said bitterly, “if you were gonna cheat with someone random, I could at least cheat with someone who mattered to you.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, shaking slightly.

“Did you do it to hurt me?” she asked, voice raw.

I didn’t blink.

“You don’t get to be mad,” I snapped.

Paige laughed bitterly, a hollow sound. “Oh, so you can cheat out of revenge, but I can’t even ask questions?”

“You didn’t just cheat, Paige. You lied. You made me feel safe and then let some girl blow up our entire house.”

“You think I meant for that to happen?”

I stepped closer. “No, but you sure didn’t stop it.”

Her jaw locked, the muscle ticking.

Then she grabbed her phone.

“Don’t,” I warned.

“Oh no, we’re doing this now.”

She pulled up your name, hit call, and put it on speaker.

It rang once. Twice.

Then—

“Hello? Why are you calling me Paige?”

Your voice was soft. Cautious.

I could practically feel the way your stomach probably dropped.

Paige’s tone sharpened, cut like glass. “Y/N, did Azzi fuck you better than me, huh?”

I flinched.

“Paige—” you started, voice tight, already bracing for impact.

But she kept going. “Did she make you tap out?” Her eyes were on me now. Unblinking. “Did she fuck you so good you forgot about me?”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I just stared at her, heart pounding, stomach in knots.

Silence crackled over the line.

Then your voice came, colder than I’d ever heard it.

“Paige, grow the fuck up.”

You hung up.

Just like that.

The silence in the kitchen was suffocating. My ears rang.

Paige stared down at her phone, the call screen gone black now. Her hand dropped slowly to her side.

I crossed my arms, voice shaking. “You didn’t call to ask. You called to hurt.”

Her lips parted, like she wanted to deny it.

But she didn’t.

Because we both knew it was true.

The silence after she hung up could’ve split the floor beneath us.

I turned my back to Paige, walked to the fridge, opened it just to do something with my hands. My throat burned.

“You happy now?” I asked, quietly. “You proved your point?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Yes, you were,” I cut her off, spinning around. “You wanted to humiliate me. To make her pick. To twist the knife.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. “She already picked you.”

“No,” I said, voice low. “She didn’t. That’s the part that’s killing you, isn’t it? She never picked me. Not really.”

She didn’t deny it.

Just stood there in the middle of our shared kitchen, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, hair messy from stress, breathing heavy like she’d just run a mile. She looked like a storm in a glass bottle—no space left to rage.

“I loved you,” I said, stepping forward, my chest aching. “I actually did. I built my life around you.”

“I never asked you to!” Paige snapped.

“But you let me.”

We both stilled.

It was too much.

I grabbed my keys from the counter. “I’m staying at KK’s.”

“Azzi, wait—”

I didn’t.

Y/n’s POV

My phone was still in my hand, screen black, my heart racing like I’d run sprints.

I hadn’t even processed the words. Did she fuck you better than me?

I didn’t know what made me angrier—that Paige asked, or that part of me had a fucking answer.

I set the phone down and paced.

Five hours later, my apartment buzzer went off.

I froze. From aggressively cleaning my apartment, when I really wanted to break everything in this bitch.

Then again. A second buzz. Then pounding on the door.

I opened it.

And there she was.

Paige Bueckers. Hoodie, sweats, clutching her phone in one hand, emotional wreckage in her eyes.

“Paige—”

She stepped inside without waiting. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You never are,” I snapped.

She blinked. “Okay. Fine. Hit me.”

“I don’t have to. You’re already bleeding.”

She swallowed hard.

I crossed my arms. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know!” she yelled suddenly, voice cracking. “I don’t fucking know. I just—You were mine. You were always mine, and now—now I see you with her and it’s like—like someone replaced my lungs with cement.”

I laughed bitterly. “You were the one who left me.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“And now you think you can just come back and what? Ask me which one of you fucks me better?”

She looked wrecked. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

“Get out.”

“Y/N—”

“Get out before I start hating you.”

She didn’t move right away. But then something shifted in her eyes. Like a curtain fell.

Paige nodded once.

And she left.

The door clicked shut behind her like a trigger.

And I finally let myself sit down.

And cry.

Paige’s POV

I sat outside her door for twenty minutes, knees pulled to my chest, hoodie up like it could hide the damage on my face. Tears kept falling, quiet and constant, like my body had forgotten how to hold anything in.

She didn’t even come back to the door. Not once.

I deserved that.

I really did.

But sitting there, staring at the cracks in the pavement, I thought—Someone has to forgive me. Someone.

So I stood up, wiped my face with my sleeve, and walked back inside. She never locked it.

The second I stepped into the apartment, I saw her.

Y/N had stopped crying, but her face was still blotchy, eyes still raw. She was furiously scrubbing the countertop, muttering to herself like maybe if she cleaned hard enough, she could erase what I’d done.

And then she looked up.

Her eyes went wide. “Are you serious right now?”

Before I could say anything, a water bottle flew through the air and smacked against the wall just left of my head.

I flinched, and she stormed toward me.

Her fists hit my chest—weak at first, then stronger, then desperate. “You don’t get to do this, Paige! You don’t get to just walk back in like this!”

“I—”

“No! Shut up!” she screamed. “You chose Azzi. You cheated on Azzi. You threw me away, twice, and you’re still in love with me? Do you hear how insane that sounds?”

Her fists slowed but didn’t stop. I didn’t move. I let her hit me. I let her scream.

“I loved you so much it scared me,” she cried. “I still love you, and I hate that I do. I hate that you can still make me feel like this.”

I caught her wrists gently, not to stop her—just to hold her. “I never stopped loving you.”

She sobbed once, raw and guttural, and pressed her forehead to my chest. “It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

“But I still want to.”

“I know. Me too.”

Silence hung between us like smoke.

I didn’t move. Neither did she.

We stayed like that for a long time. Not healing. Not fixing. Just existing in the same wreckage.

Azzi’s POV – Back in Connecticut

“So… yeah,” I whispered.

KK stared at me like I’d just told her I was moving to Mars. “You really said it like that?”

“I looked Paige in the eye,” I murmured, “and I told her I slept with Y/N.”

KK’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t say anything right away.

“I still love her,” I said, voice cracking. “I hate her. I hate what she did. But I still love her.”

KK exhaled slowly. “Do you think Y/N loves her too?”

“Yes,” I said. “She always has.”

I sank deeper into the couch. My hoodie sleeves covered half my hands. Hickeys dotted my neck like bruises made by ghosts I wasn’t ready to confront. “I thought it would hurt Paige the way she hurt me. That it would give me some kind of… control.”

KK was quiet.

“But all it did was make it worse. For everyone.”

She finally spoke, voice low and careful. “Do you regret it?”

“I regret everything, but I don’t regret Y/n.” I whispered.

There was a long pause.

“But, I don’t think any of us are coming back from this, KK. Not me. Not her. Not Y/N.”

KK pulled the blanket up around my shoulders and let me fall apart.

And for the first time, I let myself believe I really had broken something we could never fix.

There was a long pause.

Y/n’s POV – Southern California

It’s Juju who tells me.

We’re on the practice court, just us, shooting around after everyone else left. The sun’s barely dipping, golden light slanting through the gym windows.

She catches a rebound and holds onto it. Doesn’t pass it back.

“They’re coming,” she says.

My stomach dips. “What?”

“KK and I talked. Paige. Azzi. All three of them are flying in. They land tonight.”

I freeze, sweat already clinging to my skin, now cold. “Here?”

She nods. “Tomorrow. For a sit down.”

I stare at her. “You think this is a good idea?”

She walks over, puts the ball down. “I think it’s the only shot any of you have at being okay again.”

That very next day, I vacuumed twice.

I Windexed the mirrors. I rearranged my throw pillows. I lit a candle. Then blew it out. Then lit it again.

My hands were shaking by the time the knock came.

When I opened the door, they were both standing there. Azzi in a hoodie and sweatpants, her hair in a bun. Paige in loose jeans and an old UConn tee. They looked tired. Human.

Nobody said anything right away.

I stepped aside. “Come in.”

They sat on opposite sides of the couch. I took the armchair.

The silence stretched.

Until finally Azzi said, “Thanks for letting us do this.”

I nodded. “I didn’t know if I would.”

Paige looked at me like I was air she hadn’t breathed in weeks. “We just wanna talk. For real.”

So we did.

For hours.

We unraveled every inch of the knot between us.

Azzi told me about the night she found the messages on Paige’s phone. How her heart dropped. How all she wanted was to hurt her back.

Paige admitted that she’d kissed that random at the brand event, thinking it didn’t count because her heart was already broken from missing me. She said she hated herself for it the second it happened.

“I wanted someone to forgive me,” she said, eyes glossy. “But I didn’t deserve it.”

Azzi turned to me. “And I didn’t sleep with you just to be petty. At first… maybe. But when I saw you again, it wasn’t revenge. It was…” She trailed off.

“Safe,” I said.

She nodded.

I told them everything too.

How I couldn’t forgive Paige, but still loved her. How I didn’t regret being with Azzi, even if it was complicated. How none of it felt clean. How the silence afterward almost broke me.

“I felt like all I had left were memories of people who didn’t exist anymore,” I whispered.

And that’s when Paige broke.

She slid off the couch, sat on the floor, hands over her face. “I miss both of you so much, it’s like breathing in water every day.”

Azzi came down beside her. After a moment, so did I.

Three of us. On the rug. Like a slow-burning apology.

“I don’t know what happens next,” I murmured. “I just know we’re not those people anymore.”

“But we can choose who we become now,” Azzi said.

Paige wiped her face, voice cracked. “Even if it’s just friends.”

My throat tightened. “Or even if it’s nothing.”

We sat there.

Breathing.

Together.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

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humaling · 3 months ago

Text

Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

warnings: very angsty!! mentions of torture, the usual hunger games

word count: 9.4k

author's note: very angsty. hopeful ending tho. i feel absolutely depressed since i was broken up with and needed a way to cope so i wrote this

How do you grieve someone who still breathes? Who still walks beside you, whose laughter drifts through the corridors like the tide, whose scent lingers in the air like salt on the breeze? How do you mourn a soul that hasn’t left—only drifted too far from shore to reach?

You search for him in the waves of memory, in the warmth that once lived in sea-green eyes now as distant as the horizon. Those eyes used to anchor you, a harbor of safety in the storm. Now they are nothing but glass—cold, unreadable, unfeeling.

You tell yourself to wait. Tides change. Currents shift. He will come back to you. But as the days melt into weeks, the shoreline erodes beneath your feet.

And in the quiet hours, when the ocean is still and your thoughts are too loud, the truth creeps in like a rising tide.

What if the man you love has already drowned?

You sit in the farthest corner of District 13’s massive cafeteria, a space large enough to hold a thousand soldiers. The wall behind you is cold and unyielding, pressing against your back like a ghost of something long gone. You feel just as hollow.

Around you, people gather in clusters, voices weaving together in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips as if there isn’t a war raging beyond these walls. As if their world hasn’t already been splintered apart.

To your right, Primrose Everdeen speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. She tells you something about the medical bay—about Peeta—but the words barely reach you. They drift past like foam on the surface of the water, light and inconsequential, while you are caught in the undertow, dragged somewhere deeper. Somewhere darker.

Your mind is tethered to someone across the room.

Bronze hair, sea-green eyes—the color of the ocean at dawn, just before the sun touches it. The color of home.

You know what that skin feels like beneath your fingertips, warm and smooth, shifting over muscle that tenses like a pulled fishing net. You know the ridges of his scars, carved into him like the grooves of driftwood battered by relentless waves. The roughness of his palms, the gentleness of his hands—hands that once traced circles over your skin as if mapping out a place to return to.

You know he sleeps best when sprawled out, like a starfish on wet sand, limbs stretched wide to keep the nightmares at bay. That he hoards the blankets like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood. That he needs exactly five pillows when he sleeps alone, building a fragile fortress against the dark. That his fingers move with effortless precision when tying a knot, quick and deft, like a fisherman who has done it a thousand times before.

And you remember his laughter—the deep, rich timbre of it, rolling over you like the tide. You remember the way his voice drops to a lower octave when he wants something, as steady and unshakable as the ocean in a storm.

You remember everything.

And yet, right now, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe he is a stranger. Maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A ghost of someone who drowned long ago. A boy lost at sea, swept too far by currents neither of you could fight. A stranger with sea-green eyes that once cradled the sunlight and now hold nothing but the vast, endless cold of the deep.

Your heart sinks. Not breaks—it’s already done that. It shattered three weeks ago in the medical bay, splintering like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. His gaze—once warm, once yours—turned to ice. His voice—once a melody—lashed at you like saltwater in an open wound, venom laced between every syllable.

And now, whatever is left of your heart sinks further, past your ribs, past your stomach, past anything human, until it is nothing but flotsam on a restless tide.

You never thought it was possible to mourn the living. To grieve someone whose heart still beats, whose hands still move, whose voice still carries. But here you are, swallowing salt, lungs filling with something heavier than water. Wearing a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right. Picking at food that tastes like sand. Sitting in a dim, lifeless room, playing babysitter.

Loss upon loss, and yet—somehow—there’s still more to lose.

“They’re here.”

Katniss’ voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and breathless. You snap your head up instantly, fingers freezing around the knot you were tying. She stands in the doorway, chest heaving, breath ragged like she’s been running—or like the weight of those two words is too much to bear alone.

You stare, pupils blown wide, the meaning slipping through your fingers like grains of sand before she speaks again, firmer this time.

“They’re back.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re moving.

Your body surges forward before your mind can catch up, feet pounding against the cold floors, the world narrowing to a single thought. Finnick. He’s back. He’s here. He’s alive.

Finnick is alive.

You don’t look back to see if Katniss follows. You don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart like a war drum. The world around you is a blur of gray walls and fluorescent light, too bright, too sterile, too detached from the wild chaos inside you.

You shove past people in the hall, muttering apologies you don’t really mean, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The scent of medicine and metal seeps into your lungs, and somewhere ahead, voices carry through the air—familiar, distant, pulling you forward like a rip current.

Your heart slams against your ribs, pounding like waves against jagged rocks, relentless and unforgiving. The roar of blood in your ears muffles everything else, reducing the world to a single, all-consuming thought—Finnick. Finnick, who is here. Finnick, who is alive. Finnick, who will be in your arms again, where he belongs, where he has always belonged.

You think about the words you will say when you finally reach him, when your hands find his skin, when the unbearable distance between you ceases to exist. You will tell him that you love him, that you will never leave him again, not for anything, not for anyone. You will tell him that you are sorry, that you tried, that you fought, that you did everything in your power to bring him back before they could break him. You will tell him that District 13 is no better than the Capitol, that their president is nothing but another tyrant wrapped in the illusion of revolution, that this place is suffocating, a prison disguised as salvation.

But then you see him, and everything inside you goes still.

He sits on the edge of the medical bed, his back turned to you, his shoulders hunched in a way that feels entirely wrong. The sharp curve of his spine is more pronounced, his posture heavy with something you cannot name. A nurse stands beside him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, but he does not move, does not acknowledge her, does not seem fully present in his own body. There is something unnatural in the way he holds himself, something that unsettles you, that makes your stomach twist in a sick, sinking way.

You try to tell yourself that this is normal, that exhaustion clings to him like seaweed tangled around an anchor, that of course he is different after everything he has endured. You tell yourself that the unease slithering through you is nothing more than hunger, that six hours without food is enough to make your body feel strange, that the nausea building inside you has nothing to do with the way his head remains bowed.

You force yourself to push the feeling down, to breathe past the doubt and the fear clawing at the back of your mind.

“Finnick.” His name leaves your lips on an exhale, soft and desperate, like the rush of air from a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the relief that crashes over you is instant, a tide that swallows every doubt, every hesitation, every ache you have carried since the moment he was taken. You barely register the stiffness in his movements before your body is closing the distance, arms wrapping around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though he might slip through your grasp if you let go. The scent of antiseptic clings to him instead of salt, the sterile air of the medical bay stripping him of the warmth you have always known, but it does not matter. He is here. He is real.

“You’re really here,” you whisper against the curve of his neck, voice breaking under the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. “I thought—” But the words catch in your throat, lost to the sheer relief of having him in your arms again.

His body remains rigid beneath your touch, his muscles locked so tightly that you can feel the tension humming through him like a wire stretched too thin. The longer you hold him, the more you become aware of the way he does not lean into you, the way he does not return your embrace.

A frown tugs at your brows as you slowly pull back, hands settling gently on his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Your eyes search his face, scanning every feature, trying to find something familiar, something safe, something that tells you he is still him. His jaw is set in a sharp line, his lips pressed together in a firm, unsmiling press. His brows are drawn, a deep crease forming between them, but it is not exhaustion that shapes his expression. It is not relief. It is something colder, something harder, something unrecognizable.

His eyes, the ones that once held warmth, the ones that once softened when they met yours, the ones that always carried the unspoken promise of home, are different now. The sea-green depths that used to hold so much tenderness have darkened, the waves receding, leaving nothing behind but cold, empty waters.

“Finnick?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your thumb moves to brush against his cheek, aching to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels familiar.

The second your skin grazes his, he flinches.

The reaction is small, a brief, involuntary jerk, but it is enough to send ice flooding through your veins, enough to make the air in your lungs turn sharp and unforgiving. Your mouth parts, the words forming somewhere deep in your throat, but they never make it past your lips. What could you even say? What could you possibly say when the worst thing you have ever feared is unfolding right in front of you?

Before you can find an answer, before you can even begin to process the chasm opening between you, his hands press against your shoulders, and he pushes you away.

The force of it knocks you off balance, sending you stumbling back, feet tripping over nothing, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch yourself. The impact never comes. Someone catches you before you hit the ground, steady hands gripping your arms, but your mind barely registers the touch.

Finnick is already on his feet, his body moving with frantic, clumsy urgency as he rips the IV from his arm, the tubing snapping loose, blood welling in the space where the needle once sat. He does not seem to notice, does not seem to care.

Then he turns to you, and whatever remains of your world shatters into pieces so small, you know you will never be able to put them back together again.

There is no recognition in his gaze, no softness, no warmth, no love. There is only anger, sharp and seething, festering beneath the surface like a wound left to rot. There is only hatred, raw and consuming, filling the space where something else—something beautiful, something yours—used to be. There is only indifference, cold and unyielding, cutting through you like the tide swallowing the last breath of a drowning man.

“Finnick?” You call out again, your voice cracking as you struggle to regain your footing, your limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. The distance between you feels vast, an ocean you cannot cross, a current too strong to fight against.

Your hands move frantically at your sides, grasping at nothing, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to make sense of what is unfolding in front of you. What do you do when the man you love—the man who once held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—now looks at you as if you are nothing?

Finnick’s lips part, and the scoff that escapes is sharp, cruel, void of anything familiar. “Don’t act like you’re so glad to see me.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, but it is the way his words land that truly destroys you. They slice through your heart without hesitation, leaving gashes so deep you do not know if they will ever heal. The coldness in his tone, the sheer venom laced between each syllable, is enough to send your stomach twisting violently, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stutter.

You shake your head, your throat tightening as you struggle to make sense of it, to piece together something—anything—that could explain why he is looking at you like you are nothing more than a stranger, an enemy, something to be loathed. “Finnick… I don’t—” The words falter on your tongue, because how do you ask why? How do you demand answers when you are too terrified to hear them?

His expression twists into something cruel, something mocking, something that makes the ground beneath you feel unsteady. “You don’t what?” he sneers, taking a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with prey. “You don’t understand? You don’t get why I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound dripping with something bitter, something tainted. “That’s funny. You, of all people, pretending to be clueless.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. He is here. He is alive. He is back. So why does it feel like you are losing him all over again?

“Finnick, please,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did.”

His expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before his lips curl into a smirk, but there is nothing warm about it. It is hollow, cruel, a mockery of the smiles you once knew. “You don’t know?” He scoffs again, shaking his head. “That’s rich. That’s really rich.”

You reach for him, a desperate attempt to find something familiar, something that will bring you back to the Finnick you know, the Finnick who once traced the lines of your palms like they held the universe, the Finnick who pressed sleepy kisses to your shoulder in the early hours of the morning, the Finnick who whispered that he loved you like it was the only thing that ever mattered. But the moment your fingers so much as brush his arm, he jerks away as if your touch burns him.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, thick and suffocating. “Why are you doing this?” The words are barely more than a breath, shaky and broken, but they are all you can manage.

Finnick’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides before his eyes meet yours again, his gaze colder than you have ever seen it. The weight of it crashes over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until all you can feel is the crushing force of the words he says next.

“Because I hate you.”

Your breath catches. Your body goes still. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, fading into nothing but the space between you and him.

No.

No, he doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.

But there is no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt, no trace of the Finnick you know beneath the loathing that twists his features.

“You left me,” he says, voice steady, but laced with something bitter, something sharp enough to cut. “You left me there to die.”

Your head shakes before you even realize it, rejection spilling from your lips as if saying the words would make them true. “No. No, I—” Your voice wavers, breaking apart at the seams, but you swallow down the panic rising in your throat. “Finnick, that’s not true. I would never—”

His laughter is quiet, mirthless, like the hollow echo of waves against a broken shore. “Liar.” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair as if the very sight of you is exhausting. “I know what we were. What you were.” His eyes darken, and the next words come like a final nail in the coffin. “You were using me.”

Your breath shudders out of you, unsteady and uneven, but the ache in your chest only worsens as he continues, unrelenting. “I was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn’t I?” His voice is eerily calm, his gaze cold and unreadable. “All of it—the whispers, the stolen moments, the way you looked at me like I was something worth saving—it was never real. You had a motive, and I was too much of a fool to see it.”

Your entire body feels like it’s trembling, but you force yourself to move, to step closer, to reach for him as if you can pull him back from whatever abyss they’ve shoved him into. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “That’s not true, and you know that.”

He flinches away from your touch. Not violently, not aggressively, but in a way that hurts even more. As if your hands on him are unbearable. As if you are unbearable.

Your heart clenches so tightly it feels like it might collapse in on itself. “Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You’re breaking my heart.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickers across his expression. Something fleeting, something fragile. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto it, swallowed by the tide of whatever poison they’ve fed him.

His lips part, but no words come, only the silence stretching between you, cold and merciless.

Tears slip down your cheeks, hot against the numbness settling into your bones. You shake your head, refusing to let this be real, refusing to accept that the boy who once held you like you were his whole world now looks at you like you are nothing more than a ghost of something he wishes he could forget.

“I would never leave you there to die.” Your voice is hoarse, raw, carved from something deeper than heartbreak.

But Finnick only looks at you like he doesn’t believe you.

Finnick exhales, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to hold something in—something dangerous, something volatile. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to lash out, to grab onto something, to make this feeling stop.

“They told me everything,” he murmurs, and there’s something distant about the way he says it, like he’s reciting a fact, like he’s just now realizing the full weight of it. “How you left me in that arena. How you saved yourself and let me suffer.” His sea-green eyes bore into you, darkened with something cruel, something unbearable. “I should’ve died there. I would’ve died there if I was lucky.”

Your throat tightens. His words are salt in an open wound, stinging, burning, seeping into the rawest parts of you. You shake your head, stepping closer, reaching out despite the way he flinches. “Finnick, please. That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He won’t hear you. His voice rises, every syllable heavier than the last, suffocating in its weight. “You let them take me.” The accusation slices through the air, through you, straight to the marrow of your bones. “You let them drag me away, and now you think you can stand here and pretend like you care? Like you ever cared at all?”

“I do care,” you whisper, but it’s drowned out by the storm unraveling in front of you.

Finnick’s breathing grows unsteady, his body taut like a wire stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fists clench and unclench, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting something unseen, something warring inside of him. His shoulders tremble, his entire frame locked in battle with itself, with the ghosts clawing at his mind.

“Get away from me.” His voice is lower now, raw and laced with something just shy of a snarl. “I can’t—” He swallows thickly, his breath coming out harsh and uneven. “I can’t be around you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin ice-cold, but you force yourself to stand your ground. “Finnick, I’m not leaving you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something you want to believe is hesitation, but before you can reach for him again, a firm hand clasps around your upper arm.

“Come on,” a voice urges—one of the soldiers, firm but not unkind.

You try to shake them off, to dig your heels into the floor, but Finnick’s gaze stops you in your tracks. The way his expression twists, the way his body shakes as his breathing grows erratic—it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Get her out of here,” another voice commands.

“No, wait,” you plead, struggling as the grip on your arm tightens, as another set of hands joins the first, dragging you back, forcing distance between you and him.

Finnick stumbles back, his chest heaving, his hands threading into his hair like he’s trying to rip something out of himself. His entire body quivers, like a wave cresting too high, about to break.

Your own body thrashes against the hold keeping you away from him. “Finnick, please, listen to me! It wasn’t like that! You have to believe me!”

But he isn’t looking at you anymore. He turns away, his breathing sharp, his entire frame locked in place as if afraid to move, afraid to break.

And then you’re gone—hauled through the doorway, dragged down the hall, your screams swallowed by the sterile walls of District 13.

The last thing you see before the doors shut is Finnick, hunched over, hands gripping his head, like he’s drowning in a tide he cannot escape.

You sat with Haymitch outside of Katniss’ room, the dim, sterile hall stretching endlessly in front of you. The air was thick with something suffocating, something you couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or something worse.

Apparently, Peeta was in the same condition as Finnick. Hijacked. Twisted. Warped. Their minds were tampered with, their memories poisoned, their love rewritten into something unrecognizable. Snow had not only taken them—he had turned them into weapons, sharpened and honed for one singular purpose.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Finnick despised you now, or the gnawing, gut-wrenching fear that the Finnick you once knew might never come back.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your knees to your chest. Your fingers curled and uncurled, your wrists rolling to shake off the numbness, to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch—the rigidness of his body beneath your hands, the way he flinched at your presence like you were something vile, something rotten. It made your skin crawl. Not because of him. Never because of him.

Because of what they did to him.

Because of the way you made him feel.

“It’s not your fault.” Haymitch’s voice cut through the silence, rough and low, but not unkind.

You turned your head to look at him, at the wreck of a man beside you. Haymitch looked like hell—more so than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep, quiet horror. Like he had seen this before. Lived it. Survived it, but barely.

You had heard the stories. What the Capitol did to him. What he endured in his games, and after.

Your throat tightened, a bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Should’ve been me.” Your voice was hoarse, raw from screaming, from pleading with someone who no longer wanted to hear it.

Haymitch scoffed, pulling a flask from God-knows-where, twisting it in his hands before taking a swig. “No, it shouldn’t have.” He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared ahead, gaze locked on something distant, something only he could see. “You wouldn’t have lasted long enough in there.”

Your jaw clenched, a protest forming on your tongue, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“You don’t have the mind for it. The will for it. You’d break faster than Peeta. Hell, maybe worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze, his gray eyes softer than you had ever seen them. It unsettled you more than his usual cynicism.

You sucked in a breath, tilting your head back against the cold, lifeless wall. Your eyes burned as you bit down on your lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. Your heart ached, a deep, gnawing pain that felt like drowning, like being dragged under a current too strong to fight.

It was unbearable. Unyielding. You didn’t know how to deal with it. You weren’t sure you ever would.

Haymitch sighed, running a tired hand down his face before taking another sip. “It’s a process, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you need to hang on. For both of you.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, gripping the fabric so tightly it might tear. He was right. You hated that he was right.

And you hated that, despite everything, despite the venom in Finnick’s voice and the ice in his eyes, you would wait for him as long as it took.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight that will never come. As if standing like this, standing strong, will keep you from falling apart.

Your gaze is fixed on Finnick’s chest, on the slow, steady rise and fall that proves he is still here, still breathing. He looks peaceful like this. Almost untouched by everything that has happened, everything that has been done to him.

But you know better.

His fingers twitch from time to time, grasping at something unseen, someone unseen. A phantom touch. A memory slipping through his grasp.

You stay where you are, unmoving, barely breathing, watching him from a distance. Is this what it will be now? Is this all you’ll have left? Watching him from afar, knowing the only time he’ll ever look peaceful is when he’s unconscious? Knowing that the moment he stirs, it’s because of the nightmares?

Something acidic rises in your throat, burning, bitter, unbearable. The taste of grief, maybe. The taste of something you cannot name, something that twists your insides and leaves you hollow. You swallow it down, but it lingers, coating your tongue, settling deep inside you.

You hate this. You hate all of it.

All you want is to be in his arms, to lay your head against his chest and pretend that the world isn’t burning above you. Pretend that nothing has changed. Pretend that he still loves you.

But you stay in the doorway, feet rooted to the cold, unforgiving ground. Watching from a distance. Because that is all you have now. This is all you have now.

Footsteps echo softly against the cold floor, breaking the silence that has settled around you like a heavy fog. The sudden sound startles you, your body tensing as you instinctively turn on your heel, your fists clenching at your sides, ready to strike if necessary. But the moment your eyes catch the familiar cascade of long auburn hair, your shoulders ease, the fight within you slipping away just as quickly as it had risen.

Annie stands a few feet away, hesitant but unwavering, a quiet understanding reflected in the softness of her expression. There’s no pity in her gaze—only recognition, as if she knows exactly what kind of storm is brewing inside you without you having to say a word. A small, tentative smile tugs at her lips, a gesture so simple yet filled with warmth.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" she says, her voice gentle, lacking the weight of expectation. She isn’t here to force words from you or demand answers you don’t have the strength to give. She is simply here.

You study her for a moment, unsure how to respond, as if the simple acknowledgment of time passing feels like an admission of how much has changed. Eventually, you nod, the motion slow, measured. "Yeah, it has," you murmur, your voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered questions.

Annie doesn’t waver, doesn’t take the hint to leave you to your silence. Instead, she steps forward, closing the space between you in a way that isn’t intrusive, only familiar. She settles beside you, mirroring your posture as she leans lightly against the wall, her presence steady and unshaken.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your gaze cautious, guarded. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. She only offers a quiet reassurance that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"Relax," she murmurs, as if sensing the lingering tension coiled in your muscles. "It’s just me."

Her words should be meaningless, just a simple reassurance, but somehow, they carry weight. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tightness in your chest easing—if only just a little.

Annie doesn’t expect you to talk. She just stays, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that feels less suffocating, less lonely.

Annie stands beside you, silent at first, her fingers idly twisting at the fabric of her sleeve. The air between you is heavy, thick with unspoken words, yet neither of you rushes to break it. The weight of everything—of what’s happened, of what’s still happening—lingers between breaths, settling deep in the space where grief and exhaustion intertwine.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady, as if she has rehearsed the words in her mind too many times before. “They kept me locked in a room without windows.” She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, lost in a memory she can’t escape. “At first, it was just isolation. No light, no sound. Just me and the walls. I don’t know how long they left me there before they started asking questions.”

You don’t say anything. You barely breathe.

“They didn’t care about me,” she continues, voice devoid of emotion, like she’s reciting something detached from herself. “They wanted Finnick. Wanted to know how much he knew, how much he’d be willing to trade for me.” Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve, twisting it tighter. “I told them he didn’t know anything, but they didn’t believe me. They kept saying he would talk if he knew what was happening to me. If he thought they’d kill me.”

A sick feeling crawls up your throat. You grip your arms, trying to steady yourself.

Annie exhales slowly, as if forcing the weight of those memories from her chest. “But they weren’t just trying to break him. They were breaking all of us.” Her voice tightens slightly, but she pushes on. “Johanna—she fought them at first. Wouldn’t give them what they wanted. They stripped her of everything, piece by piece, until she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to steel yourself against the wave of emotions threatening to pull you under.

“And Peeta…” Annie hesitates. “I never saw him, but I heard him. Sometimes, in the halls. The way he screamed… I knew they were doing something different to him. Something worse.” She finally looks at you, her green eyes filled with something raw, something fragile yet unbreakable. “They weren’t just hurting him. They were remaking him.”

A sharp, searing pain twists in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to will away the image of Peeta trapped in the Capitol, his mind being twisted into something unrecognizable. “And Finnick?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie hesitates, and that hesitation alone is enough to make your stomach drop.

“When they realized they couldn’t break him, they made him believe something worse,” she says finally, her voice so soft it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. “They made him believe you left him there. That you abandoned him.”

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“They told him you were never really on his side. That you used him. That he was nothing more than a tool to you.” Annie shakes her head, jaw tightening.

A sharp, visceral pain shoots through your chest, so intense that for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Annie notices. “I don’t believe it,” she says quickly. “And I don’t think—deep down—he does either. But they got inside his head. They took everything he was feeling and twisted it.”

Your vision blurs as a lump lodges itself in your throat. You’ve always imagined the worst, always wondered what they must have done to him, but hearing it like this makes it real. Makes it undeniable.

Your nails dig into your arms as you force the words out, your voice barely holding together. “I would never leave him.”

Annie’s expression softens, but there’s something pained in the way she looks at you. “I know that. You know that. But Finnick… Finnick isn’t himself right now.” She hesitates before adding, “That doesn’t mean he’s lost forever.”

But what if he is? What if the Finnick you love, the Finnick who loves you, is gone?

“I should have—” Your voice breaks, and you shake your head, unable to even finish the thought.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Annie says, her voice firm despite its softness. “Nothing any of us could have done.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like you failed him. Like you lost him.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to keep the tears at bay. “I just want him back.” The words come out fragile, almost childlike. “The real him.”

Annie’s expression softens. “So do I,” she murmurs. “And I think, when all of this is over, he’ll find his way back.”

Neither of you speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say.

Instead, you both stand there, side by side, drowning in the weight of everything that’s been taken from you.

It has been a month since Finnick and the others were rescued. A month of waiting, of hoping, of slowly unraveling under the weight of what has been lost. Finnick and Annie were cleared after two weeks. Johanna still has one more week under observation. And Peeta—Peeta is making no progress at all.

You visit Annie and Johanna most often. It feels easier, in a way. Johanna makes jokes sharp enough to slice through your grief, her bitterness grounding you when you start to spiral. Annie doesn’t say much, but when she looks at you, there is an understanding in her gaze that makes it easier to breathe. Even in silence, she sees you. She sees the way you are trying to move forward, to convince yourself that there is still something ahead of you and not just the gaping void Finnick’s indifference has left behind.

But every conversation ends the same way. No matter how much you pretend, no matter how much you try to stitch yourself back together, you always end up right where you started—wallowing in the emptiness, drowning in the cold distance Finnick has placed between you. Every moment without him feels stretched thin, an unbearable ache that never eases. The man you love is right there, close enough to touch, but it might as well be miles. He does not look at you. He does not speak to you. And if he does, it is with an apathy that cuts deeper than any blade.

Sometimes, when the weight of it becomes too much, you visit Peeta. Maybe because you think if you can bring him back, there’s hope for Finnick too. Maybe because you need to see what the Capitol did to him—to both of them—to remind yourself that this isn’t your fault. But Peeta isn’t Peeta. He flinches when Katniss’ name is mentioned, his voice is sharp, and his words are laced with venom. And yet, all you can see is Finnick.

You see it in the way Peeta looks at Katniss like she is the enemy, the same way Finnick now looks at you. You see it in the way his hands curl into fists when she enters the room, the same way Finnick tenses whenever you are near. You see it in the way his voice is edged with something hollow, something broken, something that does not belong to him. And you remember. You remember the cold detachment in Finnick’s eyes, the way his hands no longer cradle your face but push you away, the way his words are no longer laced with warmth but with quiet, unshakable hatred.

It makes your skin crawl. Makes you want to run. Makes you want to claw at your own chest and rip out whatever it is inside you that still dares to hope. You wish this was just a nightmare, something fleeting, something you could wake up from. But there is no waking up from this. There is only time. And with every passing day, Finnick becomes less of the man you loved and more of a stranger wearing his face.

So you tell yourself that whoever came back isn’t him. That the Finnick you love is still somewhere out there, lost in the wreckage of what the Capitol did to him. That this man—the one who won’t meet your gaze, the one who does not say your name, the one who acts as if you are nothing—is an impostor. A hollow thing trying to be him. Because that is easier than accepting the truth.

Because the truth is, if Finnick is truly gone, you do not know how to keep going without him.

Maybe that’s why everything is starting to blur, the edges of the world dulling into shades of gray. Nothing feels sharp anymore, nothing feels real. You’ve stopped trying to move forward. Instead, you let the grief sink its claws into you, dragging you under, hoping—maybe even begging—that it swallows you whole. Anything to keep from waking up another day, from dragging yourself through the motions, from existing in a world where everything you do, everything you see, everything you feel is stained with the absence of him.

You speak less. See people less. The days pass without meaning, slipping through your fingers like sand. Most of your time is spent in silence, lying on the stiff mattress of your bunker, staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for Finnick. Maybe for something else. Maybe for nothing at all.

But no matter how much you try to numb yourself, no matter how much you try to pretend it doesn’t tear you apart, the truth still sits in the hollow of your chest, pressing against your ribs like a caged scream.

You don’t last like this forever. Although you wish you had. But Coin doesn’t let opportunities slip through her fingers, especially not when she sees potential. And you? You’re efficient. You know weapons, you know how to track, how to move unnoticed. That makes you useful.

So she forces you out of your bunker, shoving you into training, into preparation, until suddenly, you’re being sent out on expeditions. To hunt, to kill, to spy. It doesn’t matter. You don’t ask questions. You just get the job done. Because what else is there to do?

Of course, the others notice. Katniss has been trying to get you to talk, to tell her what Coin is making you do. You learn, unwillingly, that she’s being forced to make propaganda films to strengthen the revolution. The idea of it makes you want to laugh. What difference does a camera make when people are already dying?

But it’s Haymitch who’s the most persistent. And that surprises you.

At first, you assume it’s just boredom. He doesn’t have alcohol to drown himself in, so maybe he’s looking for something else to pass the time. But the more he seeks you out, the more you realize it’s something deeper. He watches you too closely, the way your hands stay clenched at your sides, the way you don’t sleep, the way you barely eat. He sees through you.

And he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Come on, sweetheart, we both know what she’s doing,” Haymitch mutters one day, cornering you outside the training room. “She’s using you up until there’s nothing left.”

You scoff, shouldering past him. “You say that like I have anything left to begin with.”

He doesn’t let you go so easily. His grip snags your wrist, firm but not forceful, just enough to make you pause. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” His voice is quieter now, but sharper. “You’re letting her turn you into something you don’t even recognize.”

You rip your arm free, glaring. “What do you care?”

Haymitch exhales roughly, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “Because I’ve been where you are. And it doesn’t end well.”

You freeze. Something tightens in your chest, but you shove it down, scoffing. “I’m not you.”

“No. You’re not,” Haymitch agrees. “But you’re on the same damn path.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think if you throw yourself into this, if you bleed enough for the cause, it’ll make up for everything? That it’ll bring him back?”

Your stomach twists violently. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, relentless. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch the people you love get taken from you, piece by piece, until you don’t even know who you are anymore?” His jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something old and painful. “I drank myself into oblivion to cope. You? You’re letting Coin use you as a weapon, like that’s any better.”

His words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. Because you know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while now. But admitting it—saying it out loud—that’s something else entirely.

Your throat burns. “You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t.” Haymitch shakes his head, exasperated. “You were Mags’ girl. She would’ve died before letting you turn into this.”

Something inside you cracks at that. You whirl on him, rage and grief twisting together. “Mags is dead.”

“And so is Finnick, if you keep this up,” Haymitch snaps back. “Because when he finally does come back to himself, do you think he’s gonna recognize you? Or are you just gonna be another ghost?”

The words hit deeper than you want to admit. A cold, ugly truth settling in your bones.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the anger, the bitterness, the grief—it’s all rising too fast, threatening to suffocate you. Haymitch sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not saying this to piss you off,” he mutters. “I’m saying it because someone has to.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “So what? You want me to stop?”

“I want you to remember who the hell you are,” Haymitch says. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna lose yourself completely. And I know for a fact Mags didn’t raise you to be some mindless soldier.”

The silence between you is heavy, filled with too many unspoken things. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirs. A flicker of something—doubt, regret, maybe even hope.

Haymitch doesn’t push you any further. He just exhales and steps back, giving you space to decide for yourself. “Think about it,” he says, before walking away.

And you do.

For the first time in a long time, you really do.

The underground bunker hums with quiet activity, a constant murmur of voices and the soft scuff of boots against the cold floors. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of too many people forced into the same confined space. You should be paying attention, listening for updates, but none of it registers. It hasn’t in a long time. Your mind remains distant, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the dull ache of something deeper, something you don’t have the strength to name.

Your feet carry you forward without thought, drawn to a space you shouldn’t be seeking out. Finnick’s cot is just another part of the bunker, another piece of fabric stretched too thin over metal, indistinguishable from the dozens of others. And yet, you always find yourself looking for it, searching for some trace of the past, as if by sheer force of will, you might bring back what has already been lost.

The dim lighting catches on something small resting against the rumpled sheets. A glint of gold, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, stopping you in your tracks before you even realize what it is.

Your fingers close around it almost on instinct, the cool metal familiar against your skin. You don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The weight of it alone is enough to tell you that this is the same locket, the one you once traced with your fingers on nights when the world felt too vast, too cruel. The one that held a piece of you and a piece of him.

The clasp resists when you try to open it, as if the locket itself is reluctant to reveal its secret, but after a moment, it gives way. Your breath catches the moment you see what’s inside.

Your own face, captured in a moment frozen in time.

The sight of it steals the air from your lungs, a sharp ache blooming in your chest. You knew this locket, knew what it contained, but seeing it here, now, in his possession—it doesn’t make sense. If he believed what they told him, if the Capitol had truly twisted his mind against you, why would he still have this? Why would he keep something that tethered him to you?

Your fingers tighten around the locket, the edges pressing into your palm as if grounding you in reality. For the first time in weeks, doubt begins to take root, curling into something almost dangerous.

A voice breaks through the silence, low and familiar, stopping your thoughts in their tracks.

"Did anyone tell you that touching someone else’s stuff is rude?"

The words send a shock through you, and your breath stutters in your throat. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Finnick.

His tone isn’t harsh, isn’t cold or cutting like you feared it might be. It simply exists, filling the space between you in a way that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. After everything—after weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending you don’t exist—he’s speaking to you. Acknowledging you.

Slowly, you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze for the first time since the medical bay. The sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like himself, and yet not at all. The sharpness of his features remains, the familiar curve of his mouth, the green of his eyes—but there’s something different. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his expression guarded in a way that sends a painful twist through your chest.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant noise of the bunker around you. Then, hesitantly, you lift the locket, the gold catching in the dim light as you hold it between you. His gaze flickers to it, something unreadable passing across his face.

He doesn’t snatch it away, doesn’t shove it into his pocket as if ashamed to have been caught with it. Instead, his fingers brush against the metal, slow and deliberate, before he takes it from your grasp. His thumb traces over the worn surface, lingering over the picture inside, his jaw tightening slightly as he studies it.

You watch him, heart lodged in your throat, afraid to speak and shatter whatever fragile moment has formed between you. For the first time in weeks, something shifts in the space between you—not enough to undo the damage, not enough to bring back what was lost, but enough to spark the faintest flicker of something you thought had been extinguished forever.

"Why do you have it?"

Your voice is quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. The question lingers between you, pressing against the silence, desperate for an answer. You need him to say something—anything—that tells you he’s still in there, that beneath all the hatred, all the distance, there’s still a part of him that hasn’t let you go.

Finnick’s brows knit together, his gaze still locked on the locket in his palm as if the answer might be hidden in its worn edges. His fingers tighten around it, thumb tracing the familiar grooves, but he doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches, wrapping around you like a slow-moving tide. The world around you dulls, fading into nothing but the space between you and him. It’s been so long since you’ve had this—just him, just you. Even now, when everything feels different, wrong, broken, you can’t help but reach for what you lost.

Seconds drag into eternity, but you won’t back down. You’ve spent too many weeks pretending you could survive this distance when all you really wanted was to collapse into his arms, to hear him say something that could put you back together again.

Finally, he exhales, the sound barely audible, as if he’s been holding it in for too long. "I don’t know."

His voice is rough, strained, like the words cost him something. For the briefest moment, his eyes soften, something vulnerable flashing through them before it’s gone. He closes them, his lashes brushing against his cheek, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

You watch him carefully, memorizing him all over again. As if you haven’t traced every inch of his face before. As if you don’t already know every scar, every freckle, every shift of emotion that he tries to hide.

He looks exposed beneath your gaze, like the weight of your stare is too much, like he wants to run from it.

“I’ll tell you what,” you say, voice softer than you meant it to be. His eyes open at that, locking onto yours, and for a second, your breath falters. You could drown in that gaze. You always could.

Swallowing, you force yourself to keep steady, to say what you need to say. "Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

"Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

Finnick doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just holds your gaze like he’s caught between disbelief and something else, something heavier. His fingers curl around the locket, his grip tightening for a second before loosening again.

"What truth?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s daring you to say something he won’t be able to ignore.

You take a breath, steadying yourself even as your chest tightens. "That the Capitol didn’t take everything from you."

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "You think you know what they did to me?" His laugh is humorless, bitter, the kind that scrapes against old wounds. "You think you understand what’s in my head?"

"I don’t have to understand it to know that this—" you gesture to the locket in his hand, "—means something. That you kept it for a reason."

Finnick exhales sharply, his fingers flexing, his shoulders rising with tension. "Or maybe I just forgot to throw it away."

The words sting, sharp and cruel, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his body tenses, like he’s fighting something within himself.

"Then do it." Your voice is steady, a challenge. "If it doesn’t mean anything, if I don’t mean anything, then throw it away."

Finnick says nothing. His grip tightens around the locket again, but his hand doesn’t move.

Your throat feels tight, but you press on. "I know you, Finnick. I spent nights tracing your scars on your skin, and so did you. And I know that no matter what they did to you, no matter what they forced into your head, some part of you still remembers."

His breath is uneven now, his gaze flickering away, like he can’t bear to look at you.

"Tell me I don’t matter," you say, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Tell me that locket doesn’t mean anything. And I’ll leave you alone."

Finnick stares at the locket in his palm, shoulders drawn tight like he’s caught in a battle you can’t see. His fingers hover over the clasp, as if debating whether to close it, tuck it away, or crush it in his grip. But he does none of those things. Instead, he just stands there, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor.

You wait, heart hammering against your ribs, but he doesn’t speak.

"Finnick." You take another step, your voice softer now, hesitant. "Please."

His jaw clenches. "You think this changes anything?"

"It changes everything," you counter. "You’ve been pretending I don’t exist, but you kept this. Why?"

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist painfully. "I don’t know," he admits, and for the first time since he came back, he sounds… lost.

It guts you more than the indifference ever did.

You don’t realize you’ve reached for his hand until your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm, familiar, but he flinches like you’ve burned him. He doesn’t pull away, though. Doesn’t shove you aside like you half expect him to.

"You do know," you whisper.

His breath shudders as he finally lifts his gaze to yours. The exhaustion clings to his face, but beneath it, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, of a battle waging inside him.

"You said if I told you that locket doesn’t mean anything, you’d leave me alone." His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nod, forcing yourself to hold steady, even as your chest tightens. "I meant it."

Finnick swallows, gaze dropping to the locket again. His thumb brushes over the worn gold, over the tiny latch that guards your picture inside. Another long silence stretches between you, the tension pulling tight, suffocating.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost miss it—he exhales, "I can’t."

Your breath catches. "Can’t what?"

His fingers tighten around the locket, his shoulders rising with a shuddering breath. "I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything."

The air between you shifts, something fragile and dangerous crackling in the space. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative and unsteady, but real.

"Then stop pretending like I don’t exist," you whisper.

Finnick’s throat bobs as he swallows. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, teetering between fear and familiarity. His lips part, but before he can say anything, a voice calls from across the bunker.

"Odair, let’s go!"

Finnick tenses, something closing off in his expression again. His fingers curl around the locket, hiding it from view, and just like that, the moment shatters.

You watch as he steps back, his face unreadable again. But before he turns away completely, you see it—the way his hand lingers near his pocket, the locket still clutched tight in his palm.

He doesn’t throw it away.

And this time, you let yourself believe that means something.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair #hunger games finnick #the hunger games

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ingeniousmindoftune · 1 month ago

Text

Smoke in the room II

Pairing: Smoke x Stack xblack!reader

Summary: Stack made his choice. But choices have consequences. As he tries to claw his way back into your life, you’re finding something unexpected—something real—in Smoke’s arms.

My birthday gift to yall. 🤍

Part one

Three Weeks Later,

The mailbox lay empty. No letters slipped between its rusted hinges. Your phone screen stayed stubbornly blank—no missed calls, no unread messages. At night you listened for his voice in the long sigh of wind rattling against your bedroom window, but there was only the low whistle of the draft and the distant hum of traffic.

Yet the signs were unmistakable.

On your doorstep, a handful of roses lay discarded—petals shriveled and jet-black at the edges, their sickly-sweet perfume rotting into something sour and mournful. Against the chipped paint of your apartment door, words were gouged in uneven letters, each stroke gouging the wood as if in desperation:

I still feel you. I still love you. Let me explain.

You pressed your palm against the splintered grooves, tasting faint sawdust on your tongue, feeling bruised memories throb beneath your skin. You didn’t want to hear it—not after the nights you’d lain curled and hollowed out by his betrayal, when his fangs had cleaved your trust like iron claws ripping flesh.

You certainly didn’t want to hear it while Smoke was the one who’d held you through it all.

That first night, you’d collapsed onto his couch as though gravity had lost its mind. Your ribs felt raw from sobbing, tears soaking the cotton of your shirt, every breath hitching in the stale, liquor-scented air of his cramped apartment above the neon-soaked corner store. You clung to him—his denim jacket cool against your cheek—while outside, the sky bled pale gray and dawn birdcalls trembled in the gloom. He didn’t offer a single word or movement beyond tucking you closer. He was a silent anchor until morning light bled in through the threadbare curtains.

You hadn’t planned to stay.

But mornings bled into afternoons, and afternoons curled back into nights in a strange new rhythm. Smoke cooked dinners in his chipped cast-iron skillet: garlic and onions sputtered in olive oil, steam curling into the low ceiling. You kneaded stubborn stains from the grout of his kitchen floor, elbows aching, water dripping down your forearms. When you teased him for his dusty vinyl collection—mournful sax solos that seemed to sigh with every note—he’d catch you with a crooked grin, eyes amused but somber, calling you out the instant you tried to pretend you weren’t still raw.

There was a steadiness in him that wanted only your truth—no charades, no half-lies, and no unspoken debts. Something Stack had never offered.

Tonight, the circuit breaker had tripped again. The city beyond your window lay draped in black velvet, streetlights flickering like sleepy fireflies. Smoke struck a match and lit two beeswax candles on the scarred coffee table. Their pale amber flames quivered, casting lopsided shadows over his angular cheekbones and the threadbare tweed of the couch. The air carried the faint tang of melted wax, yesterday’s coffee grounds curled into crusty rings on a saucer, and the distant buzz of neon seeping up from the store below.

You sat across from him, knees drawn tight to your chest, your stained jeans warm against the cushion. Your eyes were rimmed crimson, glassy as wounded birds.

“Do you think he regrets it?” you whispered, voice rasping like gravel dragged across pavement.

Smoke didn’t reply right away. He rolled a spent match between his fingertips, the charred end flaking off into tiny black ash. When the last ember winked out, he exhaled a soft breath.

“He regrets everything,” he said, voice low and reluctant. “But regret doesn’t earn him forgiveness.”

A bitter edge cut through you. “Are you mad at him?”

He lifted his gaze, jaw set, fingers tightening around the matchbox. “I’m furious he hurt you. Furious he broke every promise he ever made. And I’m angry because I know he can’t undo what he’s done—even if part of you still might let him.”

Your chest constricted like stone. “I don’t want to.”

He leaned forward. Candlelight caught the flare in his dark eyes. “Then don’t lie to me.”

You swallowed, the taste of salt and ash heavy on your tongue. “I don’t want to… but I miss him.”

The apartment held its breath. Somewhere down the hall, a faucet dripped in lonely rhythm. Smoke’s voice came again, softer but fierce. “You keep staring at the door, waiting for him to knock. Your hands shake every time you hear footsteps in the hall. He branded you, Y/N. It drives me wild that even with me here, he’s living rent-free in your mind.”

You blinked back tears. “That’s not fair.”

He reached out, sliding a hand across the low table until it covered yours—warm, solid. Shadows flickered across his knuckles. “No. It’s honest.”

In that moment you saw him—not as a stand-in for Stack’s absence, but as Smoke: the quiet strength in his fingers, the steady warmth in his voice, the refuge he’d become.

Something inside you cracked.

Maybe it was the raw ache in your chest. Maybe it was the gentle insistence of his hand. Maybe it was that in a city teeming with monsters, he was the only thing that felt like home.

Your voice trembled. “What if I don’t want to miss him anymore?”

His thumb brushed light circles on your skin. “Then stop listening for him at the door, and start listening to me.”

And for the first time in weeks, you did.

Outside, under a flickering streetlamp, Stack lingered on the slick asphalt. Rainwater pooled at his boots, reflecting the neon glow across cracked pavement. His shoulders sagged—the hunger was gone, the rage locked away. In its place bloomed something raw and all too human.

Regret.

He pressed a hand to his chest, as if searching for the warmth he’d lost. He wasn’t mourning power or control.

He was mourning you.

#black writer #black fanfiction #black writers #imagines #black reader #ingeniousmindoftune #fanfic writers #michael b jordan #black reader x stack moore #stack x reader #stack sinners #smoke and stack #stack moore #elias stack moore #smoke fanfic #reader x smoke

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 7 months ago

Text

I Put A Spell On You.

(Part Two)

Smoke and Rosetta got some makin’ up to do

It was a reflex for him to reach for his revolver. The sound of a withering floorboard caused Smokes to jump up from his sleep and grab it from the side table swiftly.

Click.

He was ready to aim and shoot down. Smokes’ unwavering gaze in that dimly-lit room cased out every dark corner and his ears listened for any signs of an intruder. He had good form and a lethal mental. He’d heard the sound again and instantly he aimed for the floor, finger on the trigger ready to pull.

A low meow followed by a pretty tabby-cat relaxed his tense muscles. Smokes lowered his weapon with ease before silently putting the revolver back on the night stand. His brandy-colored eyes tracked the movements of the cat between his legs, trying to get a feel of who this stranger was. Eventually, the sound of music on the jukebox and Rosetta’s soft snoring helped to steady his breathing and lower his pulse. Smokes reached to flick off the lamp light and carefully settled back into the rickety mattress. He took one look at Rosetta’s sleeping face before staring up at the ceiling.

Imagine rainfall, accompanied by the sound of a warm guitar slowly picking away at the layer of your sorrows, haunting, yet beautiful. A sense of serenity entered his mind, extinguishing the flames that burn his soul. For a moment, Smokes could feel, and think nothing. So brief, yet so long, he felt at ease. The melody carrying him across distant shores, feeling weightless in its entranced groove. He flew with the progression of the song, eyes closed, allowing his emotions to guide his path. Up and down his chest rose. Beyond the murky sky, the white glow of the moon shown through the window.

A dainty hand touched his chest. Smokes reached up to grasp it, rubbing it with his thumb. His bare dick against his thigh began to grow. Smokes brought her hand to his plump lips and kissed her there gently. The bed creaked beneath them. Smokes glanced down within the darkness, his eyes connecting with the sleepy, doe eyes of his Rosey. Her naked silhouette entranced him. The dip of her hip and the way her breasts hung from her chest aroused him to no end.

It was the way her long, deep wavy hair fell over the pillow. The pearls around her neck made her look ritzy and those red-tinged kissers made him salivate to taste her again. She was breathtaking. And Smokes didn’t lie when he meant she’s the most beautiful in N’awlins. Rosetta sat up and Smokes looked up into her heavenly face. Her fingertips danced across the ridges of muscle on his torso, her eyes never leaving his.

“Can’t sleep, daddy?” She says, voice soft and warm.

“That cat of yours woke me up out my sleep, gal…”

“Not you afraid of cats now…”

Rosetta giggled. Smokes chuckled slightly.

“I ain’t afraid of no fuckin’ cat…I’m just…been out there in some shit, baby. This the first time I had decent sleep.”

Rosetta looked towards Smokes’ revolver. Smoke followed her eyesight.

“I want one. My own gun.” Rosetta said.

“Oh?” Smokes sat up, “is that so?”

“Mhm. You can show me how to point that thang since you back home. Remember, you said you would…”

“I did.”

Rosetta sat up and Smokes situated her between his legs with her back against his chest. Grabbing the revolver, Smokes pointed it in a safe direction. A safe direction means that the gun is pointed in such a way that an accidental fire would not cause any harm. Rosetta watched with great interest. Smokes accessed the cylinder, emptying the bullets before clicking it back in place.

“Aight, Rosey…wrap your dominant hand ‘round the handle…use this hand for support.”

Arms outstretched, Smokes helped Rosetta point the revolver straight ahead at a wall covered with peeling paper.

“Straighten ya elbows, doll…no need to cock it, but steady ya breath…finger on the trigger…”

“It feels…heavy.”

“Hm. Imagine it with bullets.”

Smokes grazed Rosetta’s neck with his fluffy lips. The lingering smell of amber and sweat against his broad nose.

“That’s how you do it. I’ll take ya’ out to shoot soon…”

The urge to stuff his fat dick in her again created a tickling sensation just beneath his navel. Smokes felt at ease being with his woman again. He’d never leave her side again. Even if Stacks got in the way.

Smokes gave Rosey a wet sloppy kiss to her neck. She tilted her head and his thick tongue grazed over the rapid pulse in her neck and directly over that spot that got her wet every time. His thicker fingers were groping her breasts. Rosey released a breathy moan before looking back at Smokes, one hand on the back of his neck, forcing his lips against hers.

Their tongues moved in tandem, the squeaky springs of her not so sturdy bed surrounding them. Rosetta spun around and straddled his lap. Smokes kicked the sheets away from him, adjusting his large body to accommodate Rosetta. The wobbly, metal headboard banged against the wall when she flopped down into his lap.

One hand around her neck, Smokes tugged lightly, bringing Rosetta’s lips to his again. His other hand reached between her meaty thighs to feel the heat and dampness of her folds. Smokes growled against her lips. His dick was cast iron hard and read to fit inside her tight snatch again.

“Tilt ‘dem hips…atta, girl,” Smokes tapped her pussy with his big dick, “Time to fuck on this dick again, baby…”

“Yes, Papa…”

Rosetta wiggled her hips down onto Smokes thick pipe and her mouth dropped open in surprise. Smokes popped her on the ass hard, his way of telling her to get all the way down. Fully stuffed, Rosetta grabbed onto Smokes shoulders and with a whirl of her hips and a bounce she rode him on that rickety bed like it was her last time.

The fullness stretching her out made her shout Papa, Papa, Papa over and over. Smokes was too damn big for that bed but he made it work. He dug his heels into the lumpy mattress and with both hands he kept her cheeks spread while pumping up into her as she dropped down. Wet, skin slapping noises mixed with the way the bed jumped and creaked beneath them.

The steel of the revolver pressed against Rosetta’s knee each time she bounced. It was rough like she needed it. Deep dicking in her bedroom beneath the moonlight. Smokes slammed up in her so good Rosetta spread her thighs more to feel it stretch her. She craved the soreness, the way it tugged on her clit, the slight sting of his heavy balls slapping her ass.

Pop pop pop

Smack smack smack

Clap clap clap

“Damn, Rosey, gettin’ real whacky on that dick, fuck.”

Smokes grabbed her hips and helped her bounce on his length like a good little fuck doll. Her wavy hair shielded her eyes and those pretty titties swayed in his face.

“You hittin’ my spot, Big Daddy…you hittin’ it so good…make your pussy cum…make your bitch pussy cum…”

“Rosey–”

“Dig deeper, Papa–”

“Grip this dick and wet it up with that sweet nectar!”

Rosetta choked his dick with her walls and her cum trickled down his dick and over his balls. Hand in her hair, Smokes slammed his lips against hers while thrusting deeper.

He needed her more.

Smokes put Rosetta on her back and her legs in the air. He dived back in that pussy with his toes planted against the mattress. Rosetta clawed his back up and they both watched it go in and out. Smokes savored her nipples with his lips and tongue, ignoring the hollow dents in the wall from the headboard.

He grabbed a foot and stuck her red–painted toes in his mouth. Rosetta was super soaker wet on that dick, creating a large stain beneath her ass.

“I just wanna eat you up and fuck you…”

Smokes stared down at that hairy pussy with her leg thrown over his shoulder. He released a breath that came out like the hiss of a locomotive. That shit looked beautiful. If he could paint a picture of the way his dick all big and long spread her open he would. The sweat and humidity in that room made it hard to breath. All he wanted to do was be in his woman. They’ll crack a window eventually.

Well, I’ve got a meat grinder, it belongs to me

It's got good movements, I use it constantly

I’ve got a meat grinder, it belongs to me

It's got good movements, I use it constantly

You don't like good grindin', you ain't gotta bit of sense

It's been going on ever since the world commenced

If you don't like good grindin', ain't gotta bit of sense

‘Cause it's been going on, ever since the world commenced…

“That’s it, Big Daddy, cum all in your fat pussy…”

“Oh, yeah?”

Smokes folded Rosetta in half and pounded the fuck outta her. She furrowed her brows, chewed on that lip hard, and spread her pussy lips with those red nails like she wasn’t open enough already.

“Smokes! Yes! Don’t stop fucking me! Don’t stop fuckin’ your creamy pussy! Milk it, Daddy! Fill me up! Papa! That good hard dick!”

“Ahhhhhhhh–”

“Smoke…oooh…yes…yes…right there, daddy…don’t stop…ooooo shiiiit, daddy…fuuck….get it, da–DDY…”

Smokes gave Rosetta a heated glare and just like that he was filling her to the brim with his thick semen, painting her walls heavily. Dick slipping out, he painted her clit with more. Smokes rubbed his tip between her folds, eliciting a creamy noise. Their tired breaths mingled. Smokes slipped from the bed and stumbled on his way to the bathroom.

He ran a bath and took a piss. Rosetta perched her gorgeous frame against the doorway, body glistening from sweat and cum. She was a sight to behold. Smokes is a lucky man. A bar of Palmolive sat untouched on the edge of the claw foot tub. While Smokes shook the access urine from his dick, Rosetta opened a jar filled with lavender, rosemary, and chamomile herbs, sprinkling it into the tub.

It was big enough to fit the both of them. Smokes slipped in first and then Rosetta settled in front of him. They used a soap sponge to clean each other off thoroughly. This was serenity. Encased in her sweet embrace.

“I love you, Rosey.” He whispered.

“And I love you…”

——

The smell of bacon and butter wafted Rosetta’s nose that early morning. She sat up, messy hair in her face while she stretched her tired arms above her head. Smokes being gone told her that he was cooking up some breakfast. Rosetta threw her sheets back from her body and snatched a satin robe from a coat hanger next to her bed. Feet sliding into a pair of house shoes, she looked down and noticed deep scratches in the wood paneling.

She would need to cover that up with a rug or get someone to buffer that out. She didn’t want her mama to have a fit.

Rosetta made her way into the kitchen, the tea kettle whistling as she approached. Smokes moved about the small room with a blunt between his lips and his dick out and swangin. Rosetta admired his tight ass before her eyes swept over his muscular back. She could see that he was making bacon, buttered toast, eggs, and grits. Smokes sat the cast iron on the stove and looked back when he’d heard footsteps.

“Mornin’ sunshine…”

He pecked her lips.

“Smells real good in here,” Rosetta stole a slice of bacon, “I’m hungry from all that sex.”

“Gotta feed you then, huh?” Smokes winked at Rosetta.

Rosetta stole the blunt from his lips and took a hit.

She coughed slightly, Smokes chuckling.

“Careful wit’ that there, Rosey…”

She took another hit and blew smoke towards him to taunt him before sticking her tongue out. Smoke tapped her on the booty.

“Sit that pretty tail down. I’m a plate this food up.”

Rosetta settled in a dining chair. She noticed the news paper and fresh milk on the table. He must of gone to grab it. Rosetta grabbed the paper and opened it to read. She crossed one shapely leg over the other blunt between her fingers as she held the paper up.

“A train hijacking?” Rosetta announced with surprise.

Smokes glanced over at Rosetta while her brown eyes were glued to the paper. He packed her plate and walked over, placing it in front of her. Back at the stove, Smokes poured her a cup of tea.

“Jesus, killed everyone on board…”

“Gimme’ some neck…”

Rosetta tilted her lips towards Smokes and he stuck his tongue in her mouth. The grip she had on the paper slipped. Smokes snatched it from her grasp and placed it on the table with a loud slap.

“Eat, girl.”

Rosetta grabbed her fork but her eyes remained on Smokes. He could feel her staring while he situated himself across from her.

��Level with me, Smokes…you know ‘bout this?”

“Don’t know from nothing, gal. Eat.”

“I’ll eat when you talk to me.”

“Ain’t nothin to share, baby. Everything is copacetic…”

“Did Stacks do this?” Rosetta questioned.

Smokes’ fork clashed with the table. He gave Rosetta a pointed look of warning. Letting her know to drop it.

“Wasn’t Stacks. Wasn’t me. Wasn’t nobody to get all worked up over. I’m good. We’re good.”

“Smokes…I don’t want you gettin’ yourself in trouble. It’s enough that Phonzo wants you dead—”

“Phonzo punk ass already dead. Might as well call it what it is.”

Rosetta bit her tongue. She knew arguing wouldn’t get her the answers she needed. She didn’t want Smokes to return and get himself into deep shit. She knew he was more than capable of handling himself, but Rosetta needed him alive, especially if she planned to marry him and have his butterball babies.

They ate in silence, the food tasty. Smokes sensed that she wanted more, so he filled her plate up again and Rosetta thanked him with a small smile and a kiss. Smokes watched her eat while smoking his weed and when she finished he cleaned. Rosetta drank her tea with those smooth and thick ol’ gams teasing Smoke’s eyes.

As he scrubbed, Rosetta spread her legs in that chair and spread her lower lips with her fingers. Sweet pink graced his eyes. Smokes watched her stroke her clit. He was high and horny again. Dick stood out like a flag pole.

“You want daddy to eat that pussy…”

“Mhm,” Rosetta licked her plump lips.

Smokes dried his hands and marched over to Rosetta. He picked her up and walked her to the couch.

“Wait, not here—”

“This Miss. Doris’ good furniture,” Smokes laughed, not caring at all about the sofa, “Good thing it’s covered in plastic…”

Her legs parted like the Red Sea. Hips aching and inner thighs burning. Smokes wasted no time slurping on her pussy with a wet tongue and thick lips. Rosetta palmed the back of his head and mushed his face in it. He had a habit of being loud while eating pussy. She could feel herself creaming on his chin when he latched onto her clit to suck.

“Yes, oh, fuck, mmmm….”

Rosetta frowned her pretty face. She had a face that belonged in movies. A rare beauty. Smokes never took his eyes off of her, not even when she came in his mouth. He stuck his tongue so far up her pussy to catch it all. Her robe had spilled open, revealing that hot body to him again. Smokes reached up and rolled her nipples between his fingers while continuing to feast on her overflowing pussy.

Smokes popped his lips off her clit to stare down at his work, “you betta cum again,” He sucked again before stopping, “Cum in my mouth before I stuff you again,” He slurped her up again and Rosetta moaned out, “You know who this pussy belong to. Not Phonzo, not no other nigga…”

Rosetta had to pick her lip up to stop herself from drooling. Her eyes crossed as another orgasm rocked her body. She closed her thighs around Smokes head, unable to take the licks he was giving her.

“Got me ready to fuck again,” Smokes took it upon himself to bend Rosetta over the couch, “Bend that back…atta girl…daddy’s good girl,” Smokes spread her ass cheeks wide and grunted, “Shit, Rosey…”

He hunched his body and with the power of his hips he sank into that good twat. Rosetta rode his tip before he could even fit in. He popped her on the ass with his wide palm before thrusting up and deep. Already she was creaming on his dick. Smokes had her by the arms as he pounded.

Rosetta had that IT like no other. Pretty ass voice, pretty ass doll, perfect pussy, perfect face. Smokes watched her head loll back and forth from the momentous pounding he was giving her. That back arched and that ass jiggling. Her knees almost slipped from the sofa so Smokes had to fix her and put his hand in the middle of her back to keep her stationary.

“I’m a fuck a baby in you.”

Rosetta moaned and clenched his dick.

“Like that? Like when I tell you how I’m a get you pregnant? Like that, sweet baby? Make me a Daddy?”

“YES!”

“All wet on Big Daddy’s dick.”

“Oh, Jesus!” Rosetta yelped when his hand wrapped around her neck from the front, bucking those strong hips and slapping those big nuts against her clit.

Smokes growled deep and with two staggering strokes he came inside of her again. He abruptly turned Rosetta’s head and plunged his tongue into her mouth.

Crack!

Smokes slipped out of Rosey fast and stood tall. Rosetta turned onto her backside quickly, staring up at Smokes with wide eyes.

“Fuck was dat?”

Smokes moved with a brisk pace towards the window within the kitchen, he peered down past the small glass panel at his car.

“What is it, Elijah?”

Rosetta stood behind him with a worried look etched into her beautiful face. Smokes took deep breaths before exiting the kitchen, Rosetta on his heels. He entered her room and grabbed up his pants, uncaring that his underwear sat on the floor.

“Elijah!”

“Stay here…”

Smokes grabbed up his revolve and loaded it up.

Click.

He stormed out of Rosetta’s apartment and down the small staircase leading into the boutique. As he drew closer, his eyes became wild with anger. He unlocked the door and stormed out into the smelting heat with his gun raised. There, a brick lay at his feet. Smokes bent down to pick it up, his cognac eyes following a trail of broken glass until he came upon the shattered window of his Cadillac.

Some people gathered outside to see what all the fuss was about. Smokes peered at them, eyes accusatory and rageful. He knew it had to be someone from Phonzo’s crew. A cheap shot, but still…Smokes was furious. Chest puffed out, he tossed the brick and entered the shop. Locking it up tightly, Smokes turned to find Rosetta staring up at him with a fearful glance.

“They busted out your window…”

“Ain’t nothin’ I can get that patched up…”

Smokes grabbed Rosetta by the elbow, turning her back towards the stairs.

“Daddy gotta go handle some thangs…I want you to stay put and out the way—”

“I’m coming with you, Elijah—”

“No—”

“YES! Yes the fuck I am!”

Rosetta snatched her arm from his hold and stood firm as she glared down at him on the steps.

“I’m tagging along whether ya like it or not.”

Smokes clenched his jaw. Their eyes danced between each other before Rosetta turned her back at him, climbing up.

——

“Scotch…”

Smokes accepted his glass, adjusting Rosetta in his lap. He sat across from his twin, Stacks, the gold in his mouth gleaming. They were sitting in a bar, the sound of distant chatter and glass in the background. The smoke from the cigars they were smoking billowed out like a thick fog. Rosetta wore a chocolate–brown Blondell dress with pantyhose and embroidered T–Straps on her feet in gold. A cloche hat that had covered most of her hair and much of her face was a last minute accessory since she didn’t have time to fix her hair after sweating it all out fucking.

Smokes’ 8-panel hat sat over his own messy hair and he wore his button down shirt untidy with his white beater on display. Stacks looked dapper in his double-breasted mahogany suit with shiny silver buttons and matching cufflinks. Copper silk tie, and black and brown woven Oxford shoes complete the look. His fedora sat on the table next to him.

The Big Cheese took a sip of his own scotch.

“How was your night with that snow bunny?”

Stacks chuckled, “As good as yours was I’m sure, brother. Lay it on me…Phonzo askin’ to go war? Does he not know who he fuckin’ wit?”

“You know dat nigga stupid, Stacks,” He checks his dominoes, “I got word that he’ll want to meet up tonight. I’m not much for talkin’…”

“Hm,” Smokes puffed on his cigar before speaking, “You thinkin’ the corn field?”

“Dig a ditch or two,” Smokes threw out.

“I’ll get Monty on it.”

Rosetta listened to the twins discuss killing and burying Phonzo and whoever else in a corn field. She shivered within Smokes’ lap.

“How ya been, Rosey? Still singing?”

“Of course,” Rosetta smirked at Stacks, “Still gettin’ into trouble I see.”

“You mean your man here,” Stacks pointed towards Smokes, “He’s the trouble.”

“How so?”

“Go on and tell her how you was in Texas.”

Rosetta quirked an arched brow. Smokes shook his head.

“Takin’ his word over mine ain’t the way to go, baby.”

“Uh-huh.” Rosetta wasn’t fully convinced.

She grabbed Smokes’ glass and took a sip. Rosetta watched the twins play another round of dominoes and catch up before Stacks made his leave. He had to make sure things were in order before tonight. A jazz ballad played and Rosetta swayed her hips in Smokes’ lap. She could feel him poking and the thought of sliding up and down on that pole sent chills down her spine.

“Careful there, Tiger,” Rosetta lifted his chin with her finger, “I still gotta cook you dinner.”

“A meal before I bump off? My kinda lady…”

Josephine Baker–I Love My Baby started playing, her voice projecting in a way that emphasized a higher frequency, leading to a brighter, more nasal tone. Rosetta caressed Smokes’ handsome face while staring deeply into his eyes. She sang along to the words, husky breathy tone drawing him in.

Sometimes we quarrel and maybe we fight

But then we make up the following night

When we're together we're great company

I love my baby, my baby loves me

The spell she had on Smokes brought him to his knees before her. He stared at her with those bedroom eyes and a half smirk while she sang to him in his lap. That smoking hot chassis was enough to make him fuck her right there. Smoke tapped his foot and rocked his head while she serenaded him. Others in the bar watched with wonder while balancing liquor and ciggs.

When the song faded out, Rosetta gave Smokes a slow kiss. A wolf whistle echoed and Smokes removed his hat to shield them from view so he could tongue his woman down.

“If it’s a girl, I wanna name her Ella, after my mama…”

“That’s a beautiful name, Elijah.” Rosetta smiled against his lips.

“If it’s a boy,” Smokes took a sip of his scotch, “Emmett.”

Rosetta swatted his bicep with her dainty hand.

“What was that fa’?!” Smokes protested with a dimpled grin.

“I was thinkin’ the same thing!”

“That’s why you my woman…”

Smokes kissed on Rosetta’s neck causing her to giggle. They were both pleasantly faded.

“Is that Smokes?”

“Ida Mae…”

The curvy dame settled in front of them, dolled up and doused in perfume. The smell of Bergamot, Orange Blossom and Lemon burning Rosetta’s nose. Her back stiffened as she surveyed the woman with her sultry eyes and chandelier earrings. Her dark red lips quirked up into a flirty smile.

“When did you high tail back into Nola?”

“A day ago. Why’s you askin’?”

Ida Mae locked eyes with Rosetta for a second.

“Just missed ya’ that’s all. Stacks back too?”

“Ya’ know it.” Smokes replied, caressing Rosetta’s waist, “This is my woman, Rosetta. Rosey, this here is Ida Mae…”

“Pleasantries,” Ida Mae tilted her head in greeting.

Rosetta’s lips remained sealed.

“She owns that whore house in Storyville.”

“Is that so?”

Rosetta cut her eyes at Smokes.

“Yes, a good business if ya’ ask me. Selling pussy is on the up and up, especially these days. Got too much shit to stress about.”

Was he dipping in pussy she didn’t know about? Why the fuck would Ida do some disrespectful shit and flirt with her man in front of her? Smokes had some explaining to do.

“Well, just wanted to say hello. Good seeing ya’ Smokes…tell Stacks I said don’t be a stranger…”

“Will do, Ida.”

She walked away with a tantalizing sway of her hips.

“You wanna tell me what that was?” Rosetta cut to the quick.

“I ain’t fuck nobody else if that’s what ya’ asking.”

“You fuck Ida? Don’t lie to me Smokes…”

“Rosey, cut it out. Ida and Stacks used to fuck ‘round. Probably still do.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m no sappy bird I can tell. Prolly made a stop to that whore house before coming to me. Been writing Ida to keep that pussy ready—”

“Rosey, shut up.” Smokes said through gritted teeth.

“Shut up?” Rosetta kissed her teeth before pushing off of Smokes’ lap, “Go after her!”

Smokes narrowed his eyes at her.

“I ain’t lying to you, Rosetta.”

Rosetta stomped away towards the exit. Smokes followed after her, catching her before she could open the door. He walked with her in his grasp outside, the afternoon heat unbearable. Already he was sweating profusely. Smokes turned her around to face him. Rosetta pointed her gaze over his shoulder, refusing to look at him.

She could be so damn stubborn sometimes.

“I love you. Only you. You need to understand that and quick,” Smokes spoke angrily so close to Rosetta’s face his breath laced with liquor and a hint of chocolate and black pepper from his cigar wafted her nose.

Rosetta pouted. Smokes gripped her chin tight to make her look him in the eye. He needed her to know he was serious.

“Stop it, hear me?”

“Okay…”

She looked from his eyes to his lips.

“So damn hard–headed…”

He kissed her lips before popping her on the ass.

“I’m a drop you off at the shop, okay? I gotta get this window fixed.”

Smokes made sure Rosetta was settled in her seat before he got in. The drive was less than ten minutes. Smokes made sure she was situated, blowing her a kiss through the glass door of the shop before driving off.

Rosetta’s doe eyes followed Smokes’ retreating car.

She wanted to believe he was loyal to her and only her. He’d always been. Maybe it was her mother’s words making her feel insecure. Her mother hated Elijah. Rosetta planned to cook up a steak dinner for Smokes. Ready to get to it, she climbed the stairs and before she opened her door, she noticed a kitchen knife sticking out of the keyhole.

Rosetta gasped, hand covering her mouth. Fear consumed her as she stood there, staring between the crack of the door and into a pitch black abyss. It was eerily silent. Rosetta took a chance and pushed open the door. The light from the stairwell flooded the room. So far, as she peeked inside, she couldn’t see anyone.

Rosetta stepped over the threshold and grabbed the handle of the knife, tugging it to release. She held the knife out in front of her, hand shaking with nerves. Her glossy eyes bounced left and right. She fully stepped inside, frantically moving her hand along the wall until she felt the string of the lamp light. A pinch of relief flooded her veins when the room brightened.

That was all stripped from her just as fast when a gloved hand slipped over her mouth and the weight of a gun pressed into her hip.

——

Hope ya’ll enjoy part two 😏😌

@hearteyes-for-killmonger @imagining-greatness @chaneajoyyy @uzumaki-rebellion @lisayourworries @ratedbadgal @bombshellbre95 @cancerianprincess @dameshaemonique @6lack-1otus @thickemadame @thickeeparker @stinkalinkkkk @ehniki @electrixt @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @bxolux @sweet2krazee @seyven89 @ispywithmylileye @geemamii @nubianbabee @adoreesun @blackpinup22 @nayaxwrites @cocoa-puffs @dersha89 @honeytoffee @thickianaaaa @modelmemoirs @queenfaithmarie @angelicniah @soulfulbeauty19 @aijha @novaniskye @callmemckenzieee @blowmymbackout @lahuttor @momobaby227 @blackerthings @kenbieee @princessxotwod @palmstreesallday @kokokonako @coolfancyone @soulsparker @richgirlaesthetics

#nahimjustfeelingit-writes #michaelbaejordan #michealbjordan #sinners 2025

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imaginative-joy · 8 months ago

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I was asked to be a guest artist for the @twosidesfanzine recipe book zine and it was with great enthusiasm that I illustrated an Emperor's New Groove themed piece!

The only real prompt I had for this piece was that it had to include the associated recipe (meat pies) and something with the diner from the movie. Otherwise, I was free to be as zany as possible. So I went all out with the craziness! This was an extra-complicated piece with the background, perspective, and multiple characters, but ultimately a good challenge and learning experience. Plus, any excuse to draw the Emperor’s New Groove characters is a good excuse! I kept telling people that drawing Yzma a little off-model is okay so long as she’s scary beyond all reason 😂

@phoenix-downer asked me to participate, and I’m grateful to have had the opportunity! Thank you!!

#the emperor’s new groove #emperor’s new groove #sokai #two sides zine #kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts 3 #emperor kuzco #Yzma #kronk #disney #fanart #kingdom hearts fanart #art #zine #kingdom hearts zine

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koalaflower · 14 days ago

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sae itoshi !

has a thing for kitten play ⋆｡°✩

includes. GRAPHIC smut. afab!reader. kitten play, dom!sae, mating press, penetration, multiple orgasms.

a/n. idk what demon possessed me to write this at 4am but lord forgive me. long fics will make a comeback soon 😚

word count. 730

“hnghh… fuck, sae,” you whine pathetically, hands pushing at his hips to get him to slow down. you were beyond overstimulated, pressed into the mattress and folded like a ragdoll for what seemed like the sixth time that night.

you meant nothing weird by it, really. it was just a silly idea. a little surprise involving cat ears and a heart-shaped collar. you knew about sae’s fondness toward cats, had caught him in the act of stroking their furry little heads when he suspected no one was looking on multiple occasions now. it was cute—the way his fingers glided through soft fur, their quiet purrs masked by hands half the size of their bodies. the complete opposite of how he was handling you now, blunt nails biting into the already reddened plush of your thighs as he fucks you dumb with his throbbing cock.

“this what you wanted?” he asks, hands propped on either sides of your head. “all dressed up f’me.” fingers dig into the groove of your velvet black collar, mesmerized by the soft jingle of the little golden bell around your neck. you were making such pretty faces, lips kissed-red and streaked with saliva. he presses your legs closer against your chest, tilting his hips slightly before pistoning into your g-spot.

“s-sae..! too much… ‘ts too much.” your words fall on deaf ears, each syllable punctuated by a hard thrust. he scoffs, pushing your arching back right back down onto the bed. you shudder violently, legs circling his waist.

his pretty little kitten.

“you can take it.” he doesn’t give you a chance to squirm away, holding you wide open for his hungry gaze to feast on. you sputter out, tired moans staggered by the relentless pace of his hips. “c-can’t—“

he’s had enough of your whining and bitching. honestly, what did you expect? strutting into his room like that? like a little kitty walking into a lion’s den. he just had to have you.

“shut up.” he pulls out suddenly, rough hands flipping you onto your stomach. he presses his hard on flat against your ass, smearing the residual cum from previous sessions around with his pink tip. “gonna stay still ‘n let me fuck this tight little hole, yeah?” you whine, drool dribbling past your lips as he thrusts into you again, filling your insides to the hilt. he groans, eyes fixated onto the point where he ends and you begin, fat length disappearing in and out of your greedy pussy. you’re so tight, wrapping around the base of his cock like a vice.

“fuckin’ whore,” he spits, thumb pulling the hood of your folds back before swirling around the swollen clit. “teasin’ me all night.” despite cumming so many times already, you feel the familiar heat pool in your stomach again, face smothered against the pillow. his hands wrap around your wrists, tugging them back behind you until you’re flush against his chest, gasping.

“fuckfuckfuck,” you cry out, and he can tell you’re close by the way you’re clamping down around him. “gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t take anymore,” he murmurs, head dropping onto your shoulder and kissing the sensitive skin there. he brings a large hand down onto your ass, giving it a hard slap as you cum, gushing all over his cock. thick ropes of hot semen paint your insides as he follows after, kissing away the salty tears on your cheeks.

“s’pretty.” he reaches down, scissoring your pussy open and stuffing all the oozing liquid back in.

he ignores your little whimper, a bead of sweat rolling off the side of his face as reverent hands pull you back to his body. you’re too fucked out to protest, too busy catching your breath and blinking away the haziness to whine when his flushed tip rubs over your puffy entrance again. sae pries your legs apart as far as they go, and god are you a sight for sore eyes—all docile and pliant, tears wetting your lashes, and soft, cat-like ears still firmly in place. he reaches up to flick the little silver bells, cock twitching back to life at the little jingles.

“didn’t think i was done yet, did you?”

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 16 days ago

Note

I know this has been done before but I’d love to see your take on what actually should’ve happened when MC takes crucio for Seb (because his in game reaction nearly had ME thrown in Azkaban for murdering his ass)

You’re a creative GENIUS as always 🤍

Crucio | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Hello Anon! Thank you for the request. I am HAPPY to rewrite this scene, it drives me absolutely nuts as well that there is not more emotional fall out in the game. Fair warning, this is (in my opinion) a more realistic version of events for what I think the trio would have actually done in this situation, so... it's not really a happy ending. But for your sake, Anon, I hope this rewritten version gives you some well-deserved closure for what (I think) should have happened!

Words: ~7,100

Tags: Violence, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Fix-It, Hurt/No Comfort, Angst, NOT A Happy Ending

The room was suffocating.

Ancient stone faces pressed in from all sides, lined with deep cracks as if the very foundation of the room had suffered beneath centuries of agony. The torches, dim and flickering, cast long, restless shadows that along the walls, twisting and contorting into unnatural shapes. It was cold here—not the damp chill of the underground, but something deeper, something that settled into your bones and refused to let go.

The door had sealed shut behind you the moment the three of you had stepped inside. There was no way back. You, Ominis, and Sebastian stood motionless in the torchlight, your breaths shallow, hearts hammering as the silence stretched.

Then you saw them. The faces on the door.

Twisted, frozen in silent screams, their tortured expressions were carved into iron. Eyes hollowed out, mouths gaping wide, they loomed like grotesque sentinels guarding whatever lay beyond. At your feet, the word Crucio was etched into the dust-covered stone, and beside them, bones. Brittle, fragile, the remains of someone who had come here before you and never left.

Your stomach lurched as you backed away, your boots scuffing against the uneven floor. The realization hit you like a blow to the ribs.

Noctua Gaunt.

Ominis exhaled sharply behind you as he came to the same realization, his fists clenched so tightly around his wand that his knuckles had turned white. His entire body was wound with tension, as if every muscle was screaming at him to run, but there was nowhere to go.

Sebastian was the first to move, stepping forward, brows furrowed as he scanned the door. His hand hovered over the carved faces, fingertips tracing the deep grooves in the iron.

The silence stretched, pressing in from all sides. The flickering torchlight cast deep hollows beneath Sebastian’s eyes as he turned, gaze flicking toward Ominis.

“...I’m truly sorry about your Aunt,” he said.

Sebastian's voice carried the right cadence of sympathy, but there was no real grief there. No hesitation, no sorrow laced beneath the syllables. His focus wasn’t on Ominis, not really. It was still fixed on the door, on the grotesque, gaping mouths carved into its surface, on the single word etched at their feet.

You knew that look.

The familiar set of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides as he worked through the problem, calculating his next move. The stubborn, single-minded focus that made Sebastian Sebastian.

You stood between them, between Ominis, who was trembling in the torchlight, his breath growing more unsteady with every passing second, and Sebastian, who was already moving past the horror of what needed to be done and instead working through how to do it. You could see it, his mind racing and breaking it down piece by piece.

“There's only way to get out of here,” Sebastian murmured at length. "...Someone has to cast the curse."

Your stomach twisted. Ominis said nothing.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. “Ominis—”

“No,” The other boy cut him off immediately, voice tight, frayed at the edges. He took a step back, as if putting distance between himself and the door would somehow make it all go away. “No, don’t even—don’t even start, Sebastian.”

“You have the most experience,” Sebastian pressed. “You've cast it before—"

Ominis flinched so violently that, for a moment, you thought he might be sick.

“Do you think I wanted to learn it?” His voice was raw, shaking with something you had never heard from him before, something that sent ice crawling up your spine. “Do you think I practiced it, like some dueling spell?” His breathing hitched. “It was done to me. Over and over and over again, until I couldn’t scream anymore.”

Sebastian swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said finally, softer this time. “I just—”

“I know exactly what you meant.” Ominis took another step back, his breath sharp and shallow. “And I told you, I won’t do it. That curse is the reason I have no family left, Sebastian. Surely you haven't forgotten."

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His grip on his wand twitched at his side. That flicker of hesitation—of understanding—vanished beneath the weight of frustration as his patience snapped.

"We don't have a choice," he hissed, stepping forward. “What do you want me to say, Ominis? That it’s unfair? That it’s horrible? Fine. It is. But if we don’t do this, we’ll die in here, just like Noctua. Do you really want that?”

Ominis’ face twisted. “Of course not—” His voice wavered, then steadied, the defiance in him refusing to bend. “But this can't be the answer. There must be another way—"

“There isn’t another way!” Sebastian snapped, voice echoing off the stone walls. “Or do you think Noctua just missed something? She searched this place for days and still died down here! How long do you think we’ll last before the torches burn out? Before we starve? Before we—” He cut himself off, shaking his head sharply. “No. I’m not dying in here. I refuse to die in here.”

Ominis’ lips pressed together in a thin line. A nerve had been struck.

The weight of that word—dying—hung heavy in the room. It was an unspoken thing, but you could feel it crackling in the space between them, between the two boys who had already lost so much, who had lost the people they loved.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking something off. His next words were quieter, but no less sharp.

"If you won’t do what needs to be done," he said, turning toward you, "maybe she will."

Your heart stopped as Sebastian’s gaze settled on you, dark and unreadable, the torchlight casting deep shadows beneath his eyes.

“You’re the best duelist, after all,” he continued. “You know how to control your magic. So go on. Cast it.”

Your mouth went dry.

It wasn’t just that he was asking you. It was that he believed you could, like it was as simple as lifting your wand. Like it was another spell to master.

You took a step back before you even realized it, your fingers tightening around your wand, not in preparation to cast, but in some futile attempt to steady yourself.

“No.” Your voice was firm, immediate.

Sebastian’s lips pressed together. “You’re saying you’d rather die down here?”

“I’m saying that there are some things worse than dying,” you snapped.

Sebastian’s expression darkened. He took a step forward.

“You act like it’s some great moral failing, but it’s just magic—”

“It’s not just magic,” you snapped, the words laced with something close to desperation. “It’s torture, Sebastian.”

Silence.

Sebastian let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing slightly, voice dropping to something lower. "Surely you’re not delusional enough to think there’s another way."

You bristled.

The way he said it like it was obvious, like you were stupid for resisting, made something coil, hot and bitter, in your chest.

He was still staring at you, waiting for you to see reason, waiting for you to fold under the weight of his words like you always had before. And in that moment—somewhere in the tangled mess of fear and panic and exhaustion—you saw it: The way he looked at you, not like an equal, not like a friend, but like a piece in a game he was playing.

How many times had he used that silver tongue of his to get what he wanted? How many times had he framed things in just the right way, said just the right words to nudge you toward whatever goal he had in mind?

A well-placed compliment, a carefully chosen phrase, a flicker of vulnerability—all of it calculated, all of it deliberate. He knew how to shape his words like a blade and slip them between ribs without the other person even realizing they were bleeding.

And now, as he stood before you, gaze burning, frustration curling tight in his voice as he realized that you weren’t bending this time, you saw him for what he was.

Manipulative. Cunning. Dangerous.

Because Sebastian wasn’t asking. Sebastian never asked. He persuaded. He convinced. He pushed and prodded and coaxed until you thought it was your own idea to follow him. And when that didn’t work, when you refused, he snapped.

He was snapping now.

You took another unintentional step back.

It was small—barely more than a shift of your weight—but Sebastian caught it instantly. His sharp expression flickered, something shifting behind his eyes, something assessing. And then, just as quickly as his frustration had sparked, it was gone.

His entire posture softened. His brows knitted together in something almost apologetic, and when he spoke, his voice was lower, gentler, softer in a way that had worked on you a hundred times before.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Your stomach twisted violently.

There it was. The shift. The recalculation. The sheer audacity of it sent something cold running through your veins.

“I know this is hard,” he continued, his voice measured. “I know it is. But you have to understand, we have to do this. You know that, don’t you?”

Your fingers curled into fists.

Sebastian took a slow step forward, careful, controlled, like you were something fragile he needed to reel back in.

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could handle it,” he murmured.

You could feel it now. The pull of it. The way he was weaving his words around you, drawing you into the rhythm of his logic, making it sound easy, manageable, as if it wouldn’t be you casting a spell designed to make another person writhe in agony.

It would be so easy to let yourself believe him. To let yourself fall into his words and let him make the decision for you. But you weren’t stupid, and you weren’t delusional.

You clenched your jaw, feeling something hot and furious simmering beneath the fear.

“No.”

Sebastian’s expression flickered, just briefly. Then his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to push it down, to keep yourself together. “I’m being ridiculous?” you echoed, voice shaking with something you weren’t sure was fear or anger.

Sebastian let out an exasperated breath, fixing you with an impatient look. “Yes. You are. You’re acting like there’s a choice here.”

“There’s always a choice,” you snapped.

Sebastian scoffed. “Not this time.”

Something inside you cracked. You had followed him down here. You had trusted him. You had stood by him through everything, defended him, helped him, even when you shouldn’t have. And now? Now he expected you to just bend for him. He expected you to do what he wanted, because that was how it always went. Because that was what he had always been able to do—convince, persuade, push. And you realized, with a sick, shattering certainty that Sebastian had never expected you to say no. He had counted on you saying yes. You weren’t supposed to fight him on this. And that made you furious.

“Then you do it,” you bit out.

Sebastian stilled.

For a brief, flickering moment, his face remained unreadable. Then his expression twisted, frustration pulling his features taut, dark eyes flashing as his jaw tensed.

You watched him process it, watched as the words settled. You saw the flicker of hesitation. The barest sliver of doubt. But before you could grasp it—before it could unravel into something real, something human—Ominis stepped forward.

“He doesn't want to either,” He said, voice shaking with fury, his entire body vibrating with barely-contained rage. “Because then he’d have to live with it.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

Ominis pressed on. “You forced us down here,” he snapped. “This was your idea, and now you’re trying to push the responsibility onto someone else so your hands stay clean.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply through his nose, lips parting, but Ominis didn’t let him speak.

“No.” His voice came out raw, his breathing heavy. “Don't pretend you’re some kind of martyr for this. You dragged us into the depths of Salazar Slytherin’s twisted legacy, knowing what might be down here, knowing the kind of magic that could be waiting. And now that the moment has come, now that it requires something real, you don’t want to be the one to do it.”

Sebastian’s fingers twitched around his wand, his whole body rigid. His face was locked in something taut, something unreadable, but there was a crack forming.

And Ominis wasn’t finished.

“You say there’s no choice?” His voice cracked. “There was a choice, Sebastian. There was a choice when you decided you had to see this place for yourself. There was a choice when you dragged us—” he gestured toward you with a trembling hand “— into this and put us in danger, and now you want one of us to cast the curse? You want me to do it?”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, looking away. “Ominis—”

“No.” He said again, and Ominis’ voice was suddenly quieter. More lethal. “The Cruciatus Curse requires intent, Sebastian. It requires desire. Do you really think either of us could mean it?”

Sebastian’s breath hitched. For the first time since this conversation started, since he started pushing, since he started convincing, he faltered.

You have to want it. Not just speak it. Not just mimic the words. You had to mean it.

Did Sebastian really think you could do that? Could he really stand there and expect you to?

Sebastian’s lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing, and you could see the warring thoughts in his head. The quiet realization, the creeping horror at the truth of it.

Neither of you could do it because neither of you would ever want to.

Ominis inhaled sharply through his nose, his hands still trembling. “If you truly believe this is the only way,” he said, voice hoarse, “if you’re so convinced there’s no other choice, then do it yourself.”

Silence.

Sebastian's throat bobbed as he swallowed. His grip on his wand flexed, knuckles going white. His breath came in slow, steady drags, like he was forcing himself to keep his composure, to keep himself together.

You waited. Waited for the moment he would finally see. For the moment his stubbornness would crack, and he would realize how far he had gone, how wrong this had become.

You waited for the Sebastian you loved.

The one who would close his eyes, take a breath, and step back. The one who would finally whisper an apology, an I’m sorry, a we shouldn’t have come here.

But that Sebastian was nowhere to be found.

The seconds stretched, suffocating. The air was thick, dense with tension, waiting, waiting—

And then Sebastian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back, and you saw the moment his pride won. His expression hardened, and his gaze, dark and unreadable, steeled with a determination that swallowed everything else.

Sebastian Sallow had never been good at backing down. And right now, all that mattered to him—all that had ever mattered to him since the moment you stepped into this godforsaken place—was getting into the Scriptorium.

“Fine,” he said. "I’ll do it"

The question now was to who.

You realized it the moment the words left his mouth, the moment the silence stretched and Sebastian’s gaze flicked between you and Ominis, considering. Deciding.

And Ominis... Ominis was falling apart.

He was shaking, his fingers flexing uselessly around his wand like he could barely keep hold of it. You had never seen him like this before, not once.

His face had gone pale—too pale, the color draining from his cheeks so quickly he looked like he might collapse. His breathing wasn’t right, too erratic, too shallow, and his lips had parted just slightly, like he was seconds away from losing it completely.

This wasn’t just fear. This wasn’t the kind of fear that made you wary, or made you hesitate, or made you second-guess.

This was trauma.

A deep, gut-wrenching, unshakable terror that had wrapped its claws around him and would not let go. And you knew Ominis could not handle this. Not this curse. Not again. It would destroy him. So you didn’t think, you couldn’t think. You stepped forward before Sebastian could so much as lift his wand.

“You have to cast it on me."

Ominis turned toward you so fast that he nearly stumbled. “No,” he rasped. “No, you don’t—you can’t—”

“I can,” you said, voice shaking but firm. “And I will. If this is the only way, it will be me."

Ominis let out a sharp, strangled noise. ��Absolutely not—”

“Ominis, listen to me.” You reached for him, squeezing his wrist, and his skin was cold, his pulse pounding beneath your fingers. “I will not let you do this,” you whispered. “I won’t. You've been through enough."

“I can’t let you,” he shot back, voice low, desperate. His chest heaved as he shook his head. “Don’t you understand what this will do to you?”

No. You didn’t understand. Not really.

You could guess, of course. You could try to conjure the worst pain you had ever felt, try to imagine it magnified a thousand times over, twisting into something unbearable. You could picture it—what it might be like to have every nerve in your body set ablaze, your muscles locking, seizing, screaming as if your own skin was trying to peel away from your bones. You had read about it. Heard about it.

But knowing of pain and experiencing it were two very different things.

And yet, it didn’t matter how much it would hurt. It didn’t matter what it would do to you. It didn’t matter that the very idea of it sent ice curling down your spine, cold sweat prickling at the back of your neck.

If it had to be someone, it would not be Ominis. That was the one thing you knew for certain. So you lifted your chin, forced down the tremor in your breath, and turned back to Sebastian.

Your best friend.

He was your best friend. The person you always put first. So even now, even standing before him with the weight of this decision pressing down on your chest, with the cold sweat prickling at the back of your neck, with the torchlight flickering against the stone walls like a living thing, you hoped.

It was foolish. Stupid, even. But you hoped.

Hoped that the weight of your choice would be enough to break through the madness that had overtaken him. Hoped that the sight of you standing still, standing ready, would shake something loose in him, something buried beneath the reckless determination, beneath the single-minded obsession, beneath the sharp, hungry desperation in his eyes. You hoped that he would finally see you, see what he was about to do and who he was about to do it to.

Because whatever else had happened, however far he had fallen, this was still Sebastian.

Your Sebastian.

The boy who had stood at your side, who had laughed with you, fought with you, bled with you. The one who had pressed the heel of his palm against a cut on your arm after a particularly brutal duel, rolling his eyes but murmuring, honestly, you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days. The one who had snuck food out of the Great Hall for you after long nights of studying. The one who had always made sure you were safe.

He cared about you. Maybe not in the way you wanted him to, but he cared. And if there was even a fraction of the boy you knew left inside him, then surely he wouldn’t do this so heartlessly. Surely this would be the moment he stopped, when he would look at you, at you, and realize what he was about to do.

But he didn’t.

Sebastian just exhaled slowly, like he was centering himself for a duel, like this was just another fight.

His dark eyes met yours. There was no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. No last-second wavering. Because Sebastian had already made his choice.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“I shan’t forget this.”

That was all. Just four meaningless words.

No I’m sorry. No I don’t want to do this. No I shouldn’t be doing this to you.

And then his wand flicked.

"Crucio."

Pain.

It hit all at once, slamming through your body like a bolt of lightning, sharp and all-consuming. It tore through you, igniting every nerve, every muscle, everything—a searing, unbearable agony that swallowed you whole.

You barely registered the moment your legs gave out. Your knees struck the cold, unforgiving stone, but the impact was nothing, nothing, compared to the pain coursing through you. Every muscle locked, seized, burned. Your fingers twitched, spasming against the ground. Your back arched violently, your body rebelling against itself, trying to escape something it could not escape.

A scream tore from your throat.

It wasn’t intentional, wasn’t anything but instinct—your body crying out, desperate, frantic, like a wounded animal caught in a hunter’s trap. It wasn’t a sound you had ever made before. It wasn’t a sound you should have been able to make. It was raw. Guttural. And it did not stop. Because the pain did not stop.

It was endless. Infinite. Forever.

Like molten steel being poured into your veins, like your skin was being peeled away layer by layer, like your bones were breaking themselves apart over and over and over again.

The torches blurred. The walls twisted. Your vision swam with flashes of white, red, darkness, and still, still, still the agony tore through you, as if it had always been there, as if this was the only thing you had ever known, as if your body had never been whole before this.

You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. There was only this.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

Your head struck the stone floor, your limbs sprawling uselessly at your sides. Your entire body was trembling, wracked with violent shudders, the phantom pain still crawling over your skin like it didn’t know it was over yet.

You sucked in a breath, then another, your entire frame shaking with the effort. But it wasn’t relief, it wasn’t anything close to relief.

The pain was still there. Something duller, deeper, an ache so profound you could feel it in your bones, like you had run for miles, like you had been held underwater until your body started shutting down.

You couldn’t move. You could barely even breathe.

A sharp sound cut through the haze. Someone shouting.

Ominis.

"Fuck, fuck are you alright?!"

Footsteps—Ominis moving fast, then a sudden, violent shove, the unmistakable sound of Sebastian stumbling back, his breath catching.

You couldn’t lift your head. Couldn’t see. Could barely even process what was happening.

You just breathed sharp, uneven breaths that sent fresh waves of pain rolling through your ribs, through your limbs, through every aching, trembling part of you.

Ominis's hand gripped your arm, fingers digging into you. His breath was rapid, panicked. "Are you alright? Say something—"

You tried. Tried to speak, tried to move, tried to do something to let him know you were still here, but all you could do was shudder.

Ominis’ breath hitched. He rounded on Sebastian.

The crack of his fist against Sebastian's jaw echoed through the chamber, a sharp, brutal sound that sent Sebastian stumbling back, colliding against the wall. For a moment, there was just a stunned silence, a breathless, frozen second in time where neither of them moved, neither of them breathed.

Ominis's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his entire frame shaking with fury so raw it was nearly tangible. His voice, when it came, was a low, vicious snarl, barely more than a growl between clenched teeth.

“You fucking bastard.”

Sebastian didn't move. He didn't react. He just stood there, his hand pressed against his face where Ominis had struck him, eyes locked on where you lay crumpled, trembling and barely breathing.

Ominis grabbed him by the robes and shook him violently. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Do you even realize what you just did?! Do you even fucking care?!”

Sebastian's lips parted, but no words came out. His throat worked as if he were trying to speak, trying to form some kind of explanation, some kind of excuse, some kind of anything—but there was nothing. Nothing but the heavy silence of his own horror, his own realization sinking in too late.

Ominis shook him again, harder this time, nearly throwing him off balance. “Look at her! Look at what you did! You did this, Sebastian! You!"

Still, Sebastian said nothing. He just stood there, silent, frozen, his wide, dark eyes glued to you.

Ominis’ grip tightened, his knuckles white. “You were supposed to protect her, you fucking—”

“...Ominis?"

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the rage like a blade. Ominis let go of Sebastian with a shove and dropped back to your side, his hands finding your shoulders, your face, shaking with urgency.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, his voice raw. “You’re alright, you’re alright.”

You weren’t sure if he was saying it for you or for himself.

You blinked. You could barely lift your head, barely force your lips to part, but somehow you managed to rasp out, “I… I'm okay."

Ominis exhaled sharply, like the words alone had taken the weight of the world off his chest. “We’re getting out of here,” he said, firm and absolute. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Behind him, Sebastian took a step forward.

Ominis's head snapped back toward him, his entire body bristling with something vicious. “If you so much as breathe towards her, I swear on Merlin’s grave, I will kill you.”

Sebastian stiffened. His face was pale, his hands limp at his sides, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something but no words would come. His eyes never left you.

The look on his face was something you had never seen on him before.

Horror. Guilt. Something deeper, something broken.

Ominis carefully slid an arm under you, trying to pull you up, supporting your weight as best as he could. “Can you walk?”

You swallowed against the raw, aching burn in your throat. “No,” you croaked.

Ominis didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll carry you.”

He lifted you with ease, cradling you against his chest. His arms were steady, his grip unyielding, but you could feel the tension in him,the realization that he could only do this—only carry you, only leave this nightmarish place, because of what you had done. Because you had taken the curse. Because the door was open, because you had provided the chance to get out of here at all.

Ominis’ breath came out uneven, his arms tightening around you as if he could hold onto the last few moments before reality caught up, before the guilt swallowed him whole.

But there was no time. No time to think, no time to break. Only time to move, to get you out, to make sure your sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.

Without another glance at Sebastian, without another word, he carried you out of the chamber.

You didn’t remember the journey back.

One moment, Ominis was carrying you, his heart hammering against your temple. The next, everything blurred, and time slipped through your fingers like grains of sand. The cold stone of the Scriptorium melted away into nothingness, the flickering torchlight dissolving into darkness.

When you woke, the world was softer.

Your body still ached, heavy and sore, but there was warmth around you—blankets cocooning your trembling frame, shielding you from the lingering chill of the curse. The scent of parchment, old stone, and something faintly herbal filled the air. The Undercrcoft.

You blinked slowly, disoriented, your vision swimming before settling on the dimly lit space. You were on the couch, the dim glow of torches casting a golden hue over the stone walls. A small table sat beside you, holding a glass of water and an empty bottle of Wiggenweld. The sight of it alone made your stomach twist, both with gratitude and the lingering sickness of pain.

Then you noticed him.

Sebastian.

He was sitting in the chair beside you, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together, his dark eyes locked on you. He looked... wrecked. Hollowed out. There were bruises forming along his jaw, his bottom lip split, and you knew exactly how he had gotten them. But it was his eyes that struck you the hardest: wide, dark, and so desperately, crushingly lost.

And when he lifed his gaze and met yours, something in you recoiled.

It was instinctive, immediate, your body flinching away before your mind could catch up. The moment you realized, you forced yourself still, but you could see the way his face shifted, something stricken flashing in his expression.

You ignored the guilt curling low in your stomach and forced your voice out. “Where is Ominis?”

Sebastian winced. It was a tiny thing, just a flicker in his eyes, but you saw it. And you hated that you saw it, hated that you recognized the way it cut him that your first thought was about Ominis.

“...He went to find Garreth,” Sebastian explained, his voice low, rough. “To ask for another wiggenweld.”

You nodded, or at least, you tried to.

Sebastian didn’t look away from you. Didn’t move.

You weren’t sure what you expected from him—an apology? An excuse? You knew there had been no other way out. The curse had to be cast. You understood that. But the way Sebastian had done it, so calculated, so cold, so utterly without hesitation, was what lingered.

“Are you…” he hesitated, voice catching on something too fragile to name. “Are you in pain?”

It was such a stupid question. Of course you were. You should have snapped at him, should have spat something sharp and venomous in response, should have reminded him exactly whose fault it was that you were in this position. But you didn’t.

Instead, you closed your eyes and swallowed back the bitterness coating your tongue.

“Go away, Sebastian.”

You didn’t open your eyes to see his reaction. Didn’t let yourself look at the way his expression might break.

You didn’t want to see it. You didn’t want to feel anything for him right now. Because you knew seeing his face would undo you, make you want to comfort him, to ease the weight of his guilt, to reach for him even though he didn’t deserve it.

But Sebastian didn’t leave.

He lingered, rooted in place, and then he started talking. The words tumbled from his lips in a frantic, unsteady rush, breaking apart at the edges, spilling into the heavy silence between you.

��I—I didn’t want to—” He shook his head, fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I swear I didn’t want to hurt you. I just, I didn’t know what else to do.”

It sounded like the truth. The words were thin, shaking, breaking apart like glass under too much pressure. But you also knew this: the curse wouldn’t have worked if he hadn’t meant it.

And that knowledge sat like lead in your chest.

On some level, whether he admitted it or not, he had wanted to hurt you. Maybe only for a second. Maybe in the heat of the moment. But it had still happened. He had still tortured you.

Sebastian tried again, his voice rough. “You know me,” he pleaded, words thick with something dangerously close to panic. “You know I wouldn’t—” His voice caught, and he sucked in a breath. It was a mess of static, of raw edges and swallowed sobs.

You did know him. At least, you thought you did.

The Sebastian you had known, the Sebastian you had loved, had always protected you, stood by your side, made you laugh when the world felt unbearably heavy. You had trusted him with every piece of yourself.

But that hadn’t been the Sebastian in the Scriptorium, had it?

And now here he was, sitting before you, looking like a child watching the embers of a fire he had lit himself, too late to smother the flames, too horrified to turn away from the wreckage.

His hands lifted, just slightly, like he wanted to reach for you. But when you flinched, stiff and bracing, he stopped short. His fingers curled into a fist and he pulled away.

“I—I didn’t mean it,” he tried again, but the words sounded weak. “Not like that, not like you think. You have to believe me.” His breathing shuddered again. “I would never— I would never want to hurt you. Not you. Please, please believe me."

You wanted to. But you could still feel it: magic like jagged glass slicing through you, nerves alight with fire, the agony ripping through every inch of your body while Sebastian stood there with his wand aimed at you.

You turned your face away. “You should go,” you murmured.

“No.”

The word came sharp, immediate.

You stiffened.

Sebastian leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His expression was desperate, like a man teetering on the edge of a precipice, terrified of the fall.

“I can’t leave things like this,” he rasped. “I won’t.”

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay steady. “And what exactly do you think is going to happen, Sebastian? Do you think if you just talk enough, if you say the right words, I’ll suddenly forget what happened? That I’ll forgive you?”

Sebastian's jaw tightened. “That’s not— I'm not trying to just say the right words, I'm telling you the truth."

And maybe he believed that, but you weren’t so sure anymore. Because the truth was a slippery thing in his hands. A tool. A weapon. Something he wielded with precision, shaping it to fit whatever would serve him best in the moment. And what did the truth matter, really, when he could bend it like that? When he could make you question your own thoughts, your own memories, your own instincts?

Back in the Scriptorium, you had seen it clearly.

The way he had looked at you like a player moving a piece across a chessboard. The way he shaped his words into something pliable, something that felt real, even when it wasn’t.

You shook your head. “I don’t think you even realize you’re doing it. At least... I hope you don't."

Sebastian blinked. “What?”

You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself. “This. The way you talk, the way you twist things. You’re always convincing someone of something, aren’t you?”

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering to life behind his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Sebastian’s throat worked. “I was just trying to save Anne.”

There it was.

The excuse. The justification. The thing he would always come back to, the thing that would always make everything worth it in his eyes.

You snorted. “At any cost, right?”

His breath hitched, and you knew you had struck something deep. He looked away for a moment, jaw flexing, like he could keep himself together if he just didn’t meet your gaze. “That’s not—”

"You keep telling yourself you didn’t mean to hurt me. But the truth is, Sebastian, we both know you did.” You let the silence stretch, let the words settle in the space between you. “All so you could get into that fucking room."

He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening against his knees. “That’s not fair,” he said again, voice low, strained. “You know I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then why did it work?”

That stopped him cold.

His lips parted, but no sound came. His breathing was shallow, unsteady, his fingers curling in and out of fists. And for a fleeting second, you saw it: the crack in his carefully constructed logic, the moment where the weight of his actions caught up to him.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Sebastian shook his head, his breath hitching. “I—I was desperate. I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t—it isn’t who I am.”

You swallowed against the sharp sting in your throat.

“I think it is.”

His whole body went still. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, and Sebastian looked at you like you had just torn him apart from the inside out.

And maybe you had.

Maybe that was what this was. Not just the end of a friendship, not just the unraveling of trust, but the quiet, gut-wrenching moment where he realized you saw him for exactly what he was.

“I can fix this,” he said, the words spilling out fast and frantic. His hands lifted, palms open, like he was reaching for something already slipping through his fingers. “Tell me how to fix this.”

“You can’t.”

“Yes, I can,” he insisted. “You know I can. I just—” He swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists. “I just need to know what you want me to do.”

There was a plea in his voice, something fractured, something that scraped against your ribs and made your chest tighten.

You wanted to tell him it was okay. You wanted to take away the anguish twisting his features, the way his hands shook in his lap like he could barely hold himself together. You wanted to do what you had always done—ease his burden, tell him what he needed to hear, stand by his side no matter what.

But you couldn’t. Not this time.

“Some things can’t be fixed."

Sebastian flinched like you had struck him.

“No.” He shook his head violently. “No, that’s not—there has to be a way.” He let out a shuddering exhale, fingers tangling in his hair. “I love you.”

The words shattered between you like glass. Your stomach twisted, your heart lurching violently against your ribs.

Sebastian surged forward, not touching you but close, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the storm behind his dark eyes. “You have to know that,” he said, his voice breaking on the edges. “You—god, you mean everything to me. I—I would die for you, I would—I would undo it if I could.”

“Sebastian—”

“Please,” he whispered, eyes wide, wild. “Please, I need you.”

You stared at him, at the way his eyes burned with desperation, at the way his body trembled with barely restrained panic. He meant it. You knew he did. He wasn’t lying, not about this.

But love wasn’t just a feeling. It was a choice. And Sebastian had already made his.

Anne. A cure. The Scriptorium. Even when Anne herself was begging him to stop.

And you had been the price.

Your breath shook as you exhaled. “You can’t fix this, Sebastian.”

““Please,” he tried one last time, voice so quiet it barely reached you. “Please, I—I didn’t have a choice.”

Except he did.

"You did," you replied, turning your head away. "It was you who went looking for Salazar Slytherin's Scriptorium."

Sebastian stilled, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“You always had a choice.” The words felt final as they left your lips. “And you made the wrong one.”

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rhiannonsknife · 3 months ago

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thoughts on nymph!lottie/nymph!yellowjackets?

-🪷

── NYMPH!LOTTIE MATTHEWS & HUNTER!READER

— summary: nymph!lottie x hunter!reader hcs.

— warnings: implied dark content - cannibalism & ‘spells’. blood/mild gore. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni.

❦ nymph!lottie who has been watching you long before you ever saw her.

you think of yourself as the hunter, yet you have been the hunted for far longer than you realize: long before your eyes ever caught the carved symbols in her trees, before your feet wandered too deep into the forest’s grasp, she had already seen you: lottie has watched you move through her woods, a mortal with hands steady on the hilt of your blade, with eyes more attentive than she’s ever seen. she watchedyou track the movements of deer and felt the tension in your muscles as you pulled back your bowstring on your hunts. the others, the men who come to her forest, do not leave. not as men, anyway. she turns them into stags, forces them to run, to feel the snap of their own hounds’ jaws at their heels. it’s only fair. it’s what the wilderness wants.

you are different, though, and lottie finds herself lingering in the shadows of the trees a little longer whenever you pass by.

❦ nymph!lottie who carves symbols into the trees just for you.

those who stumble too far into her domain and find her by accident are rarely granted a way back, however, for you specifically, she makes an exception. instead of hiding from you, lottie lures you to her pond with a subtle symbol carved into the bark with a fingernail. not a map, that would be too easy; it is a challenge, for the nymph’s entertainment. a hunter like you should recognize a trail when you see one.

as lottie expected, you do.

the first time you notice, it is etched into an old oak, half hidden under thick ivy: a triangle, with a circle resting atop its peak, a curved hook at its base, and a single line piercing through its heart. you run your fingers over the grooves, feeling the precision of the mark. you can tell it is not the work of a knife, but something thinner and sharper. inhuman. still, you follow.

❦ nymph!lottie who lets you find her pond.

the path extends longer than it should: the deeper you wander, the stranger the surrounding forest becomes. trees that seemed familiar shift into odd shapes, their branches reaching as if to keep you from turning back, and the sunlight darkens despite the absence of clouds. even time feels unsteady here: what was once an hour of walking could be moments or an eternity. just as doubt creeps in, the trees before you part for a clearing. rays of light filter through the canopy above, reflecting in colorful shimmers against the glasslike surface of the pond that sits at its center. and her.

the nymph stands in the shallows, bare and ethereal, water lapping at the curve of her waist. droplets cling to lottie’s bare skin like jewels, her hair slick against her shoulders, darkened by the water. she is more creature than woman, something not meant to be witnessed by mortals, and yet, you cannot look away as she emerges. suddenly, you understand why men have died for less.

❦ nymph!lottie who catches you watching her.

even though you don’t mean to stare, you simply cannot help yourself. she is unlike anything you have ever seen, an impossible thing, beautiful and terrifying all at once. the stories warn of this, of men who wander too far & look upon things they were never meant to see. those men, you heard, were turned into prey, torn apart by their own beasts. your hounds are close, hiding away beyond the trees. they do not move, waiting for a signal you will not give.

lottie stands in the pond still, unmoving, water reaching just below her thighs, where nothing except for soft skin and coarse hair covers her. despite her nudity, she doesn’t shy from your gaze or tries to conceal herself as any mortal woman might. why would she? this is her forest, her water.

“i was wondering when you would find me,” lottie murmurs without turning to fully face you.

❦ nymph!lottie who moves with the breeze, who might look like a woman, but isn’t your kind.

one moment, she is across the pond, the next, she is beside you. you never see her move. there is no splash, no sound of footfalls against the damp earth. there’s only the shiver that runs through you, as if your body understands something your mind has not yet grasped. bare feet sink into the mossy ground to your left and you feel the warmth of the nymph’s presence before you dare to look.

“curious thing,” she purrs. you’re not even sure you see her lips move. her voice is a noise like the wind in the surrounding trees. it does not sound spoken so much as carried. “do you always spy on creatures you do not understand?”

❦ nymph!lottie who decides to keep you.

you are not prey. what use you’ll be, she’s not sure yet. a guest? perhaps a pet? lottie only knows that you are not meant to leave. not now, maybe not ever. there’s a reason why the forest has brought her such a precious, strong-minded human.

when you open your mouth to utter an apology she tilts her head, unimpressed (and still unfazed by her own nakedness). “look at me,” lottie commands, amused. you obey, though your face burns and everything within you screams at you to avert your gaze.

“you are not the first to find me,” she says, stepping forward. “although you are the first who has not run,” her touch is featherlight as her nails graze the pulse point beneath your jaw from behind. “you are not afraid, are you?”

❦ nymph!lottie who lets you live, only because she knows you will return.

without warning, she closes the space between you, her fingers curling at the nape of your neck as she presses her mouth to yours. this kiss is not meant to be sweet or gentle. it is consuming, hardly even a kiss to begin with, more a claim.

lottie tastes like fresh spring water, cool and crisp, but beneath her superficial tenderness, there’s something else, something sharp. a hint of fangs, perhaps, grazing your lip just before her tongue slips past, parting your lips.

for as long as her lips are on yours, you are no longer yourself. your mind bends beneath the nymph’s touch, your thoughts unraveling, each flickering behind your eyelids. lottie is shifting through you, turning your memories over in her hands, peeling back the layers of you as though she has all the time in the world. she sees your longing, your wants & your fears. she drinks in the way your body aches for her, even as you tremble in place.

then, just as quickly, lottie pulls back, a soft giggle escaping her. “go,” she says, stepping back into the water, her arms spreading as she sinks into its depths. “you will return. i’ve seen it”

❦ nymph!lottie who is right, because you do come back to her.

at first, you try to resist. you tell yourself it was a trick of the mind, a fever dream conjured by exhaustion. you even try to convince yourself you imagined the way she kissed you, the way it hollowed something out within you and left something else in its place.

and yet, you are not the same. there is a pull now, a string wrapped around your torso that tightens with each passing day away from lottie.

you dream of golden eyes watching you through the trees and water licking at bare skin. of lips that take without asking, hands that claim without shame. you wake breathless, aching and soaked, fingers clutching empty sheets for something that is not there.

it is not a choice when you return to the forests, surrendering to the urges she’s planted in you. you follow the path without thinking. your feet know the way better than your mind does, as though you were always meant to walk it, even in your feverish trance. when you arrive, your nymph is waiting, lounging on a sandbank not far from the shore. “i was beginning to wonder when you’d stop fighting it” lottie hums, stretching lazily.

❦ nymph!lottie who knows you’ll come back time and time again.

she does not hold you captive, not in the way mortals might expect. there are no shackles or chains, no desperate pleas to keep you in the forest. lottie doesn’t need them: she smiles whenever you say you must go, watching from the water’s edge as you step back, hoping she’ll tell you to stay. she never does. “you’ll be back,” lottie only says, dragging her fingers across the surface as if already growing bored of your leaving. “you always are”

and it’s true: you constantly end up wandering off to her pond. you even sneak away at night to find her sprawled in the moss, drenched in moonlight, or wading through the shallows, unbothered by time or the chill in the air. sometimes, she watches you amused by your devotion, others, she barely acknowledges you at all, humming softly to herself as if you were always here, beside her and not an intruder.

❦ nymph!lottie who blesses your land and hunts in your abscence.

you don‘t notice at first. not until the third, fourth, fifth time your arrow finds its mark too easily and your traps are always full, like the forest’s animals walk willingly into their fate. there is no logical reason for it, no shift in the seasons or stroke of luck that could explain why everything in your life has suddenly bent in your favor. only your nymph could be responsible for it.

“did you think i would let you starve?” lottie murmurs, lying in the dying light one evening, taking in the last rays of sunlight before it sets. when you don’t immediately respond she sighs as if you are slow to understand, and pulls her arms overhead. “you are mine now,” she explains, her gaze flickering to you. “i take care of what is mine”

nymph!lottie who keeps her own darkness at bay.

it is easy to forget what she is when her bare skin warms against your own every time you lie together. when she braids flowers into your hair and climbs into your lap, straddling you, hands entwining with yours as if to say, see? i am just a girl too. how are you meant to be scared when, around lottie, you feel the bravest you’ve ever been? what are some old tales compared to this? the whispered warnings of nymphs and their hunger, of men who disappeared into the woods never to return? what are they to the feeling of her mouth against your shoulder, to the way she laughs when you try to pull away, when she tightens her grip just to remind you that you will not?

you tell yourself it is only a feeling and that the tightness in your chest is not fear but simply longing. you tell yourself you imagined the other thing, too.

that one day, deep in the woods, you did not stumble upon her crouched over something raw and bloody, the wet sounds of her teeth tearing into flesh filling the air. that you did not see the thing in her hands, still slick, still pulsing weakly between her fingers as she raised it to her mouth. that you did not see her lips part in delight when she caught you watching, her chin dripping red.

you tell yourself you did not feel, for just a moment, like prey. because what is that memory compared to the nymph’s love and to being hers?

— nsfw content below. mdni.

❦ nymph!lottie who lets you bathe with her

it is a slow seduction: each time you come to her, she allows a little more. first, you only sit at the edge, watching as she moves through the water. then, one day, lottie beckons you closer. “come,” she urges. “you stink of the mortal world. let me fix that”

you hesitate and lottie’s head tilts. “shy?”

“no,” you shake your head quickly but still don’t move to undress. lottie meets you at the water’s edge, fingers curling around the hem of your tunic. she lifts it quickly, pulling the fabric up and over your head to bare you to the humid air, then trails her fingers down your sternum, along your ribs. “so many layers,” lottie whispers, her long nails scraping as they go. “why do mortals cover themselves so?”

“we are not made as you are”

“no,” she agrees, watching the way goosebumps rise under her touch. “but you are beautiful”

lottie takes her time with you.

her hands wander lower, tracing reverent paths over the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. you remain still, caught between the instinct to step away and the desire to let her have what she wishes. lottie’s breath is warm when she leans in, pressing a single, chaste kiss to the center of your chest, just between your breasts. it lingers there, like an offering placed at the feet of an altar.

then, she sinks to her knees. it is worship in its purest form, a kind not even your gods could compare to. her palms press against your thighs, her thumbs sweeping slow circles over your skin as she tilts her head back to look at you. her mortal. the one standing before her, stripped down to nothing but delicate fabric.

lottie hums before her teeth catch the waistband of your undergarments, fangs brushing against your skin to tug. you jolt at the sensation, a gasp slipping free, yet her hands remain against your hips, holding you while she peels the last scrap of cloth away with her mouth.

once all of your skin is fully bared, her fingers slide up, ghosting over newly exposed flesh. you know lottie does not touch like humans do; she is a creature of sensation, and she learns you with all of them. her nose presses to the juncture of your hip, inhaling your scent deeply. her lips, slightly parted, do not kiss, only ghost over your navel, tasting the salt of your skin, and her nails scratch at the base of your spine before smoothing over the muscle of your stomach, feeling its rise and fall beneath her palms.

“you were not meant to be covered,” lottie decides, trailing over the curve of your ribs like she’s counting them. “not here. not with me. now come, the water is warm”

❦ nymph!lottie who lures you into the water to wash you clean.

you are convinced she does it on purpose, tugging you deeper into the pond as if you belong there with her and she means to keep you submerged beneath the surface until you forget what air feels like.

lottie carefully presses against your shoulders, guiding you into the pond. the water is warmer than you expected, embracing you fully when you finally sink into its comfort, and the nymph is right behind you, one immortal hand sliding down your spine, along the outline of your body. “strange,” she muses. “for something so fragile, you are quite strong”

lottie roams without hesitation like she always has: free and thoughtless.

you remember, suddenly, the first time you had seen that freedom when lottie stretched out in the grass, one hand between her thighs, head tipped back while she chased a wild release. she hadn’t sent you away, uncaring if you watched. more memories like that one rise from your mind and her wandering hands: her body bared to you, lottie straddling you thoughtlessly, and of the nymph against the slick stone near the falls where you’d found her once, her back arching as she rubbed against it, her moans blending with the wind. lottie never asked you to look, nor did she ever ask you to turn away. she simply existed as she was, unbound by the modesties of mortals.

so when she cups your breasts in her palms, feeling their weight as if your body is just another wonder for her to discover, you should not be surprised. after all, it is not a lover’s touch, it is a nymph’s, who has only ever lived by those instinct.

your breath stutters when she rolls your nipples between her fingers, but your body does not resist. lottie chuckles, pleased. she brushes her thumbs over you, then drags her hands lower.

for all her power, there is something almost childishly human in her curiosity. “it must be exhausting,” she whispers as she touches you “knowing you will not last”

❦ nymph!lottie who keeps you in the water to fuck you.

you’re not sure whether or not she understands what she’s doing, at least, not in the way humans do, but she seems aware enough of her own body and pleasure. you have seen her stretch underneath the sun and move against the earth with a sigh, her fingers unhurried. she coaxes you deeper, step by step, until the water cradles you both and you no longer feel the sharp rocks under your bare feet. lottie is weightless here, so in her element that she becomes an extension of the pond itself, her limbs moving like the current.

her mouth presses against your collarbone, then lower, where her tongue traces over the swell of your breast, curling over its peak. a sharp nip of your nipple makes your breath hitch, and lottie giggles against your skin, delighted by the way your body trembles.

her hands wander again. explore. they have always known you, trailing your spine, ribs, and the strength in your arms and legs. now, they drift lower, between your thighs, where her fingers press and part you. you moan when you feel lottie there, her index and middle finger spreading your cunt open.

weightless in her grasp, she easily lifts you up. held there, above her, you are open to lottie, who strokes between your slick folds and gathers your arousal. when she finally guides you onto her fingers, there is barely any pressure at all, your body gladly accommodating the stretch of her. lottie watches, fascinated by every shift in your expression.

she moves you as she pleases, until your bodies find a rhythm that turns you into a gasping mess, grabbing her shoulder and holding on for dear life each time you’re lifted, then sink back onto two? three? of lottie’s fingers. they are timed perfectly, understanding your body better than you ever did yourself, finding your g-spot each stroke & curl whilst her thumb circles your clit simultaneously.

the stars above blur and you are left with nothing but her, her breath, her hands, her gaze drinking you in.

when you fall apart in her arms, she does not let you go. lottie encourages you, presses when your body thinks it is too much, pulls back when it craves more until you’re uselessly rutting against her palm. “let the forest hear how you appreciate this,” she says then. “come on,”

❦ nymph!lottie whose clearing becomes your sanctuary.

after your first time, it is as if something has been unleashed within the nymph. a hunger, if you will, that is for once not for your flesh. lottie will claim, each time, that it is what the wilderness wants (it wouldn’t even take much convincing for her to have you either way). that, to please nature, it is what must be done. everywhere. all over the earth that she calls her own.

“the wilderness demands an offering,” lottie says, crawling down your body. “blood must be spilled…but i suppose other mortal fluids will do too.” and then she takes you from above, watching your face contort in pleasure in time with her sinking into your cunt until your releases flow from you and your limbs go slack, satisfied.

when lottie fucks you, when your bodies join in the quiet of the woods, it is not just the physical. it is the meeting of the mortal and the immortal, your human and her wild. it is not just a possession but a blending, an offering, as she calls it.

there are countless of these encounters: some in the pond, some with you lying at the water's edge, feeling the gentle waves lick up your calves as lottie’s tongue laps through you, drinking you in. some standing up against the rocks, one leg lifted around lottie’s waist so she can fuck you deeper, others bent over, with the nymph either burying her fingers into you from behind or putting her mouth on you like this, tongue reaching farther than any mortal could.

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