#like I cannot control my expressions for the life of me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

baeshijima · 2 months ago

Text

— be still, my beating heart

the world has a rather cruel way of playing its jokes. it paid you no heed amid your desperation, watching passively as your wings were clipped before you could even take flight. and yet, when you began to accept such a fate, you were given new ones to soar and see the world you once dreamed of. the world may be cruel, but it gave you a new meaning and opportunity all the same.

(despite your newfound content, you almost wish you weren't given so many headaches to deal with.)

INCLUDES : king!mydei ; knight commander!phainon ; scholar!anaxa + knight!reader

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 13.5k wc (sobbing pls give this a chance... it's just a number... haha...), royalty!au, fluff (kinda), angst (if you squint), brief mentions of blood, some lore and character exploration fitted into the au (kinda), underlying darker themes (bc royalty aus are scary at times,,,) but still very much sfw !! i think... slight spoilers for their past/backstories (mainly anaxa's if you haven't played 3.2/read his first character story + some details of phainon's alose mentioned in 3.2) with some deviations

A/N : guess who is pushing their knight!reader agenda again !! for the third time :D once again royalty aus my beloved u will always be famous to me o(TヘTo) (also can u tell who is my favourite haha...)

various!hsr ver.

Becoming a full-fledged knight was never your intention, much less the personal knight of the king himself. If life had gone the way you’d planned all those years ago, you are sure you would have laughed in the face of whoever told you this would be your fate.

After all, you? A knight? For the then-crown-prince-now-king?

You?

Ha! As if you would let yourself become something like… like that. A tool, a pawn, a weapon easily disposed of when the cracks start to become too noticeable and the once sharpened edge too blunt to be of any use.

Honour? Integrity? Justice?

What use is there for such lofty ideals in a world where deceit and poison-laced saccharines and empty promises for something greater, something far beyond the scope of your isolated bubble was the only familiarity you had.

You’ve witnessed it countless times — the noble rise and the disgraceful fall of your kin. Having watched your siblings and cousins be subjected to the almost manic control of your family elders, you swore you would do everything in your power to escape their clutches; even if you had to reject everything you knew and start with nothing once more.

And yet, when your desperate attempts to retain your autonomy began to slip through, when your efforts to diverge and leave your own traces in this world were all but thwarted without a moment’s hesitation, the doubt began to settle like morning mist.

Maybe you were never meant for something greater. Maybe you were destined to be overshadowed by your family’s bygone history, dispirited and made to be forgotten by the elders who loathed disharmony in their control. Maybe this path was always fated to be yours to follow, to trudge in the weathered footsteps moulded in the shape of your ancestry. Generation after generation, stuck in an endless cycle of ash and sweat and metal and the suffocating stench of iron. Never to be free.

In the end, you were just a puppet to be controlled, your prodigious talent for the sword an attribute for them to weaponise.

But then he came in like a raging storm, your once gloomy and hopeless world bursting into a vibrancy you never once thought possible. In a seemingly impossible feat your shackles were shattered, a fate which had never been yours to claim suddenly handed back to you by that outstretched calloused hand and kind gaze unfitting for such a battle-haggard boy. Even so, despite such outward expression being a noticeably stark contradiction to the boy’s sharp features, his smile did not waver, nor did his patience for your eventual acceptance of his hand.

Perhaps you are a hypocrite — perhaps you are a spineless fool who cannot break away from the destiny instilled by those elders. But if this decision allowed you to devote your all to something wholeheartedly, to step into a world where those so-called lofty ideals may not be so out of reach, then you would gladly be one; even if it meant walking down a path carved by the very same wretched footsteps you loathed, the imprint of your own the last to be seen from that bygone legacy.

Side step. Downward strike. Duck. Envision your opponent standing overhead, their sword raised with both hands and ready to strike down. Pivot. Parry with an undercut. When they’re off balance, lunge and strike them at their opening—

“What have I said about overworking yourself?”

At the sudden voice, you startle. Luckily, your sword did not drop, and you breathe a faint sigh of relief before turning to the source of the voice. You shouldn’t have been surprised considering you already knew who would have such a profound voice and presence, but seeing your king leaning against the wall of the training grounds still manages to catch you off guard.

With your independent training now interrupted, the adrenaline guiding you through the motions vanishes. Flexing your stiff fingers, you roll your neck while making your way to the sidelines while trying to ignore the weight behind his accusatory gaze. When reaching the benches, you come to a stop, pick up your water bottle, and give a fleeting glance towards the intruder.

“Your Majesty?” you ask, voice lighthearted in a way that tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind his presence. “What are you doing here?”

He huffs. “That’s what I should be asking you.” Mydei regards you with scrutiny, arms crossed and lips pursed as you guzzle your water. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Well, I asked you first!” Is what you would counter with if he wasn’t your king. Alas, he is. And so the very apparent status difference between you prompts a much tamer response to spill after having wiped off the excess water clinging to your lips.

“Training, Your Majesty.”

…Perhaps you should have gone with your initial response. Had you done that, maybe the ominous clinks of jewellery would not be steadily growing in volume, nor would the brooding aura of an upset king (your king, you must remind yourself, for you alone put yourself in this predicament) be slowly encroaching on your back amidst a suffocating silence. Eventually he comes to a stop behind you, his presence heavy and lying in wait like a predator watching its prey.

You gulp. Is it too late to run? Most definitely. Will you at least try? You’re not an idiot. (You learned from your first attempt that it was useless to try. It was also very embarrassing. Never again.)

With almost robotic-like stutters, your head turns towards your right — towards the shadow currently looming behind you. When your eyes meet, your mind draws a blank. What were you doing? Where are you? Who are you? Why must you suffer like this instead of some other knight?

But then he parts his lips, narrowed gaze and deep-set frown still etched into his features, and suddenly you’re reminded how tough love is your king’s speciality.

“Are you aware how late it is?” he asks, tone firm.

“Um, I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” Had his glare not darkened, you would have thought that answer to be sufficient enough. Clearly it was not, and you scramble to conjure a more sufficient answer. “If I were to guess, however… quite late?”

“Very. Past dinner, no less.”

Oh. You knew time flew while you were training (the gradual darkening of the sky said enough), but to think you missed dinner? Maybe you’ll be able to snag some leftovers if you’re lucky enough. If not, then you will simply pretend hunger is nonexistent and your problem is solved.

Even so, if your king is known for his horrendously stubborn and competitive whims, then two can play that game!

“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “And here I was hoping I could spar with you, Your Majesty.”

At that, he brings a clawed hand to his head before releasing an exasperated breath. “Don’t be foolish, [Name]. It is late. You should get some food, too.”

“What?” you drawl, a grin slowly appearing on your lips. Raising a gloved hand, you try your best to hide your smile from Mydei’s suspicious expression. “Don’t tell me you’re… scared to lose, are you?”

You don’t even get the chance to blink before he is standing before you, eyes closed and a strained, twitching smile stretching his lips.

"A spar, you say? Sure. Let’s spar."

Well, that was easy. Hurting a man’s ego sometimes really is the way to go.

Making your way to the centre of the training ground with your sword in hand, you begin to think maybe this wasn’t the best method. Sure, you got what you wanted and managed to train a little longer, but having a murderous king standing opposite you and cracking his clawed gauntlets isn’t the most pleasant of visuals.

Well, whatever! You asked for this, so you must see it through; even if you won’t hear the end of it from him afterwards.

Taking a slow breath, you adjust your feet’s positioning and shift to find your centre of balance. Raising your sword at eye-level, you exchange a single nod. With a precise step, you close the distance, and—

Clang!

Within a second, your training sword flies out of your grasp and out of sight. A dull thud is heard, but all you are focused on is the glint shining off the clawed, gold-plated gauntlet as it withdraws from the position your sword once occupied.

Silence.

“...Your Majesty,” you start, voice hesitant as you try to process what just transpired. “Is it just me, or do you seem more agitated than usual?”

Mydei is relatively expressionless as he stands upright and cracks his neck, as though it were just a regular Tuesday.

“Hmph. There is no such word in the Kremoan dictionary. It’s because you skipped dinner to train. Again,” he stresses with absolute certainty you’re almost inclined to believe his words. Almost.

Despite how long you have been Mydei’s personal guard, you are yet to see a single dictionary in Kremnos. With how often he uses that phrase, you would think there would be at least ten of them in the royal library, not the figment of his imagination and temperament of an agitated cat to be his source.

But you don’t tell your king that. Instead, you opt to stare at your sword lying pitifully in a cloud of dust on the opposite end of the training grounds. “I see.”

“Do you now?” he asks, an undertone of scepticism woven within his tone. “Because the last I recall you saying that, you continued to skip dinner for your personal training. It is fine to train, but over-doing it and neglecting your health will only harm you.”

“Yes, yes,” you sigh, peeling off your gloves as you bypass him, heading straight towards the outer ring where your water bottle was previously left. “My king’s natural instinct to take care of his subordinates has triumphed once more. I concede.”

“If you know, then start listening to me.” His head shakes at your theatrics, joining you at the sidelines with your once flying sword now securely in his hand. You retrieve it with gratitude before stowing it away securely and taking another sip from your bottle. He lingers behind you, quietly helping pack away the equipment. You’re not sure what exactly is going through his mind, but you are enlightened soon enough.

“Come drink with me.”

You pause, the hand towel pressing against your neck also pausing in its ministrations as you process your king’s words. “You mean your pomegranate juice with goat’s milk?”

He gives you a strange look — all scrunched brows, narrowed eyes, and a downward curled lip. You’re almost inclined to poke the midpoint of his brows and tell him to loosen up lest he wants to get wrinkles early, but, alas, you fancy not being on the receiving end of his unamused stare for a change.

“What else?”

“You’re right. I apologise for assuming there would be something different for once, O fearsome king of— ow, ow, ow!”

Your words are promptly cut off by the biting cold metal entrapping your left cheek. Despite knowing escape is futile, you still try to free your cheek from your king’s bullying. It, as expected, fails, and so you’re left to do what you do best — complain. “What was that for?!”

“For being so cheeky,” he retorts. For extra measure he gives your cheek another squeeze before letting go. You jump away at the presented opportunity and cradle your poor, abused skin, pointedly ignoring his deadpan gaze and huff at your antics. “Don’t worry. There will be an assortment of cheese and other accompaniments as always.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll meet you in your chambers, Your Majesty.”

As you are about to trudge towards your quarters, his figure steps in front of you and blocks the way. When meeting his gaze, you find him already looking at you in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.

“Why?” he asks, and you’re left wondering how this man is the king of a nation.

“So I can have a shower and change into non-sweaty clothes…?”

“Just use my private bathroom.”

“But what about my clo—”

“I still have some of your spares from prior visits. All clean,” he quickly adds, possibly seeing your attempts for a rebuttal.

That fiend. Of course he would look so proud of himself knowing you have no arguments, nor the will to argue, left in you. At this point, all you want is a nice shower and some food, all of which he has offered and knows you won’t refuse.

With yet another defeat fresh in mind you release a long sigh, accepting your fate once more as you begrudgingly fall into step with your king who looks far too pleased with himself, if his satisfied smirk is anything to go by.

Seriously, with how often he calls you into his office and personal chambers for a drink or some food, one might think you’re his personal attendant; you may as well be at this rate!

Well, at least he seems to be in a good mood. In the end, that is all that matters to you.

---

A curse. A sin. A stain upon the royal family’s name. That is what Mydeimos, the once celebrated crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, became known as after the prophecy was foretold. Without a question for the prophecy’s legitimacy, his infantile body was cast aside and thrown into the endless abyss by the man known as his father, King Eurypon, while his mother, Queen Gorgo, died by the king’s treachery after challenging him to a duel shortly after his descent.

…Or so he was told by his teacher, Krateros, who followed after him with the Kremnoan detachment after he resurfaced from the endless depths of that river at the tender age of nine. As it stood, Mydei’s childhood evaded him. He knew he hadn’t led a typical life. He'd grown up fighting endless monsters in an attempt to evade death, learned to read, write, and speak both the common tongue and his mother tongue after nine-years-old, and was forced to adapt his newly undying body to the overworld while traversing the lands. The phantom pain of injuries sustained never faded despite its physical evidence stitched anew without a lasting mark. His senses took a while to completely adjust, the new sounds and sensations leaving lasting remnants for days at a time.

And then would come the nights; the nights where he would dream of the mother whose face escaped him. They came frequently — every night, even. Truth be told, the young prince learned most of his fighting through those dreams. Where his mother awaited him by the flickering firelight, a training session would soon follow. They would spar, him left huffing while she remained unperturbed, and the same conversation would flow without diversion. She would praise him; he would ask why they learn to fight; she would give her response; he would question the philosophy; she would eventually relent and agree with his view, explaining her reasons. And, as in every dream, his mother left with the same parting words,

“I no longer put my faith in any oath or doctrine. Now, I have just one role… That of your mother, Mydeimos. Your guardian…”

And then it would end. And every time, the crown prince would wake up, go about his day with the detachment, and futilely hope for a sequel to his dream. But as was the cycle of life and death, that dream repeated endlessly and without cease. There was no closure, no elaboration of wisdom or guidance she departed him with.

While he never fully understood her words, he continued to traverse the lands with his detachment. Life and death came frequently. Sometimes it would be expected, other times it would grab him by the collar and steal his breath. Regardless of the many partings Mydei witnessed, the pain always lingered. That much never changed even as he became older; he just learned to hide the pain better, to not show any weakness.

His travels eventually led him to the territory of an influential family — one renowned for producing highly capable knights, as well as the budding rumours of the elders’ tyrannical control over their domain. Wealth clearly was not an issue, but rather the skewed distribution between the rich and the poor. The detachment was commissioned to put a stop to their oppressive reign and, after having witnessed the effects first-hand, it did not take long for them to purge the land of its dictators.

And then he stumbled upon you, alone amongst the carnage and debris with a listless gaze directed to your former home and a broken sword discarded beside your kneeled form. Maybe it was the spur of the moment — of your untapped potential or even the budding guilt of wrecking everything you once knew — but he was crouched in front of you with an outstretched hand as the words, “Come. Join me to see the birth of a new king,” escaped him before he could dwell on his next destination.

In truth, Mydei was unsure why he felt compelled to see through the territory’s reconstruction and stability. It was none of his business, and his people were not the patient type when it came to aimless pursuits. And yet, upon witnessing your eyes regain some of its light at his proposal, he found himself uncaring of their protests. He would bring order to the land himself if it came down to it.

Luckily, his men agreed and the restoration was a smooth process over several weeks. Poverty was gradually overturned, a democratic system would be established after their leave, and the people finally experienced peace. They were even celebrated in honour of their feats for freeing the citizens from the suffocating ruling, departing the next morning with you as their newest addition under Mydei’s behest.

(You had nothing left, you’d claimed to him the night of the celebration after sharing a drink, having lost your purpose after being caged for so long. He merely gave you a reason to soar once more.)

From travelling with his group, fighting side by side and experiencing losses together, to usurping the throne under King Eurypon’s ruling, you eventually found your place beside him after his ascension to the throne as his handpicked personal knight. The years flew by — some longer, others shorter. But throughout it all, it hadn’t taken long for Mydei to grow fond of you.

Perhaps it was your lost, broken shell he saw fragments of himself in back then among the carnage and debris which caused the first crack in his heart.

Perhaps it was your innate talent for the sword he witnessed first-hand after sparring you for the first time in the open planes to test your abilities for himself.

Perhaps it was how you gazed at him with purpose and renewed devotion, watching from afar as you dedicated yourself to honing your abilities in an effort to be useful to him.

(You would never be a burden, Mydei found himself thinking once. The very notion itself left an uncomfortable stir in his heart.)

Perhaps it was your expression when you first tried his cooking, him growing bashful in the face of your starry eyes after forcing you to take a break during your self-imposed training.

(Mydei was grateful it was nighttime. God forbid he let you see him so flustered just from you enjoying his cooking.)

Perhaps it was when you stood by his side for the first time not as the comrade he travelled and faced numerous hardships with, but as his personal guard who would forever stand by his side.

(Oddly enough, Mydei anticipated your knighting ceremony more than he did his own coronation. For having been raised with the ideology that overthrowing his father and becoming king was everything, the newly crowned king found himself overwhelmed with something inexplicable when you swore that oath before everyone in attendance, touching your knelt-form’s shoulders with the tip of the ceremonial sword, and handing you the kingdom’s royal insignia to proudly boast on your person.)

Perhaps it was when he spotted you chatting with Phainon back when he was a rookie and not yet the knight commander, who would follow you around like a puppy trailing behind its owner and pester you for the smallest of things; joining you to the water fountain, asking to watch you train, helping you with whatever menial task you decided to pick up for the day, somehow convincing you to be his personal instructor — just whatever routine of yours he could slot himself into.

(It struck Mydei as odd whenever the scene of you both together would cause his heart to clench. It was a pain unlike what he was used to experiencing, more akin to the air knocked out of his lungs and pin pricks settling deep within the beating organ. The mere thought of Phainon having your attention alone was enough to agitate the king, but maybe it was your easy acceptance of the starry-eyed rookie’s presence in your life which hurt a little more.)

Perhaps it was that time you threw yourself in front of him to stop an assassination attempt in his room in the dead of night when all but you both and the assassin were asleep, quickly disposing of him before Mydei rushed to catch your wounded form from hitting the bloodied floor before turning to him asking if he’s alright as though he was the one injured. He’d given a withering stare in response, offering no response as he picked you up and placed you on his bed to patch your fresh wounds.

(He’d given you a stern lecturing, reprimanding you for being so reckless and getting injured as a result. You’d quietened down then and offered an apology but, rather than his unintended harsh words, he’s almost certain it was his trembling hands as he tried to bandage your torso, the subtle shake in his voice he desperately tried to mask as disapproval, and the distraught manner he held you in which made you back down.)

Perhaps it was when he’d caught the way that blasphemous scholar started to seek you out on his own, having always been known to keep to himself unless absolutely necessary, even refusing palace summons were you not the one to personally guide him upon his arrival.

(In the beginning Mydei chalked it up to nothing but a passing curiosity during the scholar’s first visit to the palace, his gaze lingering when you walked away. But when Anaxa started to only ask, or demand rather, for you to be his escort otherwise he wouldn’t come to the palace — despite his personality, his discoveries are still one the best — a strange discomfort welled up within him. Sometimes Mydei thought himself to be petty when intercepting you both during the garden strolls, but when reminded of how that scholar would glance at him over his shoulder with a smirk before resuming his bickering with you, he believed some petty acts can be justified.)

Perhaps it was the days he spent by your bedside, gripping your hand as he barked out for all those well-accomplished physicians to do something to rid you of the lethal poison flooding your system while he could only sit and wait and pray for you to survive this, that you wouldn’t leave him alone. Not when you promised to remain by his side eternally.

(Despite running himself haggard, clinging to the fraying hope you would survive the longer the days dragged on, his wellbeing was nothing in comparison to the choked call of his name, voice hoarse from lack of use and eyes misty as they adjusted to the light. Despite all the words and nags and repressed emotions he all but wanted to tell you — because why would you take such lethal poison meant for him when you knew of his high tolerance? How something like that would have affected him far less than it did you? — Mydei deflated with relief when your cold hand touched his cheek in assurance, clutching desperately to the warmth beginning to seep through your palms as proof of life.)

Perhaps… it was nothing in particular; perhaps it was just you. Unapologetically. Wholeheartedly.

But really, if Mydei were to truly pick a moment where this inevitable downfall of his started, then it would no doubt be the day you were both about to reach the main outskirts with his resistance in tow the night before the Kremnos Festival, his goal to overthrow that man within grasp. The day you pledged to be his entirely.

Mydei had no expectations. He merely followed the path he chose and the fate awaiting him at the end of his journey. He was the crown prince. He was soon to be the king who would govern the land and do everything in his power to bring peace and prosperity to his people. Even if it took unimaginable sacrifice, countless losses, and surrendering his own freedom; everything he desperately wished to avoid in this inevitable power struggle.

He had long since accepted what the rebellion would entail.

And yet there in the heavy downpour did you kneel, one fist clenched atop your soaked heart and the other wrapped around the hilt of your sword wedged in the soil. Mydei could not hear anything happening around him; nothing but your clear voice as you made a vow that changed his life from there on out.

“Allow me to be yours, Your Highness. Your sword, your shield, your confidant, your friend… Whatever it is you need, allow me to assume that role. You don’t need to selflessly sacrifice yourself any longer. I pledge to be yours to use however you see fit, so please allow me to remain by your side eternally and fight for you until death itself forces me away.”

(…How could someone look so sure of themself? How could you say those without an inkling of doubt seeping through? How could you put so much trust in him when he himself had many doubts about his own capabilities?)

It was then, through your clear words and blindingly resolute eyes, did Mydei allow himself to dream once more — to hold onto the hope that, at the very least, you would remain beside him. Selfishly, just this once, he wished to have something to call his own without spilling his entire being for the sake of fate.

And so when he knelt down to match your height and accepted your pledge, the then Crown Prince, soon to be King Mydeimos made a vow to himself; to protect you from those who wished harm on you or tried to get you out of the way in an effort to target him, no matter the route it took to do so. Because regardless of the many potential threats that were to come once he purged the castle, the one thing Mydei refused to give up was you.

“Have you found something deserving of your protection as well, Mydeimos?” He faintly recalled his mother’s voice, the familiar words settled deep within his memory. Despite how long he had travelled with the Kremnoan detachment, Mydei could never give an absolute answer to that question. The answer was always there — just out of reach.

But as Mydei stared at you, your warm smile having melted the frigid rain from his subconscious, he could finally answer his mother’s question with full certainty.

Yes, Mother. I have. When I return home tomorrow, you can rest easy.

(Even now, as he watches in amusement when your lips pucker from the sweetness born from his preferred version of pomegranate juice, he vows to keep you safe from the dangers posed from those beyond this room.)

A languid yawn escapes you. Resting in the shade of a large oak tree secluded from the palace, you allow yourself to relax. Dashes of honeyed marigold slip through the gaps of the leaves and paint your leisurely form in dappled warmth.

Barely anyone knows of this spot other than yourself and Mydei (given the fact he is, y’know, the king and all), so you don’t have to worry about being disturbed in your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet.

Sighing contentedly, you slowly melt further into the lush grass. Now, if only it could be like this every day—

“Fancy seeing you out here!”

…Of course someone would ruin your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet just when you thought about it. A knight never rests as they say, and whatever higher being is out there looking over you seems rather keen on keeping it that way.

Maybe if you just keep your eyes closed they will take the hint and—

“Uhm, [Name]? I know you’re awake.”

…Darn it.

A resigned sigh escapes you. With great reluctance, you peek your eyes open. Through blurred vision you see a figure hovering over you, clad mostly in white, black and gold. Blinking a few more times and gently rubbing your eyes, the hazy outline becomes clearer, the smudged outlines merging into defined lines.

“...Hello, Commander.”

A bright smile lights up Phainon’s expression after your attention focuses on him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in glee. Really, what need is there for the sun when you have someone who is the very epitome of it right above you?

“There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me by my name, you know…”

“I’m merely treating you with the respect you deserve, Commander.”

The young leader visibly deflates upon your insistence, the upright tufts of hair drooping in tandem. His lower lip further juts out in a pout as he mutters, “Sometimes I wish I were still a rookie. At least you called me by my name back then.”

When catching his sulking mumbles, you merely give him a deadpan stare before releasing a low sigh. Hoisting yourself up, you scoot backwards until you can rest comfortably against the base of the tree. Probably having sensed your nonverbal invitation, he wastes no time joining you under the shade, his prior down-trodden mood instantly wiped off and replaced with an unmatched radiance.

Now, you would never outright admit to having favourites among the knights; that would just bring on more troubles and questions than you would like, and you already have your hands full with some of the people you know. Yet — again, never would you admit this to anyone outright — you could never deny the inherent soft spot you have for the young man. Aside from you being the one to introduce him to this haven away from the main palace years ago, it was probably his stubborn charm and constant presence which inevitably made you grow fond of him. He also has rather amusing reactions to certain things, so much so he can be like an open book at times.

A soft rustle. A gentle jab. You’re snapped out of your reverie when strands of white and gleaming cyan appear from your peripherals.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes slightly widened and head tilted in curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” you begin. “Just got caught up a little in my… thoughts…” Phainon blinks and tilts his head once more when your voice trails off. Yet you pay it no mind.

This time, you are solely focused on his looks; more specifically, how unusually dishevelled in contrast to his typically neat and tidy appearance.

While his hair being messy is nothing out of the ordinary, you spy more out-of-place strands than usual, all sticking out in sporadic directions. Despite the light colours taking up the majority of his uniform, it usually remains clean even during training sessions. Yet right now, prominent marks of dirt stain the once snow white of his apparel, his collar and cuffed sleeves slightly askew from their usual position. Despite this contrasting appearance, what holds your attention the most is the dark discolouration located on his wrist.

Perhaps noticing your intense gaze focused elsewhere, his eyes follow your stare.

“Oh. When did that happen?” he says, relatively unconcerned for the bruise blighting his skin.

You frown. “Commander, how did you not notice ”

“I suppose I might have gotten a little distracted, haha…” he trails off, sheepish. There is an awkward laugh as he lightly scratches his cheek, his eyes settling everywhere but on you.

Seriously, how is this guy the leading knight commander?

(…Well, actually, someone who can spar with your king for several days and nights in a row is more than qualified to be a knight commander.)

Without warning, you surge forward. Perhaps caught off-guard, Phainon stiffens, frozen in place as you gently hold his injured wrist and bring it closer, turning it over and lightly brushing your thumb over the amalgamation of deep purples and reds and blues.

“...They didn’t do anything to you, did they?”

Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he encloses his hand atop of yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “I am the knight commander, remember? Compared to before, things are different now. Besides,” he adds with a light smile, “it’s been a long time since then.”

His gaze holds yours in gentle assurance, leaning forward slightly. When remnants of his body heat brush against you, a sudden wave of awareness at your lack of distance has you hastily lean back.

“Really, you need to be more aware,” you reprimand, awkwardly coughing as your eyes resume scanning over him intently in search for other possible marrings on his person. “It’s not good to make others worry so much, you know.”

Okay, so maybe you might sound a little hypocritical — but it’s different when it concerns someone else! At least when you do it, it occurs away from lingering eyes, unlike him who practically prances around in his messy appearance.

When you hear no response, you pause. Typically, this would be when he had some playful quip or sly remark about how you’re not any better than he is to retort back with, often accompanied with that charming, boyish grin and teasing gaze of his. Usually, he would give a playful nudge to your shoulder as he recounts the times he found you dishevelled and roughed up with dramatic flair, often in pursuit of getting a reaction out of you before tending to your superficial wounds with a tender touch.

You find none of his usual antics this time. Instead, when you lift your eyes to meet his, there is an uncanny solemnity in his expression, his once spirited and mischievous gaze now shadowed with uncertainty. And when he opens his mouth after a beat longer than you would have liked, a flicker of doubt flashes briefly across his features before it settles into his shadowed contours, disappearing as though it were never there.

“Does seeing me like this make you worried?”

You blink, confused at his sudden switch in attitude. “Huh? Of course it does. Why wouldn’t I be worried about you?”

A beat of silence.

“I see…”

Something creeps into you then. Slow. Subtle. Discreet.

You’re not sure what it is about him. There has always been a subtle quiet nagging feeling in the back of your mind, whispering there is more to him than he lets on.

Is it that friendly demeanour he automatically has on display regardless of who or what he encounters? Or is it how his expression dims when he turns away, eyes dull and expression grave once he no longer has to put up such charades? Is he even aware how frequently his smile does not reach his eyes at times? How he looks as though something unfathomably burdensome weighs heavy on his shoulders as he plays the part of the hero people make him out to be?

…Does he even realise how worried it makes you when that sullen countenance of his has been increasing in frequency in recent times?

With a resigned sigh, you quickly discard such thoughts. Instead, you pat the space beside you before shuffling back down onto the grass in a comfortable position.

“Rest here,” you clarify, prompted by his furrowed expression spurred by confusion. “No one else other than His Majesty knows of this spot, so you can rest comfortably without worrying about onlookers.”

And when his downcast expression shifts into something far brighter as he readily scoots himself closer beside your seated form, you think it’s fine if he never tells you his story. If he can live the rest of his days free with his past behind him, then there is nothing more you would ask of him.

---

Phainon still dreams vividly of that day.

When he closed his eyes, the screams and the wails and the cries of sheer terror rang loud in his ears.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his father fighting to his last breath with a broken sword in hand.

When he closed his eyes, an all-too familiar heat licked his skin and ebbed away in a brief moment of reprieve in this hellish nightmare before returning with renewed fervour.

When he closed his eyes, his mother was in front of him once more screaming for him to run away all the while being ripped apart by those monsters.

When he closed his eyes, a pungent mix of ash and sulfur and iron burned him from within.

When he closed his eyes, his childhood friends were swallowed by the black tide and turned into the very monsters which destroyed his home.

When he closed his eyes, their voices asked, “Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?”, their anguish and betrayal evident as he steeled his heart and drove his sword through them to grant eternal peace.

When he closed his eyes, her outstretched arm and final smile dissolved into smoke, billowing away with the ashy wind and distant cries.

When he closed his eyes, that harrowing embodiment of the reaper itself stood before him, a grim reminder for what had been done and what he strove to vanquish.

And then he wakes up. When he returns to slumber, the cycle repeats itself.

Phainon can still remember it. All too well.

Even as he journeyed across the lands to find a sense of belonging — to find a reason other than vengeance to pick up the remnants of his former self and piece them back together to feel whole once more — not for a single moment was he free from death’s shadow. It clung to him incessantly, its vice-like grip unforgiving in its grave reminder of his true purpose, of how the happiness he felt throughout his travels were fleeting remnants of his past hopes, of how the simmering anger and inevitable retribution for his people would come to overpower the temporary relief he’d been desperate to seek refuge in.

Regardless of how much he tried to dispel that nauseating voice, Phainon knew it would only be a matter of time until his psyche would give out.

In the end, his hatred would consume him. Entirely. Irreversibly. Unapologetically.

It continued like that for a while: wander from place to place; temporarily stay in a tavern or a makeshift camp; help the locals in whichever manner he could; build superficial bonds with those he encountered; move to the next destination; repeat.

It was a tiring routine, one which led to constant doubts about his own character and the purpose he had in the world when all was dark and silent, but it was a routine nonetheless.

And so he trudged on, roaming the land with but one clear goal in mind: to become stronger to kill that cloaked reaper.

Amid his wandering, he heard through word of mouth the rise of Castrum Kremnos’ new king. Former King Eurypon was slain in the winner’s duel of the Kremnos Festival, the challenger and recently coronated monarch having turned out to be the crown prince thought to be dead years ago. The tales Phainon heard kept piling up: some discussed the prosperity and improvements accomplished after he took the throne, while others spread exaggerated rumours of his feats on the battlefield.

But if there was one thing which stuck to the young wanderer, it was how strong this king supposedly was; the exact quality he strove to improve.

And that was how he found himself in a spar with said king until there was a victor. After much persistance and persuasion to be let in by the guards stationed at the gate, the king himself appeared at the site of the commotion closely followed by you, who Phainon assumed to be the personal knight he’d heard through various gossip.

King Mydeimos was curt in his speech, something Phainon thought went against royal etiquette. (Maybe Kremnos didn’t bother with trivialities such as etiquette?) But it mattered not, for his one and only purpose was to be part of the royal knights in order to get stronger.

“Stronger?” the king scoffed. There was an almost imperceptible mocking bite to his words, but it was soon forgotten when he tilted his head back with a cocky expression. “Then let us see if you are worthy. If you can best me in a duel, I will accept you as one of my knights.”

Contrary to Phainon’s thoughts, the duel lasted ten days and ten nights. They were both utterly stubborn, a feat he thought no one rivalled him in until that duel. Even so, the young man never realised how exhilarating it was to clash with someone of equal match, to be able to go all out without worry. Strength truly was unlike any other quality, both in the merits it brought and the weight it forced upon the wielder.

The duel came to a draw after the tenth night. It was you who stepped in, adamant in your decision even after Mydei’s bitter mutters. You’d approached them both with water and towels in hand. He never noticed how parched he was, nor the sheer amount of sweat and grime which clung to him until your deadpanned once-over.

(He had never rushed to bathe so quickly before in his life. He had also never expected a king of all people to look bashful at their subordinate’s scrutinising stare. The more you know, he supposed.)

The following morning marked his official instatement as a knight. Mydei, though with a rather begrudging acknowledgment, commended his prowess with a brief comment about his expectations before you stepped forward as his tour guide. The tour of the palace grounds was… efficient, to say the least. You showed him all there was to show, not forgetting to include some side quips about areas to stay away from and shortcuts within its grand structure. And just like that, his first day ended with a hearty meal.

The following days gave way to a few discoveries.

One, were all Kremnoans hard to get along with, or was it just those he encountered? Every time he tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow knight (or warrior, as they liked to call themselves), Phainon found himself on the receiving end of either a blank stare, a gruff response of some kind, or the cold shoulder, all of which left him awkwardly laughing on his own. But it was fine! Most of them were responsive in their own way, and there were some who even initiated the conversation before he did!

Two, they took their training very seriously — more so than he anticipated even after hearing about their battle-oriented traditions. In what he expected to be relatively light sparring sessions turned out to be full on tournaments, each opponent going all out in their matches. Considering who their king was, it really should not have been so surprising. (Then again, he himself wasn’t all that different when considering his competitive streak…)

And three, you were different compared to your first impression. While, yes, you came off as rather cold and stand-offish in the beginning, Phainon’s gaze somehow managed to trail toward you. He noticed you were always standing in the distance in some manner; always observing, always alert and at the ready. From what he managed to catch, you cared more than you let on to your peers whether they knew it or not, as shown through the subtle acts you did for them.

But he’d seen it in your eyes — in the way you sometimes spaced out with an all-too familiar shadowed expression as though the weight of the world was a burden too heavy to carry on your own. And, perhaps, you had noticed it in him as well when you allowed him into your space in quiet, reassuring company.

Maybe it was then when Phainon realised he wasn’t alone in this desolate world. That maybe, just maybe, you could both carry this weight together. (Two is better than one, as they say, so perhaps sharing such deep-rooted burdens could help you both as well.)

And for a while, he believed it.

He believed it when you allowed him to follow after you back during his rookie days. Unlike the king’s impressive brute strength, Phainon found himself drawn to the finesse of your swordsmanship. There was an undeniable artistry in the way you fought, your movements fluid and light as though you were dancing in the air itself. He never knew the way of the sword could be so beautiful, so utterly captivating; not until he fought you. Even when he lost there was no voice of self-loathing echoing within his mind, just pure admiration for you and your skills.

(It was then Phainon knew he wanted nothing more than to learn from you. Under your guidance, he was certain his eventual vengeance would turn successful. You were apprehensive at first. Perhaps you never thought to take on a student before him, hence your hesitance. But it was fine. He was nothing if not stubborn, and could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, which became evident when you eventually relented two weeks after his relentless pursuit with a weary sigh. He’d somehow found himself enjoying your company along the way, eventually making it a habit to tag along wherever you went. You never seemed to mind either.)

He believed it when he stumbled upon your anguished form all by your lonesome. It was in the dead of night. He was unable to sleep and decided a late night stroll and some fresh air would do him some good, only to have come across the scene where numerous training dummies laid in tatters while you were hunched pitifully in the centre.

(Phainon detested his inability to move, utterly frozen and helpless at your tormented cries of self-loathing. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to kneel down to your crouched form and tend to your wounds, to provide you a comfort he himself wasn’t even sure he was capable of giving. And yet he could do none of what he desired. Instead he only gazed from the shadows in agony as you abruptly stilled, slowly stood back up, grabbed your previously discarded sword, and resumed what you were doing. He couldn’t remember how long he remained there watching you. By the time he regained his senses, dawn had risen.)

He believed it when you stood in front of him against your comrades without hesitation. Phainon knew it would take some time for him to be accepted by the pre-established knight order. They were all familiar with one another before the current king had taken his throne, having gone through unimaginable sacrifice and loss to get to where they stood. As such, he did not mind when they were particularly harsh during the spars against him. But when you appeared and defended him from their assaults, getting angry at the people you were more familiar with on his behalf, Phainon felt as though a new world had been opened up before his very eyes.

(They just wanted to make sure he was strong and capable enough to protect their land and king. He knew that. As such, he had no qualms with their harsh methods of training, even when his hands trembled and his knees buckled under their relentless attacks. If this would prove himself to them — prove his worth that he, too, had a right to stand and fight with them — then he would endure, and endure, and endure. Phainon never liked to rely on the help of others; if he could help it, he would be the one to help all those in need. And yet, in that moment when all said and done where only the two of you remained in the abandoned training grounds, your form crouched and gaze filled with unimaginable concern for him, Phainon found himself not minding being on the receiving end of your outstretched hand if it meant you would fuss over him like that.)

He believed it when you found him during a particularly rough night and let him find comfort in you. He’d been walking aimlessly in the gardens after one of his recurring nightmares in the hopes of cooling off. Phainon wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting from his decision, but you finding him and offering your shoulder to lean on definitely were not on the list.

(Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness he never intended to show anyone — especially not to you. You were the last person he wanted to be seen as weak to. He wanted to show you the fruits of his labour under your teaching, to show you he was capable of handling whatever was thrown at him. And yet, when you looked at him with that warm, knowing gaze, his head was on your shoulder before he knew it. Maybe… maybe he could allow himself to want something for once. Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish, even if it was just during those brief fleeting moments where only the two of you seemed to exist.)

He believed it when he chanced upon you resting in the garden, your back against the lush grass and head angled towards the sun. He remembered tilting his head at the thought. You always reprimanded him for doing so (“Do you want to go blind?” you would huff and shield his eyes with your hand, unknowing that was the reason he continued such a trivial action), so what spurred you to go against your nags? To find the answer to such a riddle, he took it upon himself to sneak up on you, a cheeky line or two ready on the tip of his tongue to tease you about being a hypocrite.

At least, until he saw what — or rather, who it was you were gazing up at.

Mydei.

Phainon froze, feeling nothing more than a complete outsider.

That was the first time Phainon had seen you so… relaxed? At ease? Happy?

He paused. The word sunk into his conscience, descending into the abyss of his raging thoughts. You never showed such an expression with him. Sure, you allowed yourself to relax in his presence more so than when in others — a feat Phainon held very dear to his heart. You laughed and joked around with him, shed your carefully structured armour the rest of the world was only allowed to see, let him be privy to your vulnerabilities…

And yet — and yet, and yet, and yet — he had never once seen such an expression from you before; you, who seemed so unequivocally content sunbathing with the feared king, who also had an adoring expression the young knight had never seen before.

Phainon would not necessarily call himself a jealous man, nor one who covets what others have. It was ungentlemanly, an ugly vice unbecoming of the chivalrous knight he wanted to be — of who he strived to become. Someone worthy, someone reliable, someone capable of protecting others.

Yet there he was, hidden in the shadows watching from afar with clenched fists, a spiralling mind, and a rotten heart. Amongst the few intelligible thoughts in his chaotic mind, a dark cloud hung above him. Suffocating. Maddening. Unbearable.

Everything he vowed to never become suddenly seemed to be the only voices he could hear. Those revolting voices he once shoved down without a moment’s hesitation lingered a second longer, the words akin to poison-laced honey having sunk into the depths of his psyche before he could snap himself out of the trance and walk away.

If he were to climb to a higher position, to become someone of a more influential status… would he become someone you could rely on like that?

(Even now, as he finds himself fixated on your peacefully dozing form under the oak tree with his hand shielding your eyes from the burning sun, Phainon can only hope that hideous green monster never sees the light of day; at least, not around you.)

Today is not your day.

First, you overslept. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad — after all, who doesn’t need a lie-in every now and then? However, you missed the usual breakfast time, today consisting of your favourites. How did you know that, exactly? Well, your king had ever so kindly enlightened you on such crucial information after instructing you to run twenty laps after showing up to the scheduled training session late. You were rarely late, typically even being an early riser when there was morning training scheduled. But of course on one of the few days you were late, he was there overseeing the session.

(And, of course, since everyone was in attendance he couldn’t let you off without a disciplinary punishment of some kind. Go figure.)

And as if that was not enough, your oh-so beloved king decided to rain on your parade once you finished the laps by reminding you of a certain scholar’s visit, and how you are to once again escort him to the audience room.

Now, you are no stranger to this eccentric man. With how long you’ve been stationed in the palace, it would be more surprising if you weren’t at least acquainted with him. Even more so when considering how familiar you have become with him across the years with his… anticipated visits. At least he always had some rather interesting stories to share each time; some about his students and how “challenged his school of thought” (which he would boast with a proud expression and a rather hearty laugh of sorts), others rambling about how the other scholars in the Grove would get on his nerves with “meaningless drivel” and “unoriginal opinions unbefitting of their scholarly title”, as he would so eloquently put it, as well as even some stories detailing his latest experiments and the progress of ones he had previously shared with you. (And how they blew up in his face. Quite literally.)

Yes, since you’re so familiar with him, surely you wouldn’t have such a hard time finding him, right?

Wrong, apparently. You have been searching for the past hour with no luck — yet another thing added to your amazing day.

“Seriously, where could he be? It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip caught between your teeth as your narrowed gaze sweeps across the palace gardens for the fifth time.

“Ahem.”

Jolting at the abrupt sound brushing against your ear, you whip around with a hand on the hilt of your sword. Upon seeing that familiar nonchalant face, however, your previously tensed and battle-ready form relaxed. A sigh escaped you as you turned to properly face him.

“Oh. There you are, Lord Anaxa. To—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“—what pleasure do we owe this visit of yours, Lord Anaxa?” you continue, smiling at the visibly unimpressed man.

“Pray tell, are you being sarcastic with me right now?” he asks, arms crossed and expression as monotonous as his voice. “I find it hard to believe you happened to conveniently forget the reasons for my visits.”

“I am in no position status-wise to be as such with you, my lord.”

“I see. So you were.”

“Respectfully, my lord, I was not.”

“Your words implied if status were not an issue, you would be sarcastic. Therefore, you were.”

As though sure in his deduction (which was very much accurate, but you choose to not confirm what he already knows), he crosses his arms with a raised chin, narrowed eye, and a haughty huff; you have all but half a mind to strike him with your sword’s handle. But you refrain with all the self-control you can possibly muster. You would never hear the end of it with how much he tails you during his sporadic visits, after all. He complains enough about Lady Aglaea, the most renowned seamstress across the lands as well as one of Mnestia’s most cherished priestesses, and adding what he nitpicks about you? Yeah. No. You don’t need your ears to be bleeding any time soon.

Sure. He’s always been a little… vain? Prideful? Egocentric? Really, Anaxa is a lot of things, his penchant for getting under people’s skin and uncaring demeanour in regards to that being the key dominating factor. Rumours about him spread like wildfire. Some surrounded his rather questionable methods, but most surrounded his blasphemy. After he arrived in Castrum Kremnos for his first official audience with Mydei, you didn’t find anything of what they said in the stoic young man. Even so, you maintained a cordial distance, unwilling to entangle yourself with someone who had the potential to ruin your king’s reputation.

Well, up until you chanced upon him practicing one of his proposals requesting more funding and magic-imbued equipment for the Grove of Epiphany to a stationed dromas, that is. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on him and some of his rather… outlandish propositions meant for his discussion with Mydei, which you would have heard later in the meeting room regardless, but the way he practically waxed poetic in his long-winded speech, paused, then muttered something along the lines of, “No, no. That fool won’t appreciate nor understand such flowery prose. I’ll need to simplify it for him to understand,” all the while feeding and stroking the dromas with an unexpected gentleness struck a chord in you.

After all, someone who treats the dromas kindly in the way he did couldn’t be a bad person, right?

As it turned out, he was just a well-accomplished scholar who could get pretty cynical at times; namely when it came to the matter of the gods. (You’ve heard rumours of one too many complaints officially written by the various temples in Amphoreus. Despite their differing beliefs, they all seem to agree on their mutual resentment for Anaxa, a feat you find oddly impressive considering the sheer number of temples there are in the empire.)

“What has your mind so occupied?” he asks, brow raised and face closer than you last recall it being.

You blink. Once, twice. Without missing a beat, you respond, “I was thinking about how grateful I am to be your escort, my lord.”

“How quick-witted of you,” he says, deadpan. Anaxa straightens up and appears by your side, and you take that as your cue to begin the walk to the audience room.

Contrary to your initial expectations, the walk is relatively silent; peaceful, even. While you find some of his stories to be entertaining (particularly the manner in which he tells them), you feel you deserve some peace and quiet after the morning you had. Ah, the breeze is so lovely—

“So, have you considered my proposal?”

Nevermind. You spoke too soon. The breeze is horrible.

You inwardly sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going from the sheer number of times you have gone through it. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”

Once again, Anaxa regards you with an unimpressed stare. “Are you playing dumb again?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to jog your memory.” With a fist raised to his lips as he gives a — rather dramatic, if you might add — clearance of his throat, the scholar turns to you, a smug grin stretching his lips. “My proposal for you to be my most cherished assistant, of course.”

“Oh,” you begin with a sigh, “while I’m grateful you think so highly of me, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to kindly refuse your proposal. Anything outside of the sword is beyond my capabilities, I fear.”

“Hmph. That’s what you always say. So you do remember after all,” Anaxa accuses, a petulant frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

“Perhaps my answer is just unchanging, my lord. My—”

“—loyalty lies with my beloved king. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, so spare me the theatrics.”

You frown. “Don’t—”

“—speak so dismissively about His Majesty or tarnish his name, lest you want to add treasonous snake to your plethora of nicknames, as well. Yes, I have heard that, too. And here I was thinking you would come up with something new after all this time,” he tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Your eye twitches. It takes every fibre in your being to maintain the strained smile tugging your lips, desperately reminding yourself to maintain composure. “My lord, has anyone told you how insufferable you are?”

Unfortunately, this man has a rather remarkable ability wherein your usual composed demeanour seems like a figment of your imagination.

“Plenty, dear knight. Are you only just now realising that?”

“Regrettably, I am well-aware of your…” you pause, grimacing as you try to find the fitting words, “much-to-be-desired reputation.”

“I’m happy to know you’re so interested in me, enough to be a cause for concern over my wellbeing,” he says. Oh, how you long to wipe that smirk off his face. “Now escort me through the palace gardens. You wouldn’t let a frail scholar such as I wander alone only to become lost in such a vast space or, worse yet, collapse in the middle of it all with no nearby help, would you?”

(‘Frail scholar’ your ass. You’ve seen that man shoot one of those plague-stricken monsters creeping up from behind him with such pin-point precision it would put shame on the battalion — he’s half blind!)

“...You talk too much, my lord.”

“And you, dearest knight, dilly-dally too much. Chop chop, the garden isn’t going to be toured itself.”

Lord almighty above, if my king does not strike down this fiend then so help me.

“You just wished harm upon me, did you not?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Anaxa.”

“That’s Anaxagoras to you. And your expression says it all. See? When you wish for something to besmirch me, your lips tighten. Your fists also tremble as if you wish to punch me — to which I will give you the benefit of the doubt since I still want you to join me. And also…”

…If Castrum Kremnos doesn’t want to see another incident, it better pray this man does not push your buttons any further today.

---

Anaxagoras was no fool.

He knew what it meant when his parents never returned home, their faces having long since faded from memory while his sister was the only one to remain beside him.

He knew what it was like to live in poverty, barely having the means to scrape by and eat what could be afforded from his sister’s measly income as an animal tamer.

He knew what it was like to lead an isolated life, having watched from the shadows of the trees as his peers frolicked the grassy fields while he sat alone picking at the fallen leaves or found companionship in the dromas.

He knew what it felt like to be wronged, that one priest always seemingly furious with his childlike curiosity and doubts about the oh-so revered gods as he was thrown out of the temple time and time again.

Even when he barely reached the early stages of his childhood development where his cognitive skills became more prominent, he still perceived things well-beyond his years. Perhaps a little too much.

Anaxagoras was no fool, and yet, sometimes, he wished he were.

His sister never blamed him for the trouble he knew tended to follow him. The money she could have used for herself was instead split into basic needs and funds to buy the items he looked at for a second longer during market strolls. Books, screws, heavy pliers, delicate scales… These were some of the few items she bought him with the money she could have used on herself; the money she should have used to treat herself more often. Yet she would merely smile and stroke his head, the words, “Your happiness matters most to me, Anaxagoras. The money can always be earned again,” always uttered without fail.

Perhaps that was when his endless curiosity for life itself manifested, her support his sole pillar.

(Despite all the trinkets she bought which he held dearly, his most cherished item would be the dromas stuffed toy hand-sewn by her, it accompanying him to bed every night without fail.)

And when he had ever so boldly declared he would become the most knowledgeable person in the whole empire— no, the whole world, she took him seriously. Despite believing her encouragement at face value, he truly realised it during one of their market strolls when passing merchants talked about the Grove of Epiphany, a sanctuary devoted to the pursuit of wisdom, caught his sister’s interest.

(He’d memorised that name in secret — the Grove of Epiphany. If, somewhere in the future, both he and his sister could attend together… would their lives be a little easier?)

Then one day she’d sat him down and presented a stash of funds she had kept hidden; his travel funds to attend the Grove. When he’d asked if she would join him, she refused, instead insisting she would continue making ends meet and remain in their remote city-state as a home he could return to.

Anaxagoras believed her.

Of course he did. He believed she would always be there waiting for him, on the receiving end of his letters sent during his time in the academy, there to greet him when he returned during the breaks, appearing at his graduation where he could amass the funds to support her after everything she had done and sacrificed for him all those years.

Anaxagoras believed her.

And so despite the heavy heart of their parting — of being separated from each other for the first time — he clambered onto the carriage of her merchant friend and waved until he could no longer see her. Thoughts of what new things he would learn and experience filled his mind as the carriage trekked onward, the prospect of growing his boundless curiosity instilling hope for a better future in the young boy for the first time.

At least, until word of the black tide having struck his home reached him halfway through the journey.

Anaxagoras never knew true fear until he was rushing back. The bile which would not go down no matter how hard he swallowed; the thunderous beats of his heart having drowned out everything around him; the suffocating grip which clawed at his throat.

When he drew nearer to the place he called home, a sense of foreboding rushed through him all at once as he sprinted harder. It came in the form of a creeping darkness, spreading its tendrils far and wide with nowhere to run nor hide. The panic, the tangy metallic scent, the mayhem, the loss of breath, the smoke, the screams and cries and wails and—

And then the silence. When all was laid to rest, young Anaxagoras found himself fearing the silence more than he did the chaos.

He stumbled at the sight of the corroded ruins, his breath knocked out of his lungs when the dread became too unbearable and rendered him imobile. There was no one to answer his desperate cries. There was no one to console him as he weeped amid the debris. There was no one to wipe away his tears as he silently stared at the area his house once occupied. There was no one to reverse time back to when his sister sent him off to the academy and instead take her with him to avoid the tragedy. There was no one to soothe the rage simmering beneath the despair. There was no one — no god — who answered his desperate pleads for help.

He was alone amid the carnage, the destruction his to bear in its entirety.

When the realisation there would be no help struck, that the gods everyone had revered so deeply would never extend their hand to the likes of him, Anaxa knew he had to take matters into his own hands. It was he who controlled his own fate, not the voice of some unseen being. He had to gain power, and what better way was there than to see through to his enrollment in the Grove of Epiphany? It was every aspiring scholar’s dream to attend and receive education there and yet, for the boy who had lost everything with not even the gods on his side, his only motivation was his beloved sister’s wish for him to attend in hopes for a better life.

The enrollment was nothing special. Perhaps it was his family’s connections, or maybe they just saw the talent within him at a glance, but he got in without hassle. The school lived up to its reputation, knowledge found in every nook and cranny if searched for. His teacher, Empedocles, was understanding and kind, his wisdom far beyond anything Anaxa could have imagined before attending the school.

And yet it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more; something he could dedicate his entire being to.

Then, as though the puzzle pieces fell into place, he came to learn of Thalesus, the First Scholar’s, theory of souls, and how life, as well as the composition, movement, and transformation of matter, all stem from souls themselves. Alchemy, he came to realise, and how it could be the answer he had been searching for all along. After all, since all living things had the same origin, why would he be unable to sacrifice himself to resurrect his sister?

It was the rope he clung to without hesitation, throwing himself into alchemy without pause. His teacher voiced his concerns, but Anaxa took little heed. This was his path — this is what his purpose was for.

Then one day, he succeeded. His left eye was no more, but he managed to see his sister once more… Even if it was for a brief moment. A moment in which she did not say anything, but just the sight of her one last time was enough for him. That momentary exchange soothed his ailed heart in a way he nearly forgot about, and he was able to give a proper send-off with closure.

Despite the resurrection not happening the way he’d planned, Anaxa discovered a new path after his desire had been laid to rest. To continue the study of souls and prove the scholars of the Grove truly knew nothing about the First Scholar’s depth of study.

His achievements soon racked up. He soared academically, brought new ideologies and questioned the tried-and-true. The matter of the gods, however, was what sullied his name.

The Foolish. Demised Scholar. The Great Performer. “A dromas wrapped in finery.” (He never knew why people thought the latter title to be an insult. If anything, Anaxa took that one as a compliment.) He gained many aliases throughout his academic pursuit, but what did that matter? All it meant was people were acutely aware of him, and that was the greatest gift he could have when his whole purpose was to educate them on the real truth of the world.

And when he was soon to establish his own school, the Nousporists, Anaxa was sent as a representative of the Grove of Epiphany to Castrum Kremnos to establish communications. It was there he met you; the personal knight of the newly crowned king.

He hadn’t thought much of you at first. You were merely doing your job to guide him through the palace grounds, ensuring he wasn’t led astray. You hadn’t talked much either. Not that he minded; in fact, he was rather grateful you weren’t the overly chatty type to talk his ear off (there were enough of those back in the Grove as it was). The escort was quick with no detours. Simple and efficient.

He appreciated it, truly. And yet, when you walked away with a quick bow and respectful, “I wish you a pleasant audience, Lord Anaxagoras,” his gaze followed you even after you’d rounded off and disappeared behind a corner. It was an inexplicable feeling, that long-forgotten emptiness back when he lost everything having abruptly resurfaced with your departure.

But he shook it off and walked into the audience room where the recently ascended king awaited. It was merely a scholar’s curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.

It didn’t take long to note your habits during the two week-long stay at the palace.

Through observation, Anaxa came to realise your tendency to linger in the gardens when you had no immediate duties. With how stoic and business-like you were, it never occurred to him how gentle your expression could become when cradling the flowers. Sometimes when he would take a stroll by himself, he would catch you dozing peacefully under a large tree, your armour shed for lighter and more comfortable clothing.

(Heh. For someone so rigid, you sure had a knack for finding ways to slack off. It was rather amusing when he frequented you more often, sometimes choosing to reveal himself while other times he remained hidden and observed from afar.)

He also observed your rather bad habit of overworking yourself late into the night. He never meant to snoop, but when the crisp sound of a sword slicing through air and haggard pants could be heard in the stagnant evenings, it was natural to let curiosity guide its course. Had it not been for curiosity, he would have never stumbled upon your moments of weakness, where frustration took you by the throat and reduced you to a crumpled heap in the training grounds and he could only watch from behind a pillar.

(Hmph. Really, you were already skilled enough as it was — more so than any knight he had ever seen. Seeing you tell yourself to be better, that you would never be able to protect anyone at this rate… a strange pang pierced in his chest at the thought of you doubting yourself.)

He also noticed how he was the only one you would call by name. Your lower status with the king forbade you from saying anything other than “Your Majesty” or “His Majesty” and, despite how familiar the overly friendly rookie knight seemed to be with you, you rarely addressed him by name. In fact, Anaxa heard his name uttered by your lips more times than that knight’s! Phainon, if he recalled correctly.

(Truthfully, Anaxagoras shouldn’t have been as elated as he was upon the discovery, but the self-assured smirk could not help but to slip out at times when either of the two happened to pass by and catch you saying his name.

…Even when you eventually turned to using a shortened version after he’d annoyed you on a particularly bad day. He would take the small wins, however, as you did use his original name for some time.)

And, eventually, he discovered your stalwart nature. Again, he hadn’t meant to snoop, but it wasn’t as though he expected to stumble across the gaggle of knights discussing his less-than savoury rumours. You were amongst the roster, polishing your sword amid the rowdiness when they turned the spotlight to you asking for your thoughts. Having upset you just two days prior, Anaxa was almost certain you would partake in such trivialities against him — you had been giving him the cold shoulder, after all. Only… you hadn’t. You ended up doing the very opposite. “Please refrain from such ridicule. He is a guest of His Majesty, and it is our duty to remain sharp against unforeseen dangers — not participate in blatant slander.” There was a slight pause, and Anaxa was almost grateful he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him once more upon hearing your next words. “Besides, those rumours seem far too exaggerated. Lord Anaxagoras isn’t as bad as the gossip makes him out to be. A stubborn and prideful man he may be, but he has much passion for his cause; something I find admirable compared to those who only know how to run their mouths with nothing to show for it.”

(He would have stifled a rambunctious laugh at your brazen words, if not for the obnoxious heartbeat that rang loud in his ears nor the rapid flush which rushed through his body. A hand was placed above the erratic palpitations in a futile attempt at calming the restless orgain while the other dragged pitifully slow down his face, only stopping to try — and fail — to cover the trembling grin which split his lips and let loose a few shaky chuckles. Really, he’d thought amid the last breathy laughter, fully slumped and slid down against the base of the looming pillar. You’re making me almost want to be a little more greedy, my dear knight.)

His departure after those two weeks was nothing special. King Mydeimos came to personally see him off, sharing a brief word or two regarding future relations between Castrum Kremnos and the Grove of Epiphany, while the main figures who worked in the palace were by his side. Despite saying his farewells and climbing into the carriage, Anaxa found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you even after the carriage began its trek back. It was reminiscent of when he first met you, and he could not help the quiet laugh which slipped out at the realisation.

It wasn’t until a fair few years later did Anaxa come to realise what that curiosity of his truly was — of what it had evolved into.

It happened during one of those utterly stifling banquets he loathed, all because he had to show face in at least one of them each year. As it so happened, he hadn’t publicly appeared in any for the year. So what did that old coot of a teacher do? Why, he gave Anaxa that familiar smile before kicking him out into a carriage conveniently on its way to the end of year banquet hosted at Castrum Kremnos, of course.

Really, if he had it his way, Anaxa would have spent this precious time cooped up in his office surrounded by all his alchemical experiments — not loitering in the back of the ballroom with a flimsy champagne flute and grimacing at all the gossipmongers surrounding him.

Utterly ridiculous. Did those people have nothing better to spend their time on? He pitied them, truly, to do nothing but waste away in a stuffy room and exchange faux pleasantries with one another.

Having had enough, Anaxa promptly stepped out. The cool evening air was sufficient, and he decided a stroll around the gardens was due. It had been a while since he wandered around on his own, becoming used to you escorting and indulging him with conversation.

Funnily enough, the moment he’d thought of you, you appeared in his peripheral vision. Stood in the distance, side profile visible to him. While he wondered what brought you out to the gardens, he supposed he really shouldn’t have been so surprised to see you in the place he knew you frequented most. And for such a stuffy occasion such as the banquet, he really didn’t blame you for being outside.

Just as Anaxa had smoothed down his suit and cleared his throat in preparation to walk over to you, he froze. The sight he witnessed had him rooted before he could even take one step.

Anaxa had met that brutish king more times than he would have liked. As with his usual outlook, he mostly regarded the monarch with nonchalance, sometimes a slight admiration if a good argument was brought up in their negotiations, and other times a subtle annoyance when his garden stroll-escort with you was interrupted. Yet, seeing you both together under the dim moonlight away from the suffocating crowd and caught in your own world made him feel as though he were imposing on something he should have not. An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his heart. And yet he could not look away, seemingly enraptured.

Such blind, unwavering loyalty... Though a fleeting thought, Anaxa could not help but wonder what it would take for you to direct such beguiling devotion to him instead.

(Even now, as he watches from the sidelines how your unshakeable devotion to your king’s sudden interruption during the garden escort blurs the rest of the surrounding world into an incomprehensible blend of colours, he cannot help the fleeting hope you would one day gaze at him like he was your entire world and more.)

TRIVIA TIME !!

well, more like WORLD BUILDING-SLASH-LORE TIME !!, but i digress. anywho i just wanted to add in this little segment to try and explain the au world a little more, mainly the composition of amphoreus !! this was mainly done for myself bc i kept having inner battles abt whether i wanted castrum kremnos to be the kingdom where everyone resided in with mydei as the sole ruler, or if i wanted amphoreus to be an empire made up of various nations (like how it is in game basically). i ended up going with the latter bc i ended going down an entire rabbit hole creating the world of a fic that most likely won't get a continuation of sorts, but it was fun to imagine and made it a little easier writing the backstories, hehe !!

anyway here are some key notes which hopefully explain it a little more for those interested ^^

Amphoreus = empire

All cities (e.g. kremnos, okhema, etc) are the kingdoms in amphoreus with their own ruler/democracy

Amphoreus has multiple leaders to discuss state affairs (basically hsr main chrysos heirs but not all - like castorice is aglaea’s right-hand in a way + the executioner bc adonia is no longer a nation, or phainon & anaxa who lost their homes) with aglaea as the main/overseeing leader (empress but not really. She just wants to create beautiful clothes ;w;)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

@milk-violet heres ur tag <33

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #mydei x reader #phainon x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you #anaxa x you #mydei x you #phainon x you #honkai star rail imagines #hsr imagines

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 3 months ago

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Proposal Headcanons for Task Force 141 + Graves

Soap

Soap cannot play it cool. The man tries, but the moment he realizes he wants to marry you, it takes approximately 36 hours before he blurts it out mid-date, mid-bite, mid-everything.

“I love you. You love me. Let’s just do it, yeah? Marry me. Right now. I’ll steal a ring if I have to.”

You think he’s joking—until he pulls out an actual ring box from his cargo pocket. It’s dented. A little dirty. But the ring inside? Stunning. Soap actually planned ahead but couldn’t contain himself long enough for the ‘perfect moment.’

He kisses you before you even say yes, whispering, “You’re gonna be the death of me… but what a way to go.”

He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom.

The moment you say yes, he tackles you onto the couch, hands everywhere, breathless laughter between frantic kisses. His mouth is on your neck, mumbling, “You said yes—you said yes, I’m gonna ruin you for the next three days.”

He gets downright feral. Clothes ripped off, ring glinting as he grips your hips and mutters filthy praise in your ear. “Say it again. C’mon, sweetheart, say you’re gonna be my wife—while I’m deep inside you.”

You’re so sore the next morning you can barely stand. He carries you to the shower, grinning the entire time.

Gaz

Gaz puts in work. He’s low-key about it, but he plans the proposal down to the smallest detail: your favorite place, the perfect playlist, the exact time the light hits just right.

He gives a small speech about all the things he loves about you—your laugh, your stubbornness, how you make coffee wrong but he drinks it anyway—and then casually drops to one knee like he’s done it in his head a thousand times.

“You don’t make sense with anyone else. You make sense with me. And I want that for the rest of my life.”

You’re a mess. He’s a mess. Even the waiter cries.

He starts slow. Intense eye contact. Whispering thank you against your lips as he slips the ring on your finger and lays you down like you’re sacred.

But once his lips are on your skin? He loses control.

Gaz eats you out like he’s starved, murmuring, “My fiancée tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” between strokes of his tongue. You’re trembling before he even gets his pants off.

And when he finally pushes inside? It’s deep. Slow. A claim.

“I’m gonna make you feel me for days,” he breathes, forehead to yours, hips rolling with purpose. “This is how your husband loves you.”

Ghost

Ghost doesn’t plan to propose. Not because he doesn’t want to—it’s because he’s terrified. Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of messing it up.

But then one night, he wakes up after a nightmare and sees you asleep, soft and peaceful beside him… and it hits him. He needs to make sure you never leave.

Next morning? He slips a ring onto your finger while you’re still sleeping. Sits beside the bed, just watching.

You wake up to him staring at your hand, expression unreadable.

“Hope that’s alright,” he says softly. “Didn’t think I could get through asking without losin’ my nerve.”

It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him—and the most sure he’s ever been.

You see a side of Ghost no one else ever has.

Once you say yes, the mask comes off—literally and figuratively. He holds your face, kisses you like he’s drowning, and when he lays you down, it’s pure worship.

But when he’s inside you? All that control breaks.

Rough thrusts. Low growls. Hands gripping your thighs like he needs you to anchor him.

“You’re mine now,” he rasps, voice cracking. “Gonna fuck you until that ring rattles on your finger.”

After? He buries his face in your neck and whispers, “My wife. Mine. Mine.” Over and over like a prayer.

Price

Price goes traditional—old-school, respectful, completely heart-melting. He asks your parents (imagine his old ass asking your parents LMAO (he's only 37)), he wears a suit, he brings you somewhere meaningful.

He drops to one knee with total conviction. Eyes steady. Hands only slightly shaking.

“You’ve stood by me through everything. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything I’ve got left.”

It’s not flashy. It’s intimate. He looks you in the eye like a man who already sees your whole life together—and you say yes before he even opens the box.

Bonus: He tears up. Silently. And tries to hide it with a “Might be dusty out here.”

He pours a glass of champagne, gives a toast to Mrs. Price-to-be, and then takes you to bed like a gentleman…

…until he’s got you pinned under him, writhing, one hand wrapped around your throat just enough to make you whimper.

“This is what forever looks like,” he growls, sliding in with maddening control. “You wanna be mine? You better be ready to take every fuckin’ inch of me.”

He makes love like a man with something to prove—and he proves it again. And again. And again.

After? He smokes a cigar with your head on his chest, murmuring, “Next time, I’m bending you over the vows.”

Phillip Graves

Graves turns the proposal into a production. Champagne, string quartet, five-star dinner, and probably a drone flying a banner overhead.

He gives a speech in front of everyone. A loud one. “This woman right here? She’s the best thing I ever got my hands on—and I’m damn sure not letting her go.”

He definitely drops to one knee in slow motion. Probably has a photographer hiding in a bush. Maybe two.

The ring? Custom-made. Probably with your initials engraved inside. He flashes that smug grin and says, “You didn’t think I was gonna do this halfway, did you?”

After you say yes, he yells “She said YES!” like it’s a victory and kisses you like he just won a Super Bowl.

Graves worships you that night like a man obsessed. Pours champagne over your chest just so he can lick it off. Tells you exactly what he’s gonna do with his wife in every room of the house.

“Gonna fuck you in silk sheets and marble floors, darlin’,” he purrs. “You think the ring’s nice? Wait till you see what I do with this body.”

Takes his time ruining you. Bent over the bed. Face down on the counter. On your knees in the living room.

Every time he makes you come, he taps the ring and says, “Mine now. And I’m never lettin’ go.”

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xfgpng · 5 months ago

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control …

— [ nsfw ] kissing, dry humping, first kiss + they’re both virgins

— wc :: 1.2k

caleb likes to think he’s in control of everything that happens around him. he’s always been pretty good at controlling his emotions and schooling his expressions and he tries not to overreact.

 that’s the problem with her, she throws him off balance in the best and worst ways and it leaves him feeling so unsettled.

the thing about college, it’s supposed to be the best years of your life and he doesn’t know if he agrees or disagrees with that. if he really thinks about it, it’s bullshit but he knows why he feels that way.

he keeps himself composed most days, he has no reason to act out of character but this is something new to him.

caleb wasn’t naive enough to think this would never happen, he just always thought he’d be able to handle it well but he cannot. his hands feel clammy and his hot around his neck. is this even normal? he doesn’t fucking know.

he wants to lie and say he’s completely normal about her having other guy friends but he’s definitely not. his skin crawls whenever they touch her shoulder, grab at her wrists even if it’s completely platonic and innocent.

 he especially hates when they lean in to close to talk to her when they’re at a party and the music is too loud. those are the nights caleb avoids alcohol like it personally offended him.

he cannot trust himself to be sober in these situations, he doesn’t want to imagine what he’d do with his evol even if the thought sends a thrill through him. he knows he has a problem, he’s just not going to deal with it.

not in a healthy way at least.

“caleb?”

he snaps out his thoughts, smiling down at where she’s laying on the floor in his dorm room. she’s supposed to be studying but she’s distracted and he shouldn’t enable her but he always does. she’s just too pretty, she has a face you cannot say no to and you’d be insane to disagree.

 he’d like someone to disagree, that would be a fun day for him and a very unfortunate one for them.

“i’m listening” he lies. if he had been, he would’ve heard what she asked him and understand why she’s being all shy right now.

“wait.. what?” he sits up, looking at her properly. he definitely has a problem if he’s thinking about her so much and she’s right next to him.

“.. it’s stupid” she frowns

“it’s not” he reassures. he means it sincerely because he is willing to do whatever she wants. he hopes she doesn’t know that.

“i just .. i haven’t had my first kiss yet and i know some people think it’s a big deal and maybe it is but how will i know?” she looks up at him and she looks so upset by this so he tries not to panic.

 was she seeing someone? did she like someone and that’s why she was thinking about kissing?

caleb could tell her it’s too early to worry about that and maybe she could just focus on college but that would be selfish of him. so selfish.

“i could teach you” he says and it’s out before his brain can even process any of that shit but it’s too late now because her eyes widen and she sits up so fast.

“what?” she asks because even he can’t believe what he just said.

“i just mean if you’re that curious” he smiles, playing it cool.

“you’d do that for me?” she stands now, moving to sit on his bed right in front of him and he will kill his roommate if the fucker comes back now.

“you know i would” he shrugs like it’s nothing even though his heart his beating so fast.

and that’s the thing about control, he always believed he was in control of everything in his life but the moment their lips touch, he feels his entire world shift and he doesn’t know if he’s breathing but she trusts him.

he has his hands on the side of her face before he can stop himself and she gasps softly into the kiss that he can’t help but lightly bite her bottom lip. she likes that, or so it seems because she doesn’t push him away.

her lips taste like the peach flavoured lipgloss she likes to wear and her skin is soft beneath his fingertips.

“is this okay?” he asks, running his thumb across her lower lip. she’s so beautiful, it hurts.

“yes…” she nods, “… can we do more?”

“more?” he tries not to show how excited that makes him.

“with tongue” she whispers

he doesn’t need to be told twice and her moan makes it hard to focus on anything other than her lips against his and how hard he suddenly is.

he slips his tongue into her mouth and she learns pretty quickly, he hasn’t even kissed anyone either but he’s seen enough videos and he’s always been a pretty fast learner himself and he would be damned if she had this experience with anyone that wasn’t him.

she moves closer, her arms around his neck and he can’t pull her onto his lap. if he’s being honest, he’s been hard since she said yes to the kiss but he would never want to overwhelm her. her first kiss is special because it’s them, he wouldn’t rush this.

 that is something he can control.

“does that feel good?” he asks because her comfort is the most important thing to him.

“yes” she sounds less shy now, more like herself and she’s smiling so sweetly he can’t help but lean back in and this time she takes the lead and he likes how she lightly pulls at his hair. he didn’t know he’d be into that but he’s learning a lot about himself since being in college.

she climbs onto his lap on her own and if she feels how hard he is, she doesn’t comment on it which he appreciates. she’s always been considerate and just so perfect he thinks he might combust.

“put your hands .. on my waist” she tells him and he nods, as if he’s in some sort of trance now.

he’s not embarrassed about the grinding or the fact that he cums in his pants 10 minutes later. he’s still a fucking virgin and she doesn’t seem to care because she moans loud enough for him that he knows everyone down the hall heard her and only a small part of him hates that, he knows when he’s alone he’s going to be pissed that they heard how pretty she sounds but right now he wants to keep kissing her.

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mill3rd · 1 month ago

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TWO SIDES OF THE SAME MOON

synopsis. in the solitude of an undisturbed manor, a tangled bond between a girl marked by a dark legacy and a mysterious vampire unfolds. haunted by a painful secret she barely understands, she finds herself drawn to him—an enigmatic guardian who sees what others cannot. as tension rises within her family and the night reveals hidden truths, their connection becomes a dangerous battle between desire, fear, and survival, forcing them both to face what lurks beneath the surface and decide what they’re willing to lose for each other.

tags and warnings. body horror, mythical and fantasy creatures, blood, remmicks a silly guy who dabbles in danger, remmick and his saviour complex, stereotyping amongst creatures, emotional and familial conflict, not angsty for once (lie we only do angst round here partna), kinda fluffy, remmick is really off putting, this was inspired by another post and some requests

wc. 14k

remmick had passed through a tight knit community, full of wealth and harmony. he’d heard tail of a family that had been rooted here well before the 16th century. generations lived and died in the manor beyond the orchard. he had to take a look for himself, figure out what he was dealing with, maybe try and gain control and root his own found family in these very parts.

he wandered through the orchard, his footsteps soft on the grass until he came across a tree with a swing hanging low. settling onto it, he swayed gently back and forth, eyes fixed on the house beyond. even under the first quarter moon, draped in a thick fog that swallowed the light, the manor stood imposing and alive. its sturdy bricks, darkened by time, held three solid floors—and maybe a fourth, if the attic windows weren’t just for show. a greenhouse clung to one side, its lantern flickering weakly before fading as its occupant departed. the house breathed with life, full of warmth and laughter—a family woven together in quiet happiness.

remmick admired the house for a moment longer before three children burst out from the shadows, their laughter bright and wild in the cool night air. they moved with a speed that was almost too swift, their footsteps light and sure—a clear sign the family within wasn’t entirely human. before he could slip away, they spotted him, their eyes gleaming with mischief as they clumsily but determinedly surrounded him, cutting off his escape.

the three children came bounding up to remmick, their footsteps light and quick like whispers on the grass. their eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and mischief as they closed the distance, circling him with unrestrained energy.

“hey, mister,” the smallest one piped up, tilting her head with a cheeky grin, “what’s your name?”

remmick’s lips curled into a crooked smile, “they call me remmick,” he said smoothly, his voice low and teasing, “and who might you speedy three be?”

the tallest girl crossed her arms, a playful challenge glinting in her eyes, “we be the fastest runners in the orchard. bet you can’t catch us.”

he chuckled, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise, “oh? a challenge already? careful, or i might just take you up on it.”

the third child, a boy with wild curls, leaned in, sniffing subtly, “you ain’t from ‘round here, is you? you smell… funny.”

remmick winked, the corner of his mouth twitching, “funny how? like cinnamon and danger?”

“not funny haha… funny weird,” the girl replied with a coy raise of her brow.

“weird?” remmick leaned closer, his gaze sharp but amused, “i prefer intriguing but tell me—what secrets do you little orchard ghosts hide?”

the smallest child exchanged a glance with her siblings before smirking, “maybe we’ll tell you… if you’re nice.”

“now that’s tempting,” remmick murmured, voice softening, “i’m a great listener. maybe i’ll stick around and find out.”

the tallest girl’s expression hardened slightly, “just don’t try anything weird, ‘kay? our family don’t take too kindly to strangers.”

remmick’s grin deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “noted. but maybe i’m exactly the kind of stranger you need.”

suddenly, the main door burst open and a taller figure rushed down the steps with urgent strides. you moved with the same quickness as the children, closing the distance in moments. three names were called—mara, sloane and orion—with urgency. your eyes scanned the trio before locking onto remmick. he could hear the steady rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart, and feel the way your muscles subtly shifted—tense but beginning to relax, ready for whatever came next.

“alright, you three,” you announced, keeping your voice light but firm, “auntie talia’s doin’ bed checks. if i get reprimanded for yous being out again, i swear i ain’t taking the fall this time.”

that did the trick. their faces dropped into guilt, and they scrambled to leave, muttering apologies under their breath. then, in a cheerful, too-casual chorus, they turned back and called out:

“bye, remmick!”

remmick felt the chill in your blood like a sudden drop in the air. his eyes studied your serious expression, the worry unmistakable. your form matched your face—arms crossed tightly over your chest, legs set shoulder-width apart. you weren’t completely defensive, but far from careless, radiating a tense calm that kept him on edge. actually, he thought it made you quite attractive. clearly, you were one with undying loyalty.

“you got business here?” you asked, voice low and steady, eyes narrowing as you sized him up. every instinct in you prickled, like a storm gathering just beyond the tree line. he shook his head slowly, offering a casual shrug that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“not at all,” he said smoothly, “just passin’ through. new to the area, saw a swing, ain’t realize it was in your front yard. my apologies, miss…?” he trailed off, waiting for your name—but the hesitation in his voice felt deliberate, like he was testing the waters, sizing you up.

you ignored the bait, cutting straight to the point, “you part of anything? any groups, clans…” your tone carried weight—a challenge wrapped in calm steel.

remmick caught it immediately. he shook his head, voice tightening with a flicker of offense, “miss.”

he took a step back, hands rising in a peaceful gesture, “hand on my heart, cross it and hope to die—i mean no physical, spiritual, or mental harm. especially the discriminatory kind. no way.”

you sized him up, eyes sharp and steady, “why’re you really here?” you asked, voice low.

remmick’s smile flickered, like a candle in the wind. fierce, beautiful, and not easily fooled. he swallowed the pull in his chest, “like i said, just passing through,” he reminded, “but i guess fate’s got a funny way of introducing itself.”

you crossed your arms, skeptical, “passing through or looking for something?”

he ilaughed softly, a hint of something darker beneath the sound, “maybe a little of both. people say this place has a history—roots that go deep. i’m curious.”

your gaze didn’t soften, “curiosity can get you hurt.”

remmick nodded slowly, the weight of his own thoughts settling. curiosity’s dangerous—especially when it’s about her, “maybe. but sometimes, the risk is worth it.”

you took a step closer, voice low and steady, “just remember, some risks don’t come with second chances.”

he met your gaze, the smile slipping into something more serious, “i’m learning.”

remmick’s gaze flickered down to the obsidian pendant resting against your chest. his breath hitched as a darker thought slipped in — the curve of your neck, the way your collarbone peeked beneath your shirt. what would it feel like to trace that line, to see if you’d shiver?

he cleared his throat, trying to steady himself, “learning’s a dangerous game too, but sometimes the stakes make it worth the trouble,” he said, voice low and a little rough, hiding the pull in his chest.

you narrowed your eyes, unamused, “i’m not in the habit of handing out chances.”

he smirked, stepping just a fraction closer, letting the tension thicken, “maybe i ain’t askin’ for chances. maybe i’m offerin’ you somethin’ else. somethin’ worth the risk.”

you were enough to give him a pulse back, the phantom feeling of it quickening raced inside him. she’s fire and ice, and god help me if i’m stupid enough to get burned.

you held your ground, eyes never leaving his, “you should go, remmick. while i’m still in a generous mood.”

he chuckled softly, the sound curling at the edges, “guess that’s my cue, then.”

he took a slow step back, hands raised in mock surrender, “you got bite… i like that.”

“don’t get used to it,” you reply coolly, but there was the faintest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

his gaze lingered for just a moment longer, like he wanted to say something else—or maybe commit your face to memory—before turning toward the orchard, the fog swallowing his figure with every step.

“see you around,” he called over his shoulder, voice low and amused.

you didn’t respond.

remmick slipped back into the orchard, weaving between the trees as the fog clung thick around him. his thoughts kept circling you—someone fierce, with a fire that didn’t back down or bend. the more he thought about it, the harder it became to focus. could he gain control over that wild spirit? maybe. or maybe he’d let you keep that edge—it only made the pull stronger, the tension more intoxicating. it was a dangerous kind of fascination, one that stirred something dark and undeniably electric inside him.

would you bare your teeth the closer he got to your core? would that fire in your chest flare into fury, daring him to come closer, to test the edges of your control—or would something in you shift? would you soften, just slightly, enough for him to find a way in, to press up against all that tension you held like armor?

he couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you. about the way your gaze didn’t flinch, the way your voice had weight and warning. it thrilled him. not in a sweet, romantic way, but in a way that lit something reckless beneath his skin. he wanted to see if that heat in you burned just as bright up close. would you stay fierce, push back, make him work for every breath between you—or would you yield, slowly, inch by guarded inch?

he didn’t want obedience. he wanted resistance, the kind that made every moment feel earned. he imagined it—your defiance, your fire, your control barely slipping. would you let him see that part of you? or would he have to tear it from your clenched hands, dig into the marrow of you just to taste the truth?

either way, he wasn’t looking for softness. not really. but the idea of watching you flicker between fight and surrender—that stayed with him, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

remmick’s thoughts drifted to the obsidian strung around your neck, the way it caught the moonlight like it was forged from the night itself. any creature worth their salt knew what that meant. grounding. restraint. a tether between the beast and the bones it lived inside.

he’d been around—across continents, through cities older than most bloodlines—and never once had he seen someone wear obsidian casually. that stone wasn’t for decoration. it was for control. survival.

you wore it like a warning, like a lock on a door too dangerous to open. and that, more than anything, intrigued him. because if you needed that kind of restraint... he couldn’t help but wonder what happened when you didn’t use it.

his boots sank softly into the orchard floor as he moved, every step muffled by moss and fallen leaves. the air was thicker tonight—heavier, laced with that same scent he couldn’t stop noticing, the one that clung to you like smoke to skin.

remmick paused at the edge of a clearing, gaze lifting to the house beyond the trees. windows glowed like distant lanterns, warm and pulsing. life radiated from inside—laughter, footsteps, the occasional bark of a dog or scrape of a chair.

but his eyes weren’t on the house. they were on the pendant in his mind, the image of it nestled against your collarbone. obsidian. it made him curious. no—hungry.

a family like yours didn’t welcome strangers easily. and yet, somehow, he’d slipped past the first gate. just barely.

he smiled to himself, slow and knowing.

“let’s see how deep the roots go,” he murmured.

then, with a hand brushed against the trunk of an old fig tree, he melted back into the orchard’s shadows. watching. waiting.

back at the house, the wind shifted.

you stood in the upstairs hallway, staring out a narrow window that overlooked the orchard. the fog hadn’t cleared. if anything, it pressed tighter against the land, swallowing the trees until they looked like silhouettes drawn in ash. something in your chest tugged—a slow, sour pull that wouldn’t ease.

your pendant was warm against your skin. not hot, but pulsing. responding.

you didn’t like that.

behind you, the floor creaked softly. it was one of your sisters, barefoot and half-asleep, rubbing her eyes. she mumbled something about needing water, but you hardly heard her. your focus stayed out there, on the dark line where the trees met the field.

he was still close. you couldn’t see him, but you felt it.

downstairs, the front door was locked, bolted in three places. but that meant very little. doors didn’t stop what came through the orchard, not for long

you turned from the window, catching your reflection in the glass—tense, tired, eyes sharper than you meant them to be. this wasn’t over. not even close.

and tomorrow night, the moon would be fuller.

remmick slipped through the orchard under the cloak of night, the fog wrapping around him like a shroud. the moon hung low, its silver light filtered through the dense mist, casting eerie shadows that danced between the gnarled branches. the house loomed ahead, silent and stoic, its dark windows like watchful eyes.

he paused near the swing, fingers brushing the worn rope. the silence pressed in on him, heavier than before. no laughter, no footsteps—just the soft rustle of leaves.

his mind churned, thoughts tangled between fascination and frustration. you with the obsidian pendant—the fierce fire behind your eyes—haunted him more than he cared to admit. you were a puzzle wrapped in danger, and every step closer only deepened his intrigue.

he wasn’t here for greetings or excuses. no, he was here to stake his claim, to test the boundaries of this quiet world. and maybe, just maybe, to see if you’d let him in.

remmick’s eyes caught a splash of color at the base of a nearby tree—speckles of water hemlocks, their petals a silky white against the dark earth. the flowers were put together and tame, standing out naturally, just like the woman who lived here. without thinking, he bent down and carefully gathered a small bouquet, fingers brushing the soft petals. a quiet gesture, but one full of meaning—bold, but simple, impossible to ignore.

remmick stepped closer to the house, the fog curling around his boots as he approached the front door. he raised his hand and knocked—firm, deliberate, no hesitation. no welcome mat lay beneath the door, a quiet sign of caution. smart, he thought, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. this wasn’t a place that invited strangers in easily. good. just the way he liked it.

remmick heard soft shuffling on the other side of the door—several voices, one mature and steady, the others light and childish. the heavy, weathered door creaked open slowly, the knock trembling with the motion. a warm glow spilled out, illuminating remmick’s face as your silhouette stepped into view. behind you, the three children from yesterday peeked around your legs, their curious eyes wide. all of you were draped in nightgowns, the softness of the fabric catching the light, a striking contrast to the tension lingering in the air.

“mister remmick!” the trio called out, their voices bright as they stepped forward eagerly. you quickly raised a hand, blocking their way, your eyes narrowing sharply at him. remmick didn’t flinch—if anything, a crooked, tender smile played across his lips, unshaken by your warning.

you glance down at the trio, your voice firm but gentle, “yous go on up to bed. i’ll be up there soon myself.” mara, sloane, and orion let out a collective sigh but begin their slow, reluctant climb upstairs. you shift, blocking the doorway with your body, leaning against the frame as your eyes lock onto remmick’s, “why’re you back? i wasn’t exactly friendly.”

remmick shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips, “i brought you flowers.”

he extends the bouquet toward you, but you instinctively recoil. his smile falters for a brief moment, “you don’t like them?” you swallow, keeping your voice steady, “funnily enough, i do—er, they are pretty… but i’m allergic.”

remmick’s smile softens, a hint of genuine regret in his voice, “would’ve picked you something else if i’d known.” you wave a dismissive hand, cool but casual, “don’t worry about it, probably wouldn’t have accepted them anyway.”

he scratches the back of his neck, his stance shifting uneasily as his eyes flicker behind him, scanning the shadows like he’s looking for something—or someone. tough crowd, he thinks quietly, the challenge only making him more intrigued.

you cross your arms, eyeing him, “what’s the point of coming back?”

remmick shrugs, voice smooth like a slow drawl, “i figured it’s polite to check in. plus, places like this... well, they tend to keep their groundin’ spirits close.”

you frown, unsure if he’s joking or not, “grounding spirits?”

he nods, almost like it’s obvious, “yeah. keeps things steady when the world gets shaky. you can feel it here—that pull, that hum beneath everythin’.”

you shift your weight, suddenly aware of how close he stands, “you know a lot about this place?”

he smiles, a little too knowing, “i pick up things. better safe than sorry.”

you huff, humourless, “ain’t nothing safe here at night, i can assure you.”

remmick smirks, eyes flickering over your pendant, “that’s a striking necklace—where’d you get it?”

you shift, wary under his gaze, “family. been with us for generations.”

he nods slowly, voice low, almost knowing, “some things are better left undisturbed, huh?”

you meet his eyes, a flicker of suspicion rising, “maybe. depends on who’s asking.”

remmick nods slowly, stepping back with a lazy sway as his gaze drifts over the manor, taking it all in, “be careful with that. they break real easy.”

you give a short nod, voice flat with boredom, “right.”

then his eyes snap back to yours, glowing faintly. a flash of gold turned red, “i’m serious.”

you catch your breath, dismissing the warning. stepping firmly inside, you cut through the air, “you need to leave. now.”

“thought we were havin’ a good one on one,” remmick says, his frown mocking, almost playful.

you shake your head, voice sharp, “i know what you are. you don’t belong here.”

remmick raises a brow and chuckles darkly, “well, guess i blew my cover—peachy keen, huh?” he runs a hand down his face, smirking, “but you ain’t exactly ordinary yourself. this beautiful family o’ yours? yous somethin’ else. more than human… or maybe less.”

"i think we’re perfectly normal," you hiss, voice urgent and clipped. your arm shoots out, finger aimed dead at his chest, "now, if you don’t turn around in the next five seconds, i’ll scream loud enough to wake the dead. my brothers’ll be out here with rifles loaded full of silver, and that’s if my daddy doesn’t get to you first."

remmick lifts his hands, instinctive, and eases back down the stone steps. your gaze pins him in place even as he retreats. he knows you mean it—every word, every edge in your voice. but beneath the threat, he hears something else. the rush of your blood, not with fear, but with thrill. it’s eager, alive, and it unsettles him more than any weapon could.

the door shuts, and the light cuts out almost immediately, leaving the manor in total darkness. remmick stares at the door for a few seconds longer before turning away and heading back down into the orchard.

you’re out later than yesterday. remmick knows because he can smell you before he sees you. you wander the evening by yourself carrying two full paper bags. it’s the time where the sunlight dims, making way for not quite the moon but the darker sky that comes before just as the clock tower strikes four and remmick is more confident going out while it’s still predominantly daytime.

you sense him before he can fall into step with you—an instinct, like the shift in air pressure before a storm. you stop short, the weight of your bags swinging slightly as you whip around to face him. your jaw is tight, nostrils flared, every inch of you drawn sharp.

“you need to leave me alone.”

the words hit with force, but remmick doesn’t flinch. he barely pauses. his gaze drops to your arms, full to the point of imbalance—paper bags creasing under your fingers, a book clutched against your hip, a jacket slipping from the crook of your elbow.

he lifts an eyebrow, then says, calm as ever, “looks like you need help.”

his tone is maddeningly casual, like this is a normal conversation, like he hasn’t followed you three blocks without invitation. his eyes linger too long—not in a way that’s leering, but in a way that suggests he still doesn’t understand he’s not supposed to look at you like that. like you’re something soft, not someone already burning.

"i’ve managed this far,” you say with a shrug, arrogance tucked into the lift of your chin. the bags shift as you adjust your grip, rustling like they’re protesting too, “i’ll be fine. it’s just the orchard.”

your voice lands cool, dismissive, but your cheek betrays you—caught gently between your teeth, tongue pressing against it in a motion too practiced to notice. a nervous habit you’ve adapted to.

remmick moves before you can stop him—smooth, unbothered, like he’s done it a hundred times in his head. his hand slips between your elbow and the worn paperback balanced against your hip, sliding it out with an easy finesse. the cover bends slightly under his fingers, but he doesn’t fumble.

before the protest even rises in your throat, his other hand catches the edge of your jacket just as it slips from your arm, pinching the collar like it’s something delicate. like it matters to him, somehow.

he holds both items up in one hand, smug like he just pulled off a magic trick.

“you’re juggling them like you’re in a one-woman circus,” he says, cocking his head, “i figured i’d step in before you started tossin’ flaming knives.”

the smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it—just the corner, just enough for him to notice. and of course he notices.

“there it is,” he grins, voice a little softer now, “knew you had a smile somewhere under all that pride.”

you look away, cheeks warming, but don’t ask for the book back.

you carry on in silence, the only sounds the crunch of gravel beneath your feet and the occasional rustle of shifting bags. the sun dips low behind the trees, casting long, reaching shadows that stretch across the path like fingers trying to catch hold of something.

you notice how remmick keeps drifting—edging toward the shadows as they lengthen, then stepping back into the light, only to veer sideways again as if testing the boundary. it’s subtle at first, like he’s just restless, but then it happens again. and again.

the way he keeps dodging the shifting light, weaving in and out like the shadows are playing tag with him, starts to amuse you. there’s something oddly graceful about it, like he can’t help but move with the world around him.

you don’t say anything—just watch from the corner of your eye as he side-steps a narrow band of light, lips pursed like he's pretending it doesn’t matter.

he catches you staring once, eyebrows lifting, but he doesn’t explain himself. just smirks and keeps walking.

night finally settles by the time you both reach the patch of water hemlocks. in the dim light, they look almost spectral—tall, pale stalks rising from the damp earth like they’ve been summoned rather than grown.

the ground has replaced them. where remmick had pulled them from the root, there's no sign of disturbance—no broken stems, no torn soil. they’ve returned, impossibly upright, as if his hands had never touched them.

the air is colder here. wetter. thick with the hum of unseen things.

you veer off instinctively, avoiding the patch the way remmick avoided the sun. not rushed, not obvious—just a quiet, deliberate drift to the side, like your body knows better than to draw a straight line through something that remembers.

he follows you, quiet and steady, until you get to the swing.

it creaks gently in the wind—an old thing, strung up between two thick trees, swaying like it remembers someone long gone. you hesitate, eyes fixed on it, before turning to him.

“this is where we part,” you acknowledge, voice even,“thank you for holding my things for me.”

remmick doesn’t hand them back. instead, he frowns like you’ve skipped a step, like the script you’re reading from isn’t the one he memorized.

“i’d feel better if i walked you to your door,” he insists. there’s a grin on his lips, but it doesn’t soften the flash in his eyes—sharp and unnatural, catching the moonlight like it’s being reflected from something deeper beneath his skin.

this is his hour. his quiet, silver-lit kingdom.

you shake your head, a firm motion, grounded and unshaken, “i’m fine.”

he sighs, not in defeat but in that low, deliberate way people do when they’re choosing patience.

“you sure your family’d be alright with you coming home alone? i imagine they’re worried—out this late ‘n all.”

you nod, slow and sardonic, “they’d be angry if i let a man walk me to my door. a white man too? gosh, they’d be devastated.”

remmick chuckles at that, the sound low and amused, “ain’t no need to bring skin into it,” he murmurs, stepping forward, “i’ll leave.”

you barely register the movement—he’s already there, draping your coat around your shoulders with a strange gentleness, fingers grazing your collarbone for the briefest moment. then, smoothly, he slides your book into the coat’s too-small pocket.

“‘s a tight squeeze,” he notes, tapping the fabric lightly, “but it works.”

you blink, thrown. something in you reacts before your thoughts can catch up, and you step back. not far, but enough. your eyes stay locked on his, even as he starts to turn, the shape of him shrinking with each step away.

then, just before the dark takes him, he pauses.

his voice carries, smooth and unsettlingly warm.

“why don’t you relax every once in a while?”

a beat.

“y’know… let loose?”

the question lingers—heavier than the coat, heavier than the night. it lands somewhere in your chest, quiet and unwelcome.

obsidian pulses against your sternum—deep and slow, like a second heartbeat pounding beneath your skin. the pressure builds until it stings, sharp enough to catch your breath, sharp enough to burn straight up into your skull.

your vision wavers, focus slips. the world around you blurs at the edges.

his question still echoes, though you know he didn’t expect an answer. it wasn’t a request—it was a warning dressed as something lighter. and it lingers, clinging to you like fog.

you don’t stay to give it weight.

you turn, quick and ungraceful, the coat tugging against your shoulders as you rush toward the distant glow of your home—toward warmth, toward safety, toward anything that isn’t him.

behind you, remmick doesn’t follow.

he stands by the swing instead, the old ropes creaking like his presence alone adds extra weight. he watches you go, his silhouette unmoving, half-shadow, half-man.

and remmick hates to see you go.

he leans against the tree, hands resting in his pockets, but there’s tension in him now—quiet, tightening. he feels it between you two: something rising, slow and certain, like a tether being pulled from both ends. it tugs at him, coils around his thoughts, curls into the corners of his mind where reason and instinct starts to loosen.

he doesn’t wonder if you feel it too.

he knows you do.

he saw it in the flicker of your eyes when his fingers brushed your skin, in the hesitation in your step, the breath you held too long. but you resist it—of course you do. he can almost hear the echoes of your childhood, the lullabies laced with warnings.

your mama, smoothing your hair back with a soft hand, whispering stories that taught you to run from anything with teeth that smiled too easily.

your daddy, watching the dark like it had a name, warning you about men who lingered too long after sunset. men who watched. men who waited.

men who weren’t quite... men.

remmick exhales, low and amused, though there’s something sharp behind it. he understands. he doesn’t fault you for it.

but god, he loves to watch you leave.

remmick blinks, disoriented, the haze of sleep clinging to him like smoke. he exhales hard, jaw tight, chest rising with the effort of a breath that won’t settle—like he's been holding it for hours. maybe longer.

sunlight streams in, golden and merciless, striking the window directly. the thick velvet curtains hold it at bay, just barely, the edges glowing with a warning heat. if even a sliver found him, it would devour him whole—set him alight from the inside out, blistering skin and boiling marrow.

he’s sweating, though his kind doesn’t run warm. his skin, usually cold to the touch, is damp, sticky, clinging to the sheets of the bed he’s claimed—borrowed, stolen, it hardly matters.

his muscles twitch under the heat, beneath the weight of something he can’t name. he pants, trying his hardest to catch a breath that isn’t there, that will never come.

fever burns where it shouldn't.

with a low growl, he drags his claws back—retracts them carefully, deliberately—then runs a hand through his tangled hair, pushing it off his forehead. the gesture is more human than he wants to admit.

but even in sleep, you haunt him. not like a ghost—no, ghosts whisper. you sear.

you blaze through his mind, bright and consuming. insatiable. you leave no part of him untouched. not even in dreams.

remmick falls back onto the bed, the mattress groaning beneath him as he stares up at the ceiling—unseeing, unraveled. the room is quiet but his mind isn’t.

the dream clings to him, vivid and too real, like the echo of heat after lightning strikes. he can still feel it: your hands at the nape of his neck, soft and deliberate, fingers curling just enough to ground him, hold him in place without force.

your thumbs ghosted over his cheekbones—light, reverent, like you were memorizing the shape of him. like you didn’t know whether to worship or destroy.

it’s the contrast that undoes him.

you, always so sharp with your words, so ready to draw a line in the sand and shove him back behind it. and yet—yet—the version of you in his dream was anything but cold.

the way you leaned in, voice low and intimate, a question wrapped in a challenge, a lure:

“how do you want me?”

those four words slither through him now, slow and burning. enticing. cruel.

because they weren't yours. not really. but he wants them to be. god, how he wants them to be.

you don’t know it, but he yearns for you in ways he doesn’t have language for. it’s not just your face he memorizes, or the way your voice drops when you’re trying not to feel something. it’s everything underneath. everything you work so hard to bury.

you think you’re a mystery, and maybe you are—but to remmick, you’re a promise. not of love, not of safety, but of truth.

he sees it in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. that flicker, that fracture.

the way your calm is a performance, a costume stitched too tight.

he wants to see you shed it.

he wants the parts of you you think would drive someone away. the parts you’ve been taught to fear in yourself.

the monster behind the manners. the howl behind the hush.

you wear your control like armor, but he doesn’t want your composure. he wants what writhes beneath it.

he wants the blood-warm rage, the hunger you won’t name.

the darkness you flinch from, even when it’s your own reflection: let him see it, tear it open, dare him to run; he won’t.

he’s not afraid of the creature you’re hiding—he’s afraid you’ll never show it to him.

later on, remmick lingers by the swing. he wouldn’t say he’s waiting for you, exactly—but he knows you plan to sneak out tonight. don’t ask how. he just knows.

the stars are bold overhead, casting a silver spotlight on your rebellion like they’re in on it too. the night feels too loud to be secret, too still to be innocent.

and then—there you are.

you slip from the side door of the conservatory, all quiet grace and calculated risk and veiled by the mist supplied by the night. you move like you’ve done this before: down the worn stone steps, past the edge of the flower beds, and into the darker stretch of the orchard behind the manor.

remmick tilts his head, eyes narrowing with interest.

you’re not dressed for mischief, not really, but there’s purpose in your stride.

he doesn’t call out. doesn’t announce himself.

instead, something in him shifts—and he follows.

the orchard is veiled in fog—soft, rolling, deliberate. it clings low to the ground, weaving between the tree trunks like it belongs there, like it has always belonged. moonlight filters through the canopy in fractured beams, catching on the mist and turning the world pale and blurred, as if he’s stepped into a dream someone else forgot to finish.

remmick moves quietly, his steps silent on the damp grass, eyes fixed on your distant figure. the fog swirls around your ankles as you walk, each motion leaving a trail in the silver haze. the trees bow slightly under the weight of dew, their silhouettes gnarled and noble in the half-light.

everything smells faintly of apples, moss, and old magic.

he breathes it in.

up above, the stars are clean and sharp, watching with impassive eyes. no clouds, no wind—just the hush of the orchard and the shape of you, drifting deeper into it like you’re following something only you can hear.

he feels it again, that pull—gentle but undeniable.

not just toward you, but toward this moment. this place. this stillness.

and though he’s meant to linger in shadows, he feels no threat here. only curiosity. only want.

he keeps his distance, for now.

watching, listening. waiting for whatever comes next.

you stop at a clearing, lowering and laying back in the grass. your curls fall unevenly in your face and flatten behind you. your eyes study the moon, its phase nearly at its fullest. your irises glint in time with the stars.

you stop in a clearing, the fog parting around you like a breath held too long. slowly, you lower yourself into the grass, careful at first, then surrendering completely as your limbs sink into the damp earth. your curls tumble across your face, stray strands catching in the corners of your mouth, while the rest fan out beneath you—dark against the silver-lit green.

above, the moon looms heavy and round, nearly full, its light cold but comforting. it casts a glow that doesn’t warm, only reveals—peeling back shadow from the edges of the trees, tracing soft white outlines on your skin. the stars are scattered behind it like shattered glass, sharp and far and endless.

you stare upward, unblinking.

the moon’s face looks worn tonight. older. like it understands.

it hangs there not as a witness, but as a companion—quiet, distant, and impossibly close. its slow cycle feels like your own lately: always almost whole, always missing something. the stars, meanwhile, blink in and out of view, like they’re trying to keep time with the ache that’s been dragging at your chest these past few weeks.

there’s a rhythm to the sky tonight, and somehow, your sadness fits into it—neatly, effortlessly. the melancholy in you doesn’t feel like a burden out here. it feels like it belongs. like the moon carries a little of it. like the stars shoulder the rest.

for once, you don’t try to push it away.

you just feel.

behind you, the grass rustles—subtle, but enough. your body reacts before your thoughts do. you sit up sharply, curls clinging to your cheek, and turn your head toward the sound.

he’s there. remmick.

your shadow—chosen or cursed, you're not sure anymore. he stands at the edge of the clearing, half cloaked in mist, half bathed in moonlight. unmoving.

his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering, unreadable. there’s no pretense in his stance, no apology in being caught. if anything, he looks like he wanted to be seen.

waited for it.

your expression falters.

you don’t speak, but your body betrays you. your pulse picks up, quick and stupid, rushing hot beneath your skin. you feel it in your throat, your fingertips, your temples.

and still, he just watches.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t flinch. just sees you like he always does. too well, too much.

you don’t have it in you to be mean right now and remmick senses it. senses the tension in your being, the pain in your soul. he wants to save you, take away your pain. his fangs ache inside his gums, threatening to give way. but he has control. it’s almost hypocritical how he encourages you to let loose, lose control when he keeps himself so composed around you.

he keeps his distance and for some reason it hurts you more. usually, you would’ve been glad that he hadn’t forced some unexpected affection on you but tonight is different.

“you shouldn’t be out at this hour,” remmick advises, voice low, almost teasing, “you’ve got no clue what roams around here.”

you roll your eyes and turn back around, pulling your knees to your chest, “i know you roam around here. can’t seem to leave me alone.”

he shrugs, easy and unbothered, “that much is true. still doesn’t explain why you’re out here.”

you glance up at the sky, voice softer now, “i’m stargazing. i come here sometimes when there’s… nowhere else to be.”

“you wanna tell me about it?” he asks, gently.

“about what?”

“c’mon.” his tone dips lower, not quite pitying, but knowing, “you and me both know you ain’t out here just to count stars, sweetheart.”

you don’t answer right away. the silence settles between you like a blanket—heavy, but not unkind.

“my ma wasn’t happy last night,” you begin quietly, eyes still on the stars, “kept me locked in the house all day, goin’ on and on about how i came home smellin’ like rot.”

you pause, the memory sharp in your chest.

“said it was the stench of death. somethin’ sick clingin’ to me. accused me of doin’ things i’m not supposed to. said vampires don’t mix with our kind—and there’s a reason for that.”

your voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close, “like i’ve done something wrong just by bein’ near you.”

the fog curls a little tighter around your ankles. the night doesn’t feel as quiet anymore.

“i guess she was right to assume,” you mutter, voice low and bitter, “but i don’t know why she assumed.”

you glance back at remmick, your gaze sharp despite the quiet in your tone.

“i ain’t messin’ with you. in fact, i don’t even know why you keep followin’ me around.”

you look away again, jaw tightening.

“would’ve told her the same damn thing, but…”

a humorless laugh slips out.

“i think she’d tear me apart if she knew i’ve been around a vampire this long. maybe even with her bare hands.”

the silence that follows feels like it holds its breath.

remmick shifts his weight, slow and deliberate, but he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t dare break the fragile space between you.

“i follow you ‘round ‘cause you don’t run,” he explains simply, almost like it’s obvious, “you glare, you grumble, but you don’t run. not really,” his voice softens, “and maybe i like that.”

you scoff, but it’s half-hearted, “so you’re just hangin’ around ‘cause i’m not scared of you?”

he tilts his head, eyes catching the moonlight. “you should be,” he suggests, not unkindly, “but no. that ain’t it.”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical, “then what is it?”

he considers you for a moment, the way you hug your knees and keep your mouth sharp so nothing else slips out.

“you’re a storm bottled up,” he says finally, “and i’m just… curious what you sound like when you crack open.”

you shake your head, looking away, but your voice is softer when you answer.

“you’re playin’ a dangerous game.”

“maybe,” he murmurs, “but so are you.”

your fingers curl into the damp grass as you stare ahead, unsure whether you’re more rattled by his words or the way they settle so easily in your chest—like they’ve always belonged there. like he’s always seen more than he should.

“you don’t know nothin’ about me,” you mutter, though there’s no bite to it. not anymore. it sounds like a warning, but mostly to yourself.

remmick hums low in his throat, a quiet sound that vibrates in the night air.

“maybe not everything,” he admits, “but i know enough to tell yous carryin’ more than you let on.”

you glance at him, only briefly, and the way he’s looking at you makes your throat feel tight. steady, unflinching—like he’s not afraid of the things hiding behind your silence. like he wants to find them.

“it ain’t safe,” you say quietly, “bein’ around me.”

“funny,” he says, with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “i told you the same thing ‘bout me many times.”

that gets a flicker of a smile out of you, unwilling and soft. it fades just as quick, but it was there. remmick catches it—and says nothing.

instead, he steps closer, slow and careful, until he’s just at the edge of your space.

“you want me to go?” he asks, voice low, real.

the question hangs in the air, honest and unpressing.

you don’t answer right away. because part of you does. and part of you really, really doesn’t.

you rise suddenly, a sharpness in your movement that startles even the stillness around you. there’s purpose in your stride as you cut across the clearing, fast and tense, your eyes locked on the ground like if you look up, something might break.

“don’t come back,” you say, firm but not loud. the words fall heavy between you, “don’t look for me. i mean it.”

you don’t glance at remmick—not once. but he watches you. watches the way your jaw tightens, the way your hands ball into fists like you’re holding something in that’s on the verge of spilling.

then your pendant flares—an obsidian throb against your chest—and pain flashes across your face. you flinch, hand flying up to clutch at it, a soft hiss of breath escaping through your teeth.

remmick steps forward instinctively, concern cracking through his stillness, but you’re already backing away. already turning.

“i mean it,” you echo, voice thinner now. and then you’re gone—disappearing into the orchard, swallowed by the mist and shadow, leaving behind nothing but the scent of wildgrass and a tension that won’t let the night settle.

remmick stays rooted where you left him, jaw clenched, hands at his sides.

and for the first time in a while—he doesn’t follow.

the orchard closes around you like a secret, branches knitting tighter overhead as you push deeper into its belly. the fog thickens, wraps around your ankles, your wrists, your throat—like it wants to keep you here, like it knows something broke back there.

you don’t let yourself cry. not yet. not for him.

the pendant still burns against your chest, a steady throb that echoes the tremble in your pulse. it’s a warning, it always is. and tonight, you listened—too late, maybe, but still.

you told him to stay away, you meant it… didn’t you?

behind you, the clearing stays silent. remmick doesn’t follow. you don’t hear his footsteps, don’t feel the way the air shifts when he’s near. and somehow, that hurts worse than if he had. worse than if he’d argued.

because it means he heard you.

and worse—it means he believed you.

somewhere beyond the trees, your home glows dim through the fog, a quiet reminder of everything you're meant to be. everything you’re not allowed to want.

and still, part of you lingers in that clearing—beside him. part of you waits.

you slip through the orchard like muscle memory, like a shadow retracing its steps. the air is colder here, closer to the edge of the property. the fog grows denser, clinging to your skin like sweat, blurring the trees into vague silhouettes. your breath comes shallow, not from fear—but from restraint.

because all you want to do is turn around.

you told him not to follow. you told him to leave you be. and he did. you should be relieved. you should feel powerful. in control… but you don’t.

you feel hollow—like you left something behind in that clearing that isn’t coming back. like maybe it never truly belonged to you in the first place.

your fingers graze your pendant, now cool against your skin. the pain has passed, but it’s left a phantom ache in its wake. like it took something from you in return.

it happens all at once—quick, sharp, merciless.

your foot catches on a gnarled root and you stumble, catching yourself on the trunk of a twisted apple tree. it groans beneath your touch, heavy with fruit that no longer ripens.

that’s when it surges.

a violent, unnatural heat erupts from the obsidian, sinking straight through your skin like a blade dipped in fire. it spreads fast—an inferno trapped beneath your ribs, licking up your throat, curling around your spine.

you gasp—or try to.

but the sound snags halfway up your windpipe, like something unseen reached down and ripped your voice out before it could escape.

your mouth opens, a desperate cry locked in the cage of your lungs. it claws at your throat, dry and rasping, but nothing comes out—just a hoarse, broken rasp that dies in the fog.

your knees hit the earth with a dull thud.

your fingers claw at the pendant, trying to tear it away, to stop whatever this is—but it won’t budge. it pulses again, harder this time, and you convulse around it, shuddering as the pain tunnels through you like it’s searching for something.

you don’t understand.

you’ve worn this pendant since you were a child. it’s always been heavy, always been strange—but it’s never hurt.

now it feels alive.

angry and hungry.

your vision blurs at the edges, fog mixing with tears, and the world tilts sideways—but you don’t fall. you just kneel, trembling, silent, and swallowed by something you can’t name.

and for a flicker of a moment, you wonder if he’s still back there—if remmick is still watching, still waiting, just beyond the veil of fog.

but he’s not. you asked for this.

so you straighten, grit your teeth, and walk the rest of the way home in tied agony.

alone.

like you were taught to, like you were supposed to.

remmick lingers just beyond the edge of the orchard, where the trees begin to thin and the manor's silhouette bleeds into the mist. the light from your room glows faintly through the conservatory windows, filtered through fog and glass. soft, amber, human.

he shouldn't be here. not this close. not after what just happened.

but he can't tear himself away.

he's leaning against the gnarled trunk of a tree, arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying to anchor himself—trying to make sense of what he felt back there in the clearing where you’d left him.

it wasn't just pain, it was memory. your memory.

and something else, buried deeper. a pulse of ancient power that recoiled from him like it knew what he was. like it despised him for it.

his throat burns with a cry that would never come.

he shuts his eyes. for a moment, he can see you crumpled in the dirt, lips parted around a scream that never made it out. he could’ve helped you, but he didn’t. remmick’s stomach churns with bile as he imagines you over and over again. he regrets it none, but your pain was shared. the pain he watched you endure in an agony of solitude. but the worst part wasn't your silence—it was your eyes.

how lost they looked. how far from yourself you'd drifted.

and now you were back inside, hidden behind brick and stained glass, surrounded by people who would never understand what really lives beneath your skin. who would hate you more if they did.

remmick exhales, slow and ragged, you ain’t the only one carryin’ somethin’ monstrous.

he runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall to his side.

you told me not to follow, he thinks, dragging his fingertips along the bark of a young apple tree. it's soft and damp beneath the pads of his fingers—vulnerable. like skin that’s never been touched before. like you, pretending you don’t want to be seen.

but after tonight?

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like that’ll make his his pulse pound against the walls of his ribs once more. it doesn’t.

his boots crunch through the grass and fallen petals, the orchard dense and drowsy under the weight of the full moon. he walks the path like it belongs to him, like it was carved by his own hands—and in a way, it was.

how many nights has he wandered this route to the swing? nine, maybe ten nights of longing that he hasn’t experienced in so long.

how many times has he stood beneath your window, letting you reject him in silence, letting your silhouette keep him warm?

he presses his palm flat to the next tree, breathes in the cool rot of early fruit.

“you got no clue what you’re askin’ me to do. not really,” he grins at the glow emanating from your window.

leave you alone? pretend i ain’t see the way your body curved in that light, didn’t feel the heat radiating through that cracked-open window like a heartbeat?

nah, you wan’ed me to see. you left the curtain open, the lamp on. you gave me enough to starve on, and now i’m jus’ ‘posed to pretend i’m full?

remmick laughs under his breath, but it’s bitter, sharp.

you don’t get to ask for distance and drip affection in the same breath. not with him, not when he knows the way your mouth trembles when you lie.

he reaches the swing and lets it sway as he brushes past it, hand grazing the rope.

a small part of him wants to wait here again. the faithful ghost. the shadow you can always count on to never knock, never demand—just exist at the edges of your world.

but tonight? tonight the ache is louder than the patience.

and he’s done pretending crumbs are enough.

he tilts his head, eyes flicking toward the glint of your window through the trees. your silhouette moves, just for a moment. a turn of the shoulder. the stretch of your arm. just enough.

it’s always just enough.

“you told me not to follow,” he murmurs to the dark, voice low, private, like a prayer or a promise, “but sweetheart…”

his jaw tightens.

“…after tonight, i don’t think i can stay away.”

not when you keep acting like you don’t want him there, not when everything about you says otherwise. not when he’s already so far gone, he’d burn down the whole orchard just to see your face up close.

so every night for five nights, remmick stands in the treeline—still, watchful, half-swallowed by the orchard's hush. he tells himself it's patience. restraint. a courtesy. but it isn't. not really. it's calculation.

because he wants you.

not just the glimpse you allow him—your silhouette framed in golden lamplight, the flash of your thigh as you move past the curtains, the long slope of your back when you lean over something unseen. no. he wants more. all of you.

and he plans to have it.

you think you’ve shut him out. think those words—don’t come back, don’t find me—were enough to keep him at bay. and maybe they would’ve been, if you hadn’t left the curtain drawn. if you hadn’t left the light on. if your shadow hadn’t started moving slower, more deliberate, like maybe you knew exactly where he was standing in the dark.

it’s a game now.

one you’re playing too, even if you won’t admit it.

every movement you make behind that glass, he studies like scripture. he knows the way your arms cross when you’re lost in thought. the dip of your hip when you lean on one leg. the subtle shiver in your spine when you peel off a sweat-dampened blouse.

and he imagines.

god, how he imagines.

he knows you want to be good. knows you’re holding yourself back out of loyalty or fear or guilt. that your mother’s voice is louder in your head than your own. but he also knows the way your breath hitched the last time he touched your hand. the way your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

you don’t hate him, you’re terrified of what you feel for him… and that’s all the opening he needs.

he won’t storm your door. he won’t demand. remmick’s smarter than that. he knows how to wait, how to wear down your resolve with silence and presence, the promise of heat just beyond reach. every night he lets you feel him at the edge of your world—watching, wanting, waiting.

not forever.

just long enough for your walls to crack.

because eventually, you’ll open that window. maybe just to speak, maybe just to ask why he keeps coming back. but that’ll be the start. the door he needs. and once he’s in—truly in—he won’t leave with scraps.

he’ll have the real you—the one behind the curtain, the one with the sharp tongue and aching heart, the one who trembles when touched, who burns beneath the surface.

remmick doesn’t just want your body. no, he wants the monster you keep caged, the fire you deny yourself, the truth you’re afraid to say out loud…

he’s not watching to admire; he’s watching to learn, to predict the moment you’ll break.

and when you do—when your breath stutters and your hand reaches for that latch—he’ll be ready.

because he’s not here to leave empty-handed. he’s here to take what’s already his.

the morning of the sixth day comes slow, cruel.

sunlight seeps into your room through the curtains, warm and gold, but it does nothing to soothe the fire torching in your chest.

the obsidian pulses just beneath your skin—deep and anchored to your sternum like it’s burrowed there, latched on. what began as a dull, bruising throb the night before has bloomed into a full-bodied torment.

your breath hitches with every heartbeat. your hands shake uncontrollably. you lie curled in your bed, limbs twisted in the sheets, damp with sweat—drenched, really. your nightclothes cling to your body, soaked through, your skin fever-hot but your blood feels cold.

your teeth clench as another wave hits, searing down your spine and wrapping tight around your ribs. it’s like being wrung out from the inside—like something ancient is pulling, dragging, testing. your fingers dig into the mattress, fists twisted in fabric, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood just to stop from screaming.

but the worst part is the stillness of the house. how no one comes.

until she does.

the door creaks open, slow and deliberate, and your mother’s silhouette fills the doorway.

she doesn’t rush to you. she doesn’t speak, not at first. you gasp, chest heaving. your vision blurs.

“mama,” you whisper, voice like gravel. your throat is raw. it hurts just to speak.

she walks in like nothing’s wrong. composed, hair pinned, face unreadable as always. she stands at the foot of your bed and folds her hands.

“you crave the uncraveable,” she notes. flat. final. with defeat.

you blink through the blur, eyes wide. your lips tremble.

“make it stop,” you rasp, “please, mama, i—i can’t—”

“yes, you can.”

your mother watches you with that same stillness she always wears when things go wrong. like she's seen this before—like she's endured it.

she doesn’t flinch when you writhe beneath the sheets, doesn’t blink at the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes or the way your hands tremble like snapped branches.

her voice is calm when it finally comes.

low. clipped. deliberate.

“this pain,” she says, “it’s not punishment. it’s temptation.”

you choke on a breath, eyes wide and wet as you clutch at your ribs, as though you could claw the stone out yourself.

“you’re yearning for something,” she goes on, “something you cannot have… and the pendant knows it. it was made to protect you. from yourself but also to keep your bloodline pure. clean.”

you groan as another bolt of fire drives down your spine, curling your toes. your muscles seize.

“this is a test of will,” she tells you, voice like steel beneath velvet, “it burns because you’re still tempted. it stops when you stop wanting.”

you whimper. you want to scream, you want to tear the obsidian from your chest and throw it out into the orchard.

but more than anything—more than escape—you know who you’re thinking of and that’s the real sickness.

your mother leans forward slightly.

“you let go of what draws you in, and the stone will quiet.”

you can’t even lift your head, can barely breathe but her words stick.

they lodge themselves into your ribs, right beside the burning stone—it stops when you stop wanting.

you don’t know whether it’s anger or sadness or indifference in her voice. maybe it’s all of them. maybe it’s none.

“this is a test,” she continues, “a test of willpower. of loyalty. you endure this, and it’ll never touch you again.”

another pulse crashes through you, sharper than before. it’s like glass grinding through bone, like your own heartbeat is trying to rip you apart.

you curl inward, fetal, fists pressed to your mouth to muffle the moan that slips out—raw, guttural, ugly.

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” she repeats, firmer this time.

you sob into your palms, forehead pressed to the pillow. your body jolts again, like a live wire snapping inside your muscles.

she steps forward, kneels beside the bed, but she doesn’t touch you. her hands stay folded in her lap.

“breathe through it,” your mother advises, “do not fight it. and do not let it win.”

but it is winning. it’s claiming every inch of you, every cell.

and still, you clench your teeth. sweat drips down your temple. your nails cut half-moons into your palms.

because she’s still there. watching. expecting.

and if this is the fire that forges you—you’re going to survive it. or die trying.

that night, the moon hangs like an omen—round and watching, flooding the orchard with that sickly, silver glow. the conservatory is too still, your skin hot and prickling beneath your nightclothes, the air thick like something is about to snap.

you don’t plan to go anywhere. your mother’s words still echo like a curse in your chest: endure it. it’ll pass.

but it doesn’t. the ache remains. duller now, but coiled tight behind your ribs. like it’s waiting for something.

then comes the knock. sharp, deliberate, right against the conservatory door.

you freeze.

not him. not tonight.

he knocks again.

you’re storming down the stairs before you realize, hair loose, jaw clenched, barefoot against the cold marble. you fling the door open with a snarl already caught in your throat.

“what part of leave me alone didn’t you understand?”

remmick stands in the fog, arms crossed, that usual lazy look gone. there’s tension in his jaw too—something dangerous.

“you look like hell,” he notes, instead of hello.

you glare, “you don’t get to comment on that.”

“you been locked in this damn house for nearly a week. i thought—”

“you thought wrong. you always think you know what i need.”

he steps forward, “i know that thing around your neck is killing you slowly and ain’t nobody inside that house doin’ anythin’ but watchin’.”

your hand flies to the pendant like he’s physically touched it.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap.

“i do,” he bites, his voice rising, “i can smell the pain on you. you think your mother has all the answers? she’s feeding you fear, not healing. you’re hurtin’—”

“so what?” you shout angrily, baring your teeth like a hunted beast, “that don’t mean i want you to fix it. why do you even care? why do you keep showin’ up like i asked for this?”

he goes still. then, low and sharp: “‘cause i can’t stay away.”

you flinch like he’s struck you. your chest seizes and the pendant pulses.

“i never wanted you here!” you scream, stepping out onto the stone patio, “you ruin everything. i was fine before you—”

he grabs your wrist. not hard, just enough to stop you, “don’t you walk away from me like this, screamin’ at me like i ain’t mean shit to you,” he demands, his voice rough now, “you ain’t thinking straight—”

you yank your arm back, your face flushed with fury. your mind is overflowing with the pain of your pendant and your father’s warnings and the control your mother has over you with her judgement and the feelings you don’t want to have for remmick. it makes you sick and dizzy and you almost feel like you’re playing tug of war but in this case, you are the rope.

you slip on the slick stone step and you stumble forwards.

remmick reaches for you, but you’re already going down—knee smacks the step, elbow grates the edge. your chest hits the bottom step with a jolt, and the pendant—crack.

the sound is sickening.

the obsidian splits beneath you.

you don’t even have time to react before a heat erupts from the stone like it’s been holding in the sun. your back arches upwards, a scream caught in your throat—but it doesn’t come out. nothing does. your voice is swallowed, choked, crushed by invisible hands.

remmick’s voice reaches through the haze, distant and warped, yelling your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

you don’t respond… you can’t.

the moon slips through the clouds, casting silver light across the patio. it lands on your hunched form like a spotlight, exposing every tremble, every shallow breath. remmick stands still, watching you—concern etched deep into his face. there’s fear in his eyes now, not of you, but for you. because whatever this is, it isn’t normal. it isn’t right. and it’s getting worse.

remmick hears you grunt, a guttural sound torn from deep inside—like you’re fighting to hold back vomit. your body convulses violently, heaving and gasping for air that won’t come. then, a scream rips free, a sound so raw, so pure in its torment, it pierces the night: pure excruciation.

your back arches sharply, ripping through your nightgown with a sound like tearing flesh. bones crack and snap, shifting and stretching in impossible ways—longer, thinner, grimly warped. muscles strain, stretched tight across exposed bone, sinew twisting and coiling like dark cords. tufts of coarse hair sprout wildly, but barely mask the unnatural, writhing changes beneath your skin.

remmick’s stomach churns violently, a sickness foreign and fierce overtaking him. he’s seen centuries of horror, but never this—a primal, unsettling transformation that twists his gut with nausea.

and then it’s done.

you rise—towering now, nearly two feet taller. your jaw unhinges grotesquely, stretching wide to reveal jagged rows of yellowed, broken teeth, uneven and sharp, glistening with thick, viscous drool that drips in slow, heavy globs. the sight is monstrous, raw, terrifying—and utterly alive.

and in some sick, twisted way, he believes you are more beautiful than ever—raw and untamed, stripped of every mask and pretense. here you stand, pure and primal, a creature shaped by the night itself. a powerful beast, fierce and wild, born to rule the darkness.

it’s tense as you lean down, your snarl curling into something more guttural, masking the growl clawing up your throat. drool spills freely now, thick and glistening—years of suppressing your true self have left you starved, feral, aching to give in to instinct.

remmick doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t run.

he just gazes up at you like a man witnessing a god—wide-eyed, awestruck, the stars reflected in his pupils. his lips part, a faux breath caught somewhere deep, but nothing comes out. no warmth, no fog in the air. just stillness. a reminder that he is inhuman.

now you are both raw—bare as bones, pure as sin.

your snout twitches. you inhale sharply, deeply, catching a scent far richer, far more alluring than the vampire before you. your gaze cuts toward the orchard, nostrils flaring. something delicate waits out there—something trembling, alive.

you pull back, your heavy limbs tense with anticipation.

remmick watches, dazed, as you leap forward—claws slicing into the damp grass, propelling your massive form into the dark. you vanish between the trees, the sound of your stride echoing long after the orchard swallows you whole.

and it seems the commotion has stirred the manor—its old bones creaking with sudden life. the first to burst through the doors are your aunt talia and uncle, faces drawn tight in alarm. remmick recognizes the names; you’d mentioned them once, maybe twice, in passing.

talia storms forward, eyes blazing, her nostrils flared and fists clenched at her sides like she’s ready to strike the night itself. her voice cuts through the dark, sharp and commanding—“lucius, get roxanne. now.”

lucius hesitates only for a breath before disappearing back into the house.

and then—more footsteps. faster, heavier. your mother and father rush into the scene, breathless, disheveled. your mother’s eyes go straight to the torn fabric on the patio and the broken pieces of obsidian that glint faintly in the moonlight. your father scans the orchard, hand instinctively going to the blade tucked at his hip.

remmick doesn’t move. he stays rooted in the shadows behind the wall, watching them all with a gaze like ice—unblinking, unreadable. waiting.

roxanne steps in fast, her expression unreadable but her pace all urgency. talia’s already waiting, pacing in place like a caged animal.

“that damn vampire,” talia spits the moment their eyes meet, voice low and sharp, “i knew he was trouble the second she started acting strange.”

roxanne doesn’t immediately reply—just scans the mess: the snapped twigs, the broken pendant, the churned-up ground.

“you think he did this?” she asks quietly, but there’s no softness in her tone.

talia scoffs, “please. you know what he is. even if he didn’t cause it, he’s the reason she’s rebelling.”

roxanne exhales through her nose, slow, “no. not rebelling. changing.”

talia whirls on her, “don’t get poetic with me, rox. she was fine before he came around.”

roxanne’s eyes flick to the darkened orchard. she doesn’t respond. remmick hears her coo at the younger children before telling the older children to get the others to bed.

remmick swallows hard, “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. he doesn’t want to intervene—not yet—but the urge claws at him. it’s not about heroism or guilt. it’s control. it’s instinct. it’s her.

and whether she wants him there or not, he knows it’s better if he keeps watch. keeps close. just in case.

the town had no warning. no omen. just blood.

you moved through the fields first—silent and low. the livestock never stood a chance. sheep were torn open like paper dolls, cattle gutted clean down the middle. the ground drank it all, soaking up the red until the grass bowed under the weight of it.

your eyes glowed—something between amber and hellfire—as you prowled through smoke rising from barns now caved in.

remmick watched from the edge of the treeline, still as the trees around him, his chest rising and falling with something close to awe, close to grief.

he should’ve stopped you. gods, he should’ve.

but he couldn’t bring himself to.

not when you looked so alive.

you hunted with purpose, with rage buried so deep it poured out of you in snarls and ragged breaths. you didn’t pause. didn’t question. a horse kicked and ran; you dragged it back down. chickens fluttered, feathers floating like snow in your wake.

a man stepped outside with a lantern. your head snapped in his direction. he didn’t even scream.

remmick looked away only once—when the crunch of bone echoed too loud, too final—and by the time he looked back, you were already gone again.

just red footprints and silence.

he hears the crash before he sees it—the sickening sound of wood splintering and glass shattering. screams cut through the night air, frantic and raw, echoing from inside the house. somewhere a dog barks wildly, sharp and desperate, but then it whimpers, trailing off into silence.

then you burst through the broken doorway, wild and untamed, dripping with thick, dark blood. it clings to your skin and fur, slick and heavy, pooling at your feet with every step you take. your breath is ragged, muscles tense and ready to spring again.

remmick’s eyes narrow as he watches you, every inch of you fierce and raw under the moonlight. without a word, he whistles—a low, teasing sound that cuts through the chaos.

you turn, a flash of hunger and madness in your eyes, and with a snarl. remmick watches you for a moment, chest tightening with a strange mix of dread and exhilaration. the cold night air bites at his skin, carrying the sharp scent of crushed grass and blood that clings to you. faint sounds of splintered wood and distant, fading screams hang in the air, but all he can focus on is the wild pulse of your movements. the moonlight glints off your claws, wet and gleaming. then suddenly, you spring forward, muscles coiling and releasing with raw power, and remmick feels the thrill ripple through him as you peel after him into the orchard, the chase igniting beneath the stars.

remmick jogs slowly, purposely letting the distance between you grow. the rhythm of his footsteps shifts, becoming heavier, deliberate, almost inviting. beneath the tangled branches of an ancient oak, he stops completely, body tense but still—waiting. his chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths, masking the hunger that pulses beneath his skin. the cool night air presses against him, but his focus is fixed on the sharp snap of twigs behind him—your approach.

then, with a sudden, feral burst, you pounce, claws digging into his shoulders, teeth bared in a wild snarl. remmick catches your weight, grinning despite the sting of your claws, eyes dark with longing. he doesn’t struggle; instead, he thrusts his head forward, sinking his teeth into the tender skin of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper—a sharp, startled sound that ripples through the night air. but before he can linger, you smack him away, fierce and sudden, breaking free with a flash of movement. you scramble off, claws scraping against the earth, breath ragged as you vanish into the shadows, leaving him grinning—half frustrated, half exhilarated—still craving more.

he finds you face down in the field, the first pale light of dawn just brushing the horizon. your skin is bare, smeared with blood—crimson against the pale frost that clings to the grass beneath your trembling fingers. despite everything, you look raw, untamed, and hauntingly natural, as if this wildness is your true form. slowly, you lift your head, eyes meeting remmick’s. he’s standing over you, a crooked smile playing on his lips, full of something like admiration and something darker, something that makes the air between you crackle with unspoken promises.

your eyes are heavy with exhaustion as your fingers trace the tender wound on your neck, “you bit me..” you whisper.

remmick nods, a small smirk tugging at his lips, “yeah, vampire bites act like werewolf neutralizers. funny how that works, huh? shoulda just told me from the get-go, but…” his voice trails off, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something softer beneath.

“i thought you was breathtaking tonight,” he murmurs, the words a quiet play on the night’s violence and your fragile beauty. you laugh through tears, then break, sobbing harder as the weight of the lives you took settles over you.

he lowers himself to his knees, fingers petting down your tangled hair. your face twists with anguish—he knows you feel stained, broken.

remmick moves quickly, pulling you into his lap, his voice soft and steady as he soothes you, “there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of. you’re okay.”

you shake your head fiercely, voice trembling, “i killed people, remmick. that’s not okay.”

he holds you tighter, eyes fierce but tender, “this is whatcha are. you can’t help that… and you looked so free, nothin’ holdin’ you back, the best version of yourself.”

remmick wipes your tears, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

you nod slowly, a shaky smile breaking through your tears, the rawness of the night still clinging to your skin. remmick’s hands cup your face gently, thumbs tracing the damp trails your tears have left, grounding you in the moment.

his eyes glint with something fierce yet tender, an unspoken promise of acceptance and understanding. the world outside disappears—it’s just the two of you, bound by something deeper than fear or pain.

your breath mingles, shallow and uneven, as you lean into him, the warmth of his cold body strangely comforting against the chill in your bones. for a moment, the chaos fades, replaced by the quiet, electric charge of being so close, wrapped in a silence that speaks louder than words.

his lips press against yours, but it’s not just a kiss—it’s something darker, more primal. remmick’s tongue slips inside your mouth, tasting the blood that lingers there, lapping it up like a thirst long denied. every movement feels hungry, possessive, like he’s consuming you piece by piece—not just your blood, but your very soul. you shiver beneath him, caught in the fierce intimacy of it, the way he devours you with his mouth, claiming you in a way no words ever could. it’s raw, intense, and somehow painfully tender all at once.

remmick’s hands roam from your hair down to the curve of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you. his lips part, brushing yours with a hunger that’s been smoldering too long, and you respond with equal fire—pressing your body against his, tasting the sharp, intoxicating heat of him. every kiss is deeper, more desperate, like you’re both trying to memorize the other, to hold on through the chaos inside and out. his touch sets your skin ablaze, fingers tracing every inch, igniting a fire you didn’t know you had. breaths hitch, hearts race—though his doesn’t beat—and the world fades, leaving only the wild, aching connection binding you both.

remmick slides you gently from his lap onto the cool grass, the early morning wrapping around you both like a secret. he brushes a soft kiss to your lips—delicate, a quiet promise—before his mouth trails down your skin, each kiss deeper, more urgent. he sucks softly, reverently, as if memorizing every inch of you, worshipping your body in the tender darkness. the world falls away until there’s only the heat of him, the pulse beneath your skin, and the breathless connection binding you close.

remmick moves like a slow bloom unfurling under the dawn’s soft light, petals parting one by one with deliberate grace.

his lips trace the curve of your skin like dew settling on fragile blossoms, sending shivers like whispers through your veins. goosebumps rise like tiny buds swelling beneath his touch, a dark promise flashing like thorns beneath velvet petals.

with reverent hunger, his mouth explores you—each kiss a tender petal brushing against delicate skin, each lick a slow dance of nectar and desire.

you are the flower, opening to his devotion, each gasp a petal trembling in the morning breeze, every shiver a blossom swaying in the heat of the sun. his hands roam possessively, like vines curling and clasping, drawing you ever closer into his embrace.

beneath the stars, you are both wild garden and sacred ritual, blooming fiercely into the night, petals drenched in euphoria.

waves of pleasure unfurl inside you like a sudden burst of color, fireworks blossoming behind your eyes. your cries are the song of blooming petals tearing free from the bud, soft moans and desperate gasps unfolding like fragrant blossoms bursting open in the heat.

your hands claw the earth, roots digging deep as your body twists and curves in pure, untamed bloom. every flick of his tongue, every brush of his lips is a gentle caress of pollen on petals, igniting sparks that bloom like wildfires in your veins.

as the tension builds, the flower’s pistil pulses—stamen trembling, petals ready to burst—then, with a shudder like the first rain after a drought, you erupt into a dazzling bloom, white-hot and radiant, your cries the fragrance carried on the wind.

he holds you steady, vines wrapped possessively around the fragile bloom, as you ride the wild storm of blossoming fire—lost in the beauty of becoming, wild and free.

your breath quickens, shallow and ragged, chest rising and falling with desperate urgency. the heat pools deep between your thighs, spreading in wild, insistent waves that make your skin tingle, your senses sharpen.

your fingers clutch at his hair tighter, nails digging in, desperate to anchor yourself as the pressure builds unbearably, every nerve screaming in delicious torment.

the world fades until all you feel is the ache, the need, the rush of sensation exploding inside you—a crescendo that promises to break you open completely.

and just as you’re about to cum again, just as you tilt over the edge remmick pulls away, eyes glossed over, faded with want.

remmick lingers close, his breath warm against your skin, eyes searching yours for the faintest hesitation.

“you sure?” he murmurs, voice low and tender, almost fragile. you nod, chest rising and falling with a desperate urgency.

“yes,” you whisper, voice trembling—not with fear, but with need.

he pauses, fingertips brushing your cheek softly, savoring the moment before finally closing the distance. it’s slow, deliberate—a tender claim wrapped in raw desire.

the world narrows until there’s only the two of you, the silent promise between gasps and trembling hands. he moves with a careful reverence, every touch gentle yet filled with an aching hunger.

his hands slide along your sides, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

your breath hitches as he lowers himself, lips tracing a path over your collarbone, down to where your skin burns beneath his touch.

“i’m here,” he whispers, voice rough and full of need, waiting for you—wanting you to feel safe, wanted, desperate like him.

when you nod again, wordless and sure, he enters you slowly, carefully, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. the world falls away with every shared breath and every pulse of closeness, the moment raw and fragile and utterly consuming.

he stays gentle but fierce, moving with a steady rhythm that speaks of both passion and reverence—of a connection neither of you can deny.

his hands cup your face firmly, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as his fingers trace the sharp line of your jaw with deliberate tenderness.

he leans in slowly, lips parting before crashing onto yours in a fierce, searing kiss that steals your breath. the heat of his mouth is intoxicating—hungry and possessive—melding with the softness of yours, a storm of fire and silk.

your bodies press tighter together, his chest warm and steady against you, every pulse and shiver sending sparks through your veins. the world shrinks until only the slick slide of his tongue, the rough scrape of his stubble, and the desperate gasps you share remain—each breath, each sigh, each whispered name weaving you deeper into a suspended moment of raw, aching desire.

he moves with deliberate patience, matching your desperation—slow, steady, each stroke tightening the coil of tension between you both until it’s raw, pulsing, unrelenting.

your hands claw at his back, nails digging deep into muscle and skin, desperate for something solid to hold onto amid the raging storm inside you. every thrust sends sparks shooting through your core, breath hitching, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

then, breaking through the mounting pressure, you cry out—voice trembling with a fierce mix of pleasure and anguish. hot tears spill down your cheeks, salt mingling with the sweat slicking your skin, as waves of ecstasy crash against the sharp sting of guilt: the bitter weight of betraying your family cuts through the haze, but beneath it all, the fire he’s ignited inside you burns too fierce to resist.

trembling and undone, you surrender completely—naked, vulnerable, and fiercely alive—in the fierce, consuming heat of his arms.

the storm inside you finally settles, leaving a calm so deep it feels almost unreal. your breath slows, your body still humming with warmth as the tension unwinds from every muscle.

your eyes flutter open, and for a heartbeat, you see two versions of remmick—one close, smiling gently with quiet satisfaction, and another, faint and distant, like a shadow lingering just beyond the edges of your vision. your gaze drifts away, far off into a place only you can see, and remmick catches that look—the one filled with a thousand unspoken thoughts.

he smiles tenderly, understanding without words, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as if to anchor you back. in that soft, fragile moment, everything else fades—the world, the pain, the fear—and all that remains is the quiet promise held in his eyes and the gentle pulse of your shared breath.

you walk through the orchard, the dawn just peeking over the horizon, painting the sky with soft pink and gold. you’re wrapped in remmick’s too-big button-up, sleeves hanging past your hands, and he’s shirtless beside you, cool morning air kissing his skin. everything’s quiet, like the world’s holding its breath just for you two.

he breaks the hush, voice low and steady, “ain’t gonna be easy, you know that. your kin—they won’t take it gentle. they’ll make it hard as hell.”

you pull the shirt tighter, shivering but steady, “i know. but we’ll get through it. no matter what. together.”

he takes your hand in his, fingers lacing easy and sure, like home, “i know you’re tougher than anythin’ they throw at you. i ain’t givin’ you up.”

you squeeze back, heart thumping, feeling that wild hope in his touch, “then we face it all. come hell or high water.”

he kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering, “tha’s my girl,” he smiles into your hair, voice rough with something tender beneath the edge, “ain’t no storm gonna break us.”

you lean your head on his bare shoulder, breath mingling with his, the orchard waking around you—the scent of dew, the distant call of a waking bird, “we got each other,” you whisper, “and that’s all that matters.”

he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, like he’s holding the whole world in that one embrace, “just you ‘n me, darlin’. nothin’ else matters.”

#remmicks pov #reader pov #remmick sinners #jack o'connell #remmick x reader

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months ago

Note

Hello Poppy!!! I have a request please if thats okay!

The other night my sister was telling me a story, the details of which are not important; but the jist of it is that someone was being disrespectful to her and she shut it down. But while she was telling the story, she looked at me and said "im glad you werent there because you would have been making that face the whole time" 🤣🤣🤣 the face in question was one of absolute puzzlement and disgust (a la Zendaya in that one scene of Challengers)

Anyway, it got me thinking (as i so often do) about the 141 with a partner who CAN NOT keep a poker face. Somebody says some fuckshit, everyone knows they fucked up just by the facial expression. The epitome of "if looks could kill"

I'm absolutely the same way. I cannot keep a neutral expression to save my life lmao

Gaz loves that you cannot keep a straight face around anything or anyone. Nothing makes him smile more than seeing your passive expression become one of utter bafflement. It’s why he loves going to events and functions with you or spilling the social work tea over dinner. The two of you can sit in the back, listening and watching other people acting like todgers, sharing in the mutual bafflement.

Soap is perfectly fucking giddy to let you off your leash. At the pub, the alcohol always gives the tension a little boost, but when someone bumps into Soap, and instead of apologizing, wants to start a fight, the look on your face is priceless. Soap will stay silent and smiling, allowing you to use that facial expression and gorgeous mouth to come to his defense. If they decide to turn their entitlement on you, it’ll be the all clear he needs to throw a fist.

Ghost sees you over the wanker’s shoulder that’s talking his ear off. The bloke is red in the face—seething over something Ghost did or said. You have that look of disgust and puzzlement you always get when someone’s being an arsehole. Ghost grins at the man—devilish and knowing. “Best move on before I set my wife on you.”

Price notices the shift on your face like it’s second nature. Doesn’t matter when or where, you’re completely unable to keep a stoic or passive expression when someone is acting like a bloody idiot. The other thing you can’t control is your mouth. So, when someone decides to make Price their verbal target, he’s quick to put his arm out to act as a barrier between you and your target.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

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thewinterdrafts · 4 months ago

Text

Flesh and Metal | The White Wolf

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 6,062

Summary: Bucky Barnes is everything you ever wanted—soft, thoughtful, devoted. He loves you with a quiet intensity that should make you feel like the luckiest person alive. But after so many months of being together, he still hasn’t touched you. Not like that. When you finally confront him, you realize the truth is so much deeper. He does want you. He just doesn’t know how to ask. And tonight, for the first time—he’s finally ready to give in.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Sub!Bucky (lots of begging you guys), Angst, Swearing, Dominance & submission dynamics, Self-doubt & insecurity, Trauma responses & PTSD, Fear of abandonment & rejection, BDSM themes (light control, praise, permission-based dynamics), Overstimulation & begging, Implied past abuse

A/N: hey guys! this is my first ever story here, and i've worked so hard on it, my brain might dissolve through my ears tonight. i hope you'll like it, happy reading 🤍

📍Masterlist

It has been four months. Four months and one day, to be exact, since Bucky Barnes became mine. I’ve never heard so many people congratulate me and warn me in the same breath, but I never cared. Not when he’s been so precious, so thoughtful, so achingly romantic. Not when he’s spent every single day making me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

I love him more than life itself. And with him—life and death feel closer than they should.

So why does it feel like I’m still not enough?

Four months, and he hasn't touched me. Not once. Not like that.

Every time I try, every time I lean in, every time I press just a little too close, he pulls away. Sometimes subtly, sometimes not. Sometimes it’s a hesitant step back, sometimes it’s a firm grip on my wrist, pushing me away just enough to make it clear.

I tried everything. Cute lingerie. Whispered invitations. I even got my hair done for our anniversary last night. Nothing helped, I couldn't shake his composed demeanor, no matter what I did.

Maybe, he doesn’t want me at all. Why would he?

The Bucky Barnes could have anyone. Someone like Natasha—gorgeous, cool, effortlessly magnetic. The kind of woman who could hold her own against a super soldier, the kind who wouldn’t hesitate. The kind who makes sense with him.

Me on the other hand? What was I thinking, believing I would be enough? Just a simple girl, coming from a boring family, with no interesting backstory, nothing to show, nothing to–

"Baby?" Bucky put his face an inch from mine, which immediately snapped me out of my spiralling thoughts. "You okay? Is your stomach upset?" He pointed to the remaining of mac and cheese he cooked.

He grew to be extremely good at reading my expressions over the past few months. He usually doesn't need to ask; he just knows what's wrong, and eliminates the problem without a word. This time, though, he didn't know. How could he?

"No," I say flatly.

"Sure? Because–"

"I am fine," I snap, louder than anticipated.

I immediately regret my tone when I see Bucky stiffen, the sound of his metal arm clenching into an unbreakable fist. He takes exactly three steps back from me; measured and calculated. His eyes terrified; I can almost see how he is searching for the possible threats or punishments he would receive, now that he senses the change in the mood. He's still as a sculpture, except for the arms; they are shaking from how strongly he is sqeezing his fist.

Oh, I fucked up.

"I'm sorry. It's just been a really hard week on me, I-"

"You're hurt."

It's not a question, it's a fact.

"I'm not hurt–"

"I hurt you."

It's not a fact, it's a crime. At least that's how he says it.

I look down to the tiled floor where I can still spot the signs of Bucky's cooking. I cannot look at him. I would need to lie to his face and that is one thing I was never able to do. Not after what he's been through.

I notice a small movement from him as he takes another step; farther. Way farther away from me. I take a deep breath and force myself to look at him, wishing I didn't as the sight instantly breaks my heart; his eyes are filled with tears, and he's so confused. Scared. Terrified of what is coming. He's gripping onto the side of his shirt, like he always does when he feels unsafe. A lump forms in my throat as I try to open my mouth to speak. I've ruined him.

"I– uh." The sound I made was barely a whisper, but it made him visibly flinch. "Do you... Do you not... want me?"

Bucky's terrified gaze turns into utter confusion in a matter of seconds. He blinks – for the first time in maybe minutes – as he's struggling to understand my question. I collect all my leftover courage and hope to keep talking.

"You push me away," I say, trying to be as soft as possible. "We've been together for months, but never... together."

I feel so stupid for not being able to just straight out say it. I'm hoping he somehow understands what I mean, but judging by his scrunched eyebrows, I'm gonna have to be more specific.

I let out a big sigh and close my eyes to make the embarrassment less painful. "Bucky, we never had sex."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his face drops. I lose him again somewhere very far away from me, and he keeps looking at me like I am about to destroy him completely.

"If you don't want me, that's okay," I assure him, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. "I know I'm not the prettiest girl, and you've probably seen better—"

"No!" he snaps, so I lift my head up. He looks horrified, like I've just said something unspeakable. I wait for him to continue, but instead, he keeps staring at me, as if his eyes could tell everything he is unable to.

"No?" I echo. "Then why do you run every time I try to touch you like that?"

He breaks the eye contact by strictly looking at the kitchen counter right in front of him; or at anything that is not me. From all the months I've spent in his presence, I recognize this look too well. He's ashamed.

"Bucky..."

Silence. He grips the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in his hands. A nervous tick, but to him, a grounding mechanism. He's really trying not to lose himself.

"I—, I don't—," he stutters. "I don't know how."

"What?" I blink. “Bucky, you’ve—” I hesitate. “You’ve been with other women before.”

His head jerks up with a flicker of panic and frustration.

“That’s not—that’s different.”

“Different how?”

Bucky is refusing to look at me, so I stand up from my seat to make way towards him. He takes a sharp breath when I'm within his reach, but doesn't move. That's a good sign.

"Look at me, baby," I ask, softly. His eyes snap up instantly, and I see it all there. The fear, the desperation, the battlefield in his head. "Tell me what's wrong."

He tries to do so; he opens his mouth, swallows, exhales, shakes his head, tries again, but he fails, no matter how hard he tries.

"Do you want me?" I ask bluntly.

He nods, still staring at the marble countertop. Okay.

"Are you scared to ask for what you want?"

Another nod.

"Do you trust me?"

This one is instant.

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

He lets out a shaky breath before he swallows. He turns his head to me, face flustered, his chest moving up and down as he tries to regulate himself.

"Please, can you—," his voice dies before he can finish. He clearly is struggling, like he doesn't know how to want things and the fact breaks a small part of my heart permanently.

"Go on, Bucky. What do you need?" I encourage him.

"I—," he stutters, and then shakes his head hard, like the words are physically hurting him inside his head.

His body, however, tells the truth on behalf of him. The way his hands tremble and his chest heaves with each exhale, the way his metal fingers twitch against his thigh—he is fighting himself.

I let the silence stretch, waiting, watching the way his face twists with frustration, with hesitation. With want.

“Baby,” I say softly.

His eyes cracks open, blue burning with something raw, something pleading. He sucks in a breath, and for a moment, I think he finally gives in, but then he shakes his head again, hard, turning his face away.

I click my tongue, grabbing his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You want something. I can see it. I can feel it.”

His chest rises sharply, lips parting, but still, he doesn't speak. I lean in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“Do you need me to guide you?”

His entire body jerks, a sharp inhale ripping from his throat. His fingers are clenching into fists, the tremor rolling through his shoulders like a quake. But he still doesn't answer me.

My grip tightens slightly, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Bucky, if you don’t tell me what you need, I can’t give it to you.”

He exhales shakily, a frustrated, broken sound. His brows knit together, his hands lifting before falling back to his thighs, his whole frame trembling.

“Please,” he whispers.

My heart clenches. “Yes?”

His head dropped forward, breath ragged. “Please… please tell me what to do.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

I smile, slow and knowing, letting the moment stretch, letting him feel the weight of what he's just asked for.

“I’ll show you.” I say, and I find my voice firm. Commanding.

His breath stutters, his entire body tensing, every muscle coiled tight with restraint, with hesitation. He’s fighting it, clinging to the instinct to resist—until I lean in, my mouth brushing over the shell of his ear.

“If you'll be a good boy for me.”

The sound he makes—soft, broken, fucking relieved—rips through me like a shockwave. My core tightens, ignites, burns, a volcano threatening to erupt at the sheer power of it.

Bucky Barnes is submissive. For me.

"Follow me," I say, and as if I freed him from an invisible curse, he makes his way after me.

All at once, every doubt I ever had—about myself, about us—disintegrates. How did I not see this before? How could I have been so blind? He doesn’t need distance. He doesn’t need time. He just needs me. Me in control. Me guiding him. Me telling him exactly what to do.

And fuck, if that isn’t the most intoxicating realization of all, I don't know what is.

I may not be the most experienced woman alive, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that he needs me to be present. He needs me to take this. Own this. There’s no room for doubt, no room to shy away, when he trusts me to take care of him.

I release him just to check his expression, searching for even the slightest hint of hesitation, but to my surprise, I find none. Not a single trace. His eyes track my every movement, locked onto me like a soldier awaiting an order.

And it shouldn't turn me on the way it does.

"Do you want me right now?" My voice is steady, even as I close the space between us, just by one step.

His gaze sweeps over me, dragging from my lips, to my throat, to my body before he gives a sharp, assured nod.

"Then take off my dress."

He moves instantly, without hesitation—like he’s been waiting for this since the moment he met me. His fingers find the hem of my dress; his touch cautious, reverent, like he’s afraid I might pull away at any second. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening.

The contrast of his warm, flesh hand on one thigh, and his ice-cold vibranium fingers on the other, sends a shiver tearing down my spine. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts the fabric over my head, the brush of his knuckles against my skin leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Once I’m bare before him, he takes a small step back—just to look. His lips part slightly, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling faster, deeper. His eyes—piercing, devastating—roam every inch of me, burning me from the inside out.

And then, he moves.

He throws the dress across the room without looking, never once taking his eyes off of me. His entire body is vibrating, like he’s barely holding himself together, barely restraining the need thrumming beneath his skin.

The sight of him is stealing every breath I have left.

“Can I take your shirt off?” I break the silence, my own voice softer now.

“Please,” he begs.

I waste no time. I step in, close enough for his ragged breath to ghost over my skin, and strip him bare. It’s a summer night, so he’s only wearing a thin, black V-neck, already clinging to the sweat on his chest–or at least, he was. With one fluid motion, I pull it over his head and let it drop to the floor.

I take a moment, just a few seconds, to admire him.

His body is all strength, broad shoulders and sculpted muscle carved by battle and time. Scars litter his skin, testaments to wars fought and survived, and yet, under the soft glow of the moonlight, he looks like something untouchable. Ethereal. Unreal.

I swallow hard, licking my lips as my gaze travels downward, over his defined abs, the way they tense under my attention, down to the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. I feel it then—the heat pooling low, the unbearable pulse between my thighs. And he’s just standing there, watching me, eyes so dark they’re nearly black.

I’m already so wet for him, it’s almost embarrassing.

"Undress me," I whisper.

His breath catches, eyes flash with hunger, the way they always do when he wants but won’t take. But this time, he moves.

With careful fingers, he reaches behind me for the clasp of my bra, hesitant yet desperate. This is as far as we’ve ever gone. Four months of waiting, of skirting the edge, of Bucky refusing to let himself see me without clothes. Back then, I thought it was because he didn’t want me, because I wasn’t enough.

But now? Now I know the truth. He wouldn’t have known what to do. He was afraid to ruin this. Afraid to ruin me.

I snap out of my thoughts as I feel the cold air of the AC dance on my bare torso. My nipples instantly harden as a result, and Bucky notices it just as quickly. His lips are apart, and he's staring at them like an animal on his prey. The way he wants me fills me with every ounce of confidence I’ve ever needed.

"You can touch them," I whisper, not sure he even heard me, but then he takes two steps towards, putting his flesh hand on my waist.

I gasp, the breath catching in my throat as his warm, steady touch trails up my skin. His movements are slow—painfully, torturously slow—like he’s memorizing me with his hands, drinking me in through touch alone. He reaches my left breast and he cups it, his thumb immediately finding my hard nipple. His breath shudders, sharp and heavy, his chest rising with a strained inhale as he circles my achingly hard peak with his thumb, teasing, testing, learning me.

I struggle to hold in my moan, my teeth sinking into my lip as he pinches it, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight between my legs. And fuck, he’s watching. His vibranium arm remains stiff at his side, fingers curled into a tight, trembling fist, his jaw slightly slack, his lips parted as he watches himself touch me.

He’s fascinated. Hypnotized. Like this is the first time he’s ever allowed himself to truly want something.

"Both hands, please." My voice is barely a whisper, barely a sound, just a needy, broken plea. His head snaps up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his eyes meet mine.

His metal hand, still clenched in restraint, relaxes. With slow, careful hesitation, he brings it up, inch by inch, his fingertips skimming my ribs before finally—finally—he touches me. A shiver rips through me, my body instinctively arching into the icy contrast of metal against my heated skin. I don’t pull away; if anything, I lean into him, chasing the sensation, craving more.

"You're being so good for me," I praise, my voice low.

Bucky fucking breaks.

His entire body stutters, trembles; his breath hitching, his knees nearly buckling beneath him as a wrecked, desperate whimper falls from his lips.

Fuck. That has to be the sexiest sound in the world.

“Can I—” His voice cracks, his fingers flexing against my skin. “Can I please kiss you?”

He is pleading, over and over, his voice shaky, utterly undone.

“Please, I need it. Please.”

His words shoot straight to my core, the need in his voice a direct pulse between my legs. I want him so much, I might sublime from the heat he ignites inside me.

I don’t hesitate. I grab his arm, pulling him against me, forcing his bare chest to crash into mine. He melts against me, his body burning, muscles taut, already trembling with restraint. And then, I kiss him. Or maybe he kisses me. Either way, the moment our lips meet, Bucky loses himself.

He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s drowning and I’m his only air. His mouth is hungry, relentless, desperate, lips crashing into mine as he’s trying to devour me whole.

And fuck, his hands.

They roam everywhere, one gripping the small of my back, the other skimming just beneath my panties, teasing, taunting me, and just when I think it couldn't get any better, his metal hand clamps around my ass, gripping tight, keeping me steady. Feeling the cool vibranium pressing into my heated skin, I moan straight into his mouth, my body shuddering in his hold.

“Put me on the bed. Now.”

The words leave me in a command, and Bucky moves before I can even take another breath. With one arm, just one, he lifts me with ease, like I weigh nothing to him. He lays me down, gentle but firm, already moving to cover me with his body—but I stop him.

“Not yet.”

I shake my head, and he immediately halts, his breathing labored, controlled. He looks wrecked, like he's using every bit of self control to keep himself away from me. Still kneeling between my legs, still so fucking obedient, and yet—his eyes. His fucking eyes, they’re eating me alive.

“Take it off,” I order, nodding toward his jeans.

Bucky keeps his eyes locked on mine, hands trailing down, slow and deliberate as he reaches for the button of his jeans. With a quick flick of his fingers, they’re undone. His piercing gaze never leaves me, his eyes dragging over every inch of my body, devouring, worshipping.

I don't have much time before he stands up and slowly pushes his jeans down. I gasp when I see the thin, black material of his boxers that do nothing to hide him. The thick, heavy outline of him, pressing against the fabric, takes my breath away.

I’ve never seen him like this before. Not even close. I’ve felt him—hard, pressing against me on nights where he’d let himself have just a little. But then he would stop and shut it down. I couldn't understand why, not until now, and I don't have one second to think about it, because he pushes his boxers down. His cock is finally bared to me in full, and Jesus fucking Christ.

He is huge. How is that gonna fit?

“Please,” I hear a small plea towards him, and I shot my eyes back to his face.

His breath is wild, erratic, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air, like he’s on the edge of breaking. His flesh hand is poised, ready to touch himself, to relieve even an ounce of the pressure, but he doesn't. Not without my word. I bite my lip, reveling in the power of it, in the way his entire body trembles under restraint.

“Take this off, too,” I instruct, gesturing to the lace panties that I’d bought months ago—back when I thought he’d see them then. Back when I thought we’d be here so much sooner.

But I don’t have a single complaint left in my body, because when Bucky finally moves—he rips them off. The thin fabric tears from me in one sharp pull, and for a split second, I wonder if he just ripped them in half.

His eyes drag over me, drinking in every inch of bare skin, mapping the places he’s never let himself truly look at before. I feel just how wet I am, now that there’s nothing to soak up the slick. I can feel it all pooling between my thighs, proof of just how badly I want him.

A flicker of shyness grips me—how did I get this lucky? How did I end up with him, undone and starving, in front of me? But I don’t let myself hide; instead, I sit up slowly, deliberately, my movements calculated, letting myself kneel on the soft mattress.

I look up at him, like I could devour him with a single breath. The six-foot-tall ex-assassin is towering over me, radiating pure heat, his entire body coiled tight like a predator barely holding back.

And then, soft as a prayer, I say, “I want you.”

As if I’ve broken a curse, Bucky snaps. His fingers clamp around my throat, his mouth slamming into mine, the sheer force of it knocking me back onto the bed. He pins me down, all of his weight pressing into me, heavy, suffocating, absolutely fucking perfect. The way he kisses me makes me crazy; he's hungry, possessive, and so filthy, I can only moan as a response.

His cock, thick and heavy, sliding between my soaking slit, his length gliding right over my clit with each slow, torturous grind.

“Fuck—” I moan straight into his mouth, my hips instinctively tilting up, chasing every ounce of friction he gives me.

I lose every bit of control I had left. Overcome with greed, I grab at him, pull at him, take as much as I can. My fingers tangle in his long hair, keeping him locked to me, refusing to let him break the kiss for even a second.

I let my other hand wander; I trace the sharp lines of his back, trailing lower, until my palm finds his ass. I squeeze, hard, forcing him to rock against me even harder, dragging his cock rougher, deeper through my slick folds. My breathing is a wreck, my body moving instinctively, clinging to him, needing more, more, more.

I want him. All over me. Inside me. Taking me apart.

“Can I—” His voice shatters, breathless. He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes wrecked with need.

“Can I please put it in?”

And fuck, he looks at me like a puppy, wide-eyed, begging.

“Please, I’ll make you feel so good,” he purrs against my neck, teeth grazing my skin, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses.

“God, yes,” I groan.

Bucky grabs himself, his fingers shaking with need as he positions his cock right at my entrance. He could thrust in immediately, take what we both want without hesitation, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pauses; his eyes flick back up to mine, searching, waiting, needing something more.

And I know exactly what he wants.

“Be a good boy and fuck me, Bucky.”

I'm way past hesitation or shame. All I want is him taking over me, claiming me, pressing me into himself. The words shatter something inside him; his mouth parts, his pupils blown wide, and then—without ever breaking eye contact—he slides inside.

A broken moan leaves my lips as my spine arches, my body opening for him, stretching around him, and fuck, he fills me.

Completely. Entirely. Devastatingly.

I’ve been aching for this moment for months. I’ve fantasized about him taking me, and now he’s finally inside me. A deep pressure builds low in my belly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as he pushes deeper and deeper, until I feel the blunt tip of his cock press against my cervix.

He’s so fucking hard. I can feel him throbbing inside me, feel the pulse of his cock against my walls, and it drives me insane. I wait for him to finally move, but after a few seconds of stillness, I open my eyes.

Bucky is watching me so carefully, his eyes flicking over my face, searching for even the slightest sign of discomfort. His arms shake violently, his knuckles white from gripping the sheets beside my head. He’s breathing fast, erratic, his small, shaky breaths cold against my ear. And he’s moving too slowly, like he’s terrified of losing control.

“Relax, baby. You can let go.”

I lift my hand, gently stroking his beautiful face, my voice barely a whisper. His eyes soften, then immediately darken.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, ruined.

“You can’t,” I assure him. “I can take it. I want to take it.”

The sound that escapes him—a helpless whimper, like he’s been waiting his entire life to hear those words. His body trembles, his control hanging by a thread, his cock twitching inside me at the sheer relief of it.

He might be above me, but he is completely at my mercy.

“You’re doing so good,” I murmur, just inches from his lips, my breath fanning over his skin. “Don’t stop.”

The second I say it, he melts.

Raw, desperate need unleashes from him so suddenly, it knocks the breath from my lungs. I wheeze in surprise, barely able to keep up before he grabs the bedframe above my head with his vibranium arm and picks up the pace—hard. The deep, wrecked moan that rips from his throat sets me on fire; a wildfire raging low and uncontrollable, consuming every last of my coherent thoughts. All I know is him—the way he moves, the way he fills me, the way every precise thrust hits where I need him most.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and he collapses into me, his mouth claiming mine in a sloppy, desperate kiss. His thrusts are relentless, shaking the entire goddamn bed, and I have to grip his vibranium arm for dear life just to keep myself in place.

Somewhere in his haze, even now, he thinks to protect me—his flesh hand cradling the top of my head, shielding me from the bedframe. My chest tightens at the gesture, and I let my lips trail down his sweat-slicked neck in silent gratitude, my teeth grazing over his skin.

Something inside me snaps as I feel his salty skin on my tounge. My nails rake down his back, digging into the hard muscle, desperate to leave my mark. My teeth sink into his shoulder, biting, scratching, taking him. We’re sliding against each other, slick with sweat, the heat of the summer night making everything feel even filthier, more raw, more real.

And Bucky is falling apart.

He’s moaning, breaking, unraveling against me, the sounds deep and ragged, each one rougher than the last. If I didn’t know better—if I didn’t know how utterly overwhelmed with pleasure he is—I’d think he was in pure agony from the helpless little cries slipping from his lips.

“Tell me I’m good for you,” he whispers, almost afraid to ask, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Bucky.”

The words fall from my lips like a promise, and fuck, the sharp, broken gasp he lets out shreds me to pieces. It’s high and desperate, so fucking needy, and it goes straight to my core.

He kisses me, hard and possessive.

“I’ve been waiting…” His voice is unraveling, barely understandable.

”… for so fucking long.”

Then suddenly—

Thrust.

“And you—”

Thrust.

“Feel—”

Thrust.

“So—”

Thrust.

“Good.”

His voice rasps in pure, guttural pleasure. I’m nothing but a puddle beneath him, completely ruined, and somehow, he’s not finished.

His rhythm snaps, his thrusts turning harder, rougher, deeper, more possessive.

“Mine,” he snarls, his voice low, primal. He slams into me, hard, forcing me to take it.

“Mine, you understand?”

I can’t speak. Can’t think. There’s no rational thought left, no words, just pure, consuming pleasure. So instead, I match his pace, my hips rolling up to meet every devastating thrust. The way his words set me on fire, I let the flames consume me. My orgasm builds dangerously fast, and I’m hanging by a fucking thread, barely holding on under the brutal precision of his movements.

“Bucky—God—”

His name falls from my lips like a prayer, breathless and desperate.

“I’m—”

Judging by his increased pace, he knows exactly what I'm trying to say. He lifts himself, just enough to look me in the eyes, and I’m trying so hard not to let my eyes roll back, not to completely lose myself in him.

“Please.”

His voice shatters, breaking apart in my ear, pleading.

“Please cum on my cock. Please, baby, please—”

This is all I need to spiral. The coil inside me snaps violently, my entire body arching, shattering as a scream tears from my throat. I crash into pleasure, drowning in it, my walls clenching tight around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.

“Oh, fuck—” Bucky’s voice breaks, his hips stuttering, his rhythm completely unraveling as he feels me fall apart around him.

“That’s it—fuck—that’s my girl.”

His praise sends a violent aftershock through me, my body trembling, shaking, completely spent. I gasp for air, trying to regulate myself after the most devastating orgasm of my life, but I don't stand a chance. Bucky's not finished, not yet.

“I—I can’t—”

Bucky’s voice isn’t even human anymore. It’s a shattered, breathless little whimper, choked between desperate gasps, his body trembling like he’s about to break. His hips falter, his cock twitching so agressively inside me I swear I can feel it in my throat.

But he won’t let go. Not yet.

Not without permission.

“Please—”

The word falls apart in his throat, barely even understandable.

“Please, baby, please—please let me cum, I need it, I need you, I can’t hold it, I can’t—”

He’s whining, his breath is gone, his voice is gone, his body is gone; he is completely, utterly mine.

“Release it, baby.” My fingers tighten in his hair, dragging him deeper inside me. “Be a good boy and give it to me.”

And that’s it; he doesn’t just fall apart—he disintegrates.

His hips slam forward, burying himself so fucking deep inside me, holding us together, his muscles locking up, convulsing. And if this wasn't enough, he whimpers.

“Ohhh—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

His cock twitches and throbs uncontrollably, and I feel everything. The first violent, overwhelming pulse. The hot, thick flood of him spilling deep inside me. His hips keep jerking, his muscles keep locking up, his whimpers keep breaking apart into desperate, breathless sobs.

“Baby, baby—please, please, oh my God, I—I can’t—”

His hands claw at my waist, face burrowed into my neck, his breath a gasping mess. His voice cracks, completely breaking apart, and then a single, desperate sob escapes from him.

He cries. Bucky Barnes cries when he cums.

His body shakes uncontrollably, his hips rocking forward on their own, like he’s trying to push it even deeper, like he’s chasing something he’ll never be able to reach.

“Baby, baby—please hold me, please—fuck, I love you, I love you so much—”

His voice is cracking, completely gone, and I gasp as I feel another orgasm building inside me. Another slow, rolling wave, ignited by his moans, his desperate little whimpers, the way he’s still trembling inside me.

“Bucky—oh, fuck—”

The second he realizes what’s happening, it destroys him all over again.

“Baby, you’re gonna— Fuck, fuck, fuck—please, baby, please—”

His hips snap forward as a last burst of desperate energy, his hands gripping my waist so tightly I feel the bruises forming.

“Oh, baby—please, please cum on my cock again, I wanna feel it—please, baby, please, please—”

The filth of it, the raw need in his voice immedately shatters me. I scream his name, my body convulsing around him, my walls tightening, pulsing, taking him deeper, squeezing him so hard he sobs.

“Oh—oh fuck, baby, I’m still cumming—”

His cock throbs again, another weak, helpless little spill, and he whimpers so high and wrecked he sounds like he’s dying.

“I can’t stop—baby, I can’t stop, I can’t stop—”

His breath is gone, tears spilling onto my skin, his voice a trembling, begging mess, pleading for the final release. Not a moment later, he collapses.

His body slumps into mine; arms useless, his breathing erratic and broken. His tears still fall, his entire body shivering, overstimulated, still whimpering, still sobbing.

He’s still inside me, throbbing. Utterly gone from this world.

His hands stay locked firmly around me, fingers clutching, shaking, gripping, like he’ll die if I let go. And on top of that, he just won't stop crying. Soft, helpless little sobs hide into my skin, as he's holding onto me for dear life.

“Baby,” he whispers, his voice so broken and small.

“Baby, please don’t let go—please don’t go.”

My heart shatters to a million pieces in a matter of seconds. It becomes evidently clear that he's not here right now. He’s somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere cold, somewhere where he had nothing and no one. I feel it in the way he clings to me and his hands shake as they grip my waist. The way his face tucks into my throat, burrowing, searching, nuzzling like he’s trying to disappear into me; like he’s afraid this isn’t real.

"Shhh, Bucky,” I murmur, kissing his damp temple. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Even though I wanted my words to soothe him, he breaks even more instead. His breath catches on a sob, his entire body curling into me, fingers fisting in the sheets, in my hair, in anything he can hold onto.

“You’re so good to me,” he gasps, his voice shaking. “So perfect, so soft, I—fuck, I don’t deserve this—”

His lips quiver against my skin, hands tightening around me, pulling me closer. The realization that he’s not just crying from overstimulation, hits me like a brick. He’s crying because he’s never felt this before.

Never felt this safe. Never felt this loved. Never felt this cherished, taken care of.

“Bucky,” I whisper, cupping his tear-streaked face, making him look at me.

His blue eyes are glassy and vulnerable, still wet with tears. God, he looks so much younger like this. Like a little boy, back in the ‘40s, nineteen years old, held too many responsibilities, never got held in return.

I immediately want to fix every bad thing that's ever happened to him.

“You deserve all of this, my sweet boy,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his forehead. “You deserve every single second of love. You deserve to be taken care of.”

He lets out a tiny little sob that slits my heart in half, like a butcher knife.

“But I—” His voice cracks, his fingers digging into my waist. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do this. I don’t—”

His breath hitches, his chest rising, falling too fast. I know him enough to realize he’s panicking, his brain is fighting him, pushing against the comfort, trying to tell him he doesn’t deserve this.

I also know how to shut it down. I pull him into me, wrap my arms so tightly around him that he has no choice but to believe that this is real. I'm real.

“It’s okay, baby,” I say gently, stroking his hair, feeling his body relax against mine. “You don’t have to know how. Just let me love you.”

He immediately eases into me, his breath slowing, his shaking finally dying down. He doesn't know, but he's holding my own broken pieces together too, since I've never felt a love so consuming before.

“If I fall asleep,” he whispers, as if he is about to say something unthinkable, “will you be here when I wake up?”

My dear God.

"Of course, Bucky. I'll be right here, always," I promise, my voice firm, not leaving any space for doubts in his broken mind.

He buries his face into my neck as an answer, and with that, Bucky Barnes is fast asleep in my arms.

#bucky x reader #buckyff #bucky ff #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #sub bucky #bucky x you #winter soldier #sebastian stan #bucky #marvel #bucky fanfiction

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moonmaiden1996 · 5 months ago

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Love at First Sight (According to Nagumo, Anyway) Part 2

I honestly didn't think this story would be as popular as it was. Here is part two. I love this man! Requests are open for him!

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into Sakamoto’s convenience store for the second night in a row. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a dim glow over the aisles of instant noodles and neatly stacked snack packs. It was late, you were exhausted, and the only thing keeping you upright was the promise of caffeine.

What you didn’t expect was the man waiting for you like a lovesick puppy.

Nagumo was already there—this time perched cross-legged on the counter, juggling a few snack packs with the effortless grace of someone who had far too much energy for this hour. The motion was fluid, almost mesmerizing, but it all came to a screeching halt the moment he caught sight of you.

His entire face lit up like a firework.

“She’s back,” he breathed, voice dripping with awe, as if your mere presence had turned his world right-side up again. All at once, he lost control of his juggling act, snacks tumbling to the floor and rolling away unnoticed. In one smooth motion, he leapt off the counter, landing in front of you with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his life making grand entrances.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “...Do I know you?”

Nagumo froze mid-smirk.

Behind him, Sakamoto let out a long-suffering sigh from his place behind the register, his expression screaming, why is this my life?

Nagumo, however, looked as if you had just physically struck him. His hand clutched his chest dramatically, eyes wide with betrayal. “You—” He pointed at himself. “Don’t remember me?”

Your gaze flickered over him. Messy hair, smug yet strangely charming grin, an energy that radiated mischief and unwavering confidence—none of it rang a bell. “No?”

Nagumo staggered back, gripping the counter for support as if he had taken a mortal wound. “No?” he echoed in disbelief.

Sakamoto rubbed his temples, not even bothering to look up. “She was exhausted last time. You probably didn’t leave much of an impression.”

Nagumo gasped, turning on him like he’d just been betrayed a second time. “How could I not leave an impression?!”

Sakamoto shrugged, utterly indifferent.

Nagumo turned back to you, determination blazing in his sharp eyes. “Okay, okay. Let’s fix this.” He smoothed out his jacket, took a deep breath, and then flashed you the most dazzling smile he could muster. It was the kind of smile that could sell you anything, the kind that dripped with charm and dangerous intent all at once.

“I’m Nagumo. Master of disguise, incredibly skilled assassin, and—most importantly—your future husband.”

You stared at him, then glanced at Sakamoto for confirmation. “He’s joking, right?”

Sakamoto didn’t even glance up. “I wish.”

Nagumo pouted, but there was an eager glint in his eyes, as if he found your skepticism utterly endearing. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. We had a moment yesterday.”

You squinted. “When?”

“When you spoke to me,” he said, as if that explained everything. “That word made me fall in love with you even more.”

“…Move?”

Nagumo sighed dreamily. “She said it again. My heart cannot take it.”

You exhaled sharply and stepped past him toward the fridge, your patience already wearing thin. “Listen, I’ve had a long day, I’m tired, and I just want my coffee. I can’t… I don’t… I want nothing to do with this.” You scrubbed your eyes tiredly. Maybe it wasn’t them; maybe you were hallucinating. That would make more sense than this…

Nagumo followed, utterly undeterred. “I can make your days better, you know. Imagine this: you wake up, and I’m already making breakfast—probably something impressive, like a perfect omelet. Followed by a back massage. Then, we go on a date. Maybe just the park. Maybe Paris. I’m flexible. I am very flexible, if you know what I mean.” His eyes wiggled frantically in front of your face.

You grabbed a can of coffee and shut the fridge door in his face.

“Not interested in you or how flexible you are.”

Nagumo gasped, reeling back as if you had just delivered a killing blow. He turned to Sakamoto, devastated. “She rejected me again.”

Sakamoto, unbothered, continued ringing up your drink. “You’re surprised? You’re being a creep.”

Nagumo turned back to you, his expression shifting from mock devastation to something more resolute. His amber eyes softened, but the mischief never fully left them. “That’s okay. I love a challenge.”

You groaned, trudging toward the register. “This is harassment.”

Nagumo grinned, trailing after you. “It’s romance.”

Sakamoto sighed, tapping the loudly beeping register. “Please stop encouraging him. ”

Nagumo placed a hand over his heart as if making a solemn vow. “I am but a humble man in love, Sakamoto. I will make her see how I am her perfect husband.”

You paid, took your drink, and turned toward the exit. “I’m leaving now.”

Nagumo leaned against the counter, watching you go with the kind of expression that belonged in a dramatic romance film. “See you tomorrow, my dear. I’ll be waiting! Your devoted husband-to-be…”

You didn’t even dignify that with a response.

The moment the door shut behind you, Nagumo exhaled sharply, slumping onto the counter. His fingers curled into his jacket as he stared at the door with an expression of pure longing.

“Man, she’s perfect.”

Sakamoto gave him a flat look. “You’re a disaster.”

Nagumo grinned, undeterred. “A romantic disaster.”

Outside, you cracked open the ice-cold coffee. “I gotta find a new convenience store. This one is full of weirdos. Assassin my ass.”

#sakamoto #nagumo sakamoto days #sakamoto days #nagumo x you #nagumo #nagumo x reader #naga

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jaylaxies · 1 year ago

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ENHYPEN REACTION: to you being in the rival house at Hogwarts

PAIRING: enhypen hyung line x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, slytherin!hee with gryffindor!reader, slytherin!jay with hufflepuff!reader, ravenclaw!jake with gryffindor!reader, gryffindor!sunghoon with slytherin!reader

WC: 4.7k words

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni

A/N: hihi, my loves <3 this was requested by my anonnie here and i loved writing about enha and hogwarts omg! all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <33

Slytherin!Heeseung x Gryffindor!reader

Trope: Headboy x Headgirl

Heeseung was beyond elated when he got his letter back at the manor, stating how he had become the head boy of Hogwarts. His family of pure bloods were even prouder, however, his cocky smirk dropped the second he met with the entirety of the prefectorial board at the Hogwarts express, prefect compartment to be precise.

Seeing you standing there with the batch stating ‘head girl’ was not something he wanted to see, not when you were someone who came from a non wizarding background, someone who was in Gryffindor.

How could they make you the head girl? How could they think he’d be willing to spend his time working with you of all people. His hatred for your likes was visible from day one, his taunts and threats didn’t bother you, and that’s exactly what bothered him. The urge to make your life living hell was his motto more or less, even more so this year.

“It’s absurd, man. Let her be now, it’s our last year here for Godric’s sake,” Jay huffed out, irritated that Heeseung couldn’t shut up about the new Gryffindor quidditch captain giving you too much attention despite your blood status.

“It doesn’t fucking matter, why do people like her anyway? What happened to keeping the muggles away from the likes of us?” He gritted his teeth, accidentally stabbing the piece of chicken too hard with his fork at dinner. The sight of you snuggling close to the said captain infuriated him more than he let on.

“Well, she’s not a muggle if she can do magic, and extraordinarily well at that,” Jay offered, having done with Heeseung being a dimwit and not realizing the truth behind his anger.

“Wow, thanks for the support, mate,” Heeseung rolled his eyes, looking back at you again.

He’d make sure to wipe that smile off of your face while taking rounds later—at least that’s what he promised himself. Taking rounds was probably the time he looked forward to the most, given that it was the perfect time to criticize and show hatred towards you.

However, the second you meet up at the staircase, telling him to divide areas since you do not wish to work with him anymore, he loses it. He completely loses it, scoffing and grabbing your wrist, pulling you into the room of requirement right behind you.

“What the fuck—” you tried to scream, but he was quick to cover your mouth with his hand.

“What? Can’t even look my way now that you have a quidditch captain chasing you around?” He scoffs, eyes full of hatred, the kind you had never seen before and it made you scoff.

“Well, newsflash, Lee. I never wanted to look your way from the very start. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s you who’s clearly obsessed with me,” you seethed out, not caring about the proximity despite your breathing getting heavier.

“Ah? Me obsessed with the likes of you? Don’t flatter yourself, darling,” he said, tone almost challenging, his hold on your wrist tight, just like the hand that was grabbing your waist now, making you gulp but not back down.

“So, it shouldn’t matter to you if I snog my quidditch captain, or more,” you whispered with a smug smile, feeling his hand squeezing your waist tighter.

“You cannot do that,” he warned.

“Oh but I did—”

You couldn’t finish your statement and nor could Heeseung control his actions anymore, pressing you up against the wall and shoving his tongue down your throat, kissing you in the messiest way he could muster to mush out all the sane thoughts coming his way.

This was the sanest he had felt in ages.

“You’re fucking mine,” he groaned against your lips.

“No, fuck I’m not,” you smirked, testing him further, loving how he had finally given in to the truth—that he wanted you.

The room of requirement was sly, preparing a bed as he pushed you on it, getting on top of you while getting rid of his robes, “oh, babe, I’ll show you who you belong to.”

“Took you way too long, Lee,” you chuckled, gasping the second he pushed your panties aside, feeling your wetness on his fingers with a smirk.

“Been waiting, eh?” He asked, cocky as he pushed two fingers in with ease, your back arching as you moaned.

“Talk about yourself,” you smirked, pulling him into another rough kiss, messy of all sorts as he sucked on your tongue, pumping his own cock by lubricating it with your wetness.

He wasted no time, in aligning himself to your entrance, pushing his cock in one go to bottom out, groaning at the tightness that squeezed him, thrusting almost instantly when he saw nothing but pleasure on your face with a promise to claim you his.

“Fuck, I knew you’d make a perfect whore, always so desperate for my attention,” he groaned, snapping his hips to yours, the noise resonating the room.

“You can’t even thrust properly, ah—” he sped up to shut your mouth, your toes curling as you held on to him for support, chanting his name like a mantra the whole time as he proved just how much and how well he can fuck you.

All night.

Slytherin!Jay x Hufflepuff!reader

Trope: Animagi Jay

It took him a lot of patience.

In fact, it took everyone in his friend group a lot of patience to keep their mouths shut for a whole month, a single mandrake leaf resting in their mouths. However, they wanted to do something iconic, which would be—turning into an animagus to cause trouble whilst being unregistered at that. The whole process was tedious.

Jay was losing his last bit of sanity, watching you smiling softly and being kind to others, which was a usual thing per se.

The only problem was how he couldn’t verbally bother you.

It was known to be his favourite pastime, inserting himself in your life and bothering you for existing.

Why? Because that’s what he should do, being a slytherin. He had a personality he needed to live up to, and he knew hell would break if anyone as much as gets a hint about Jay’s infatuation with you.

The solution? To make sure he says the meanest things so he wouldn’t have to see your smile. You don’t get why he’s mean to you. His hatred goes as far as it concerns you, and you’ve never seen him calling anyone else names but you.

So, seeing you being happy and not once thinking about him since he put the leaf in his mouth had his blood boiling, especially when you agreed to attend Slughorn’s party with a random ravenclaw boy. The same party he was gonna ask you to attend with him—or bully you into attending with him, but the smile on your face gets him mad.

He scoffed, ignoring the whole situation and focusing on the transformation process, completely missing the look of sadness on your face when he left without even acknowledging your presence, his mind deep in different thoughts.

Of course you’d be happy without him.

However, the success in becoming an animagi had him smiling. He was a big black cat—a royal panther, while his other friends turned into a bird and a dog.

He went out to explore the place in his animal form, getting out of Hogwarts castle to visit the black lake, not once thinking that he would find you here at night.

Your back looked peaceful as you stared at the lake, and he was silent as he made his way towards you, almost scaring you the second you saw a black panther settling down next to you, a gasp leaving your mouth as your eyes shined under the moonlight.

“Hi, I’ve never seen you around before,” you spoke up, fascinated, extending your hand to stroke his fur.

Jay didn’t expect this, and he knew he didn’t have to pretend in this form, making him purr with pleasure as you gently caressed him. He was a cat after all. The warmth of your kindness was driving him crazy, he so desperately wanted you to like him back, but he knew you wouldn’t.

It became a routine for him to sneak out to meet you at night in his animal form, and he adored how you shared all your secrets with an animal, talking to him, letting him rest his head on your lap and as far as kissing his head in adoration.

He was in love with you.

He loved how you welcomed him with a pretty smile, the same smile which he wipes off your face in his human form.

Everything was going smoothly, to the point Jay had even started staring at you between classes, not being as rude as he used to be before and you never hesitated on smiling back at him, ever so kind. He wanted to talk to you, face to face, and confess.

However, that plan went down the drain. The same Ravenclaw boy was seen standing close to you, a conjured flower in his hand which he presented to you with a wide smile while Jay watched it unfold with the nastiest scowl on his face.

So being petty, Jay practically shoved you out of the way, not looking back even after hearing a little “ouch” coming from your direction as you stumbled, ignoring when you called out his name, rather proceeding to the next class.

He didn’t see you there, and he tried not to act affected by your absence, assuming that you’d have gone with the other guy, relaxing when he saw you in potions class again, his eyes never leaving your face which looked distressed. Especially after you took a sniff of the amortentia, the love potion.

His heart lurched, wondering if you smelled the other guy. And in his case, he knew he was doomed the second he took a sniff and instantly smelled of your body lotion and your favourite delicacy. His eyes met yours that very second and he had to gulp, looking elsewhere to pretend that he was fine.

That night, with a heavy heart, he sat down next to you in his animagi form yet again, this time he found you at the astronomy tower, a bandage around your arm.

“Hey, love,” you welcomed the black panther, “it’s such a pretty night,” you sighed dreamily, petting the panther next to you.

“You mind if I talk?” You asked, chuckling when the panther nodded as if he understood what you meant, “I don’t understand boys. I really like this guy but he’s been mean to me to see. It’s pathetic, isn’t it? That I smelled him in the love potion and he’s the reason why I stumbled and hurt my arm—I just can’t help it, I wish Jay would like me back but he doesn’t even look my way without wanting to look away or just comment about how I’m just a weak Hufflepuff girl,” you mumbled, not focusing on how the panther had stood up all of a sudden.

Jay’s heart thumped, he wasn’t sure if he heard it right, but it was too much, he couldn’t wait anymore.

He transformed back into his human form right there, your eyes widening as you opened your mouth to scream, which he put a hand over to muffle your voices.

“That—that was you!” You whisper-yelled, shoving him away.

“Did you mean it?” He asked, grabbing your wrist which made you lean against the wall, “that you like me?”

You could barely breathe, biting your lip as you nodded, “I know you hate me—”

“Oh, you know nothing, baby,” he chuckled, grabbing your nape and pulling you into a kiss, making your eyes widen before he pulled you even closer, making you kiss him back eventually, getting fervent with your actions.

“Fuck, I like you so much. It was you who I smelled, in the love potion, I mean. I’m sorry for being an asshole, I never knew how to handle feeling this way for you,” he apologized, cutting the kiss and leaning his forehead against yours.

Instead of replying, you pulled him into another kiss, letting his hands wander all over your body, his self control leaving his body. He knew he had you now, and he knew he wouldn’t be letting go, especially after the little whimpers leaving your mouth the second he started kissing your neck after leaving your lips all swollen.

You were too sensitive, too forgiving.

Rubbing your thighs together didn’t help either, but the second he squeezed your bare thigh, you knew you were gone. It was the ideal place for you both to be doing this, but stopping wasn’t an option, not when he was so passionately marking you just after you told him you rejected the other boy.

Spreading your legs was easy, asking you to be a good girl and keep your voices at bay was even easier for Jay, and you obliged, your eyes rolling back as he lapped at your cunt, licking big stripes while fucking your cunt with his fingers, trying to be gentle but you were too pent up to ask him to go slower, only urging him to move faster.

That’s how you spent your night, he took you to his chamber, kicking everyone out shamelessly to fuck you into the mattress, his cock not having enough of you and your pussy clenching him, trying to hold him in for as long as you could before you both reached your high.

He knew he fucked up before but now that he actually had you in his arms, he knew he was going to cherish you forever.

Ravenclaw!Jake x Gryffindor!reader

Trope: Yule ball, fake dating

Jake was loved by everyone and he basked in the warmth of it. Being good in academics came naturally to him, he was a Ravenclaw after all. Adding to it, he was selected to represent Hogwarts at the triwizard championship, his fame and name more glorious than ever these days.

The problem? He had everyone’s attention but the girl who he claimed to have a tiny crush on.

He wanted to ask her to be his date for the Yule ball, however, the chances were slim as another Gryffindor boy named Heeseung, asked her right before Jake could even call out her name.

Jake wasn’t the only one suffering. You stood there beside him, watching the scene unfold with the same wrath in your eyes.

You wanted to go to the ball with Heeseung.

“Tough luck?” Jake asked, not sparing you a glance as you both watched him from a distance as they hugged gleefully.

“Talk about yourself, champ,” you crossed your arms, “she didn’t even think twice before saying yes,” you commented, jaw clenching, “she’s gonna get her heart broken, he’s gonna turn her into a situationship too.”

“What? We have to warn her,” Jake spoke, eyes widening.

“Oh, I tried, but she actually really likes Heeseung,” you huffed, “and here I thought I meant something to him.”

“Go with me,” Jake breathed out, finally looking your way, taking your beauty in.

“What?” You exclaimed, turning your head to look his way too.

He was beautiful, there’s no denying him. His hair was a bit on the messier side, lips pink and swollen from biting (he was nervous), and eyes full of hope.

“To make Heeseung jealous, of course!” He defended his statement and your eyes widened in understanding.

“Oh,” you let out, “so we’re doing all this fake dating thing, now?” You teased him, loving how his cheeks got redder but he only stepped closer, shrugging.

“We’ll have fun, you’ll get to be with the triwizard champion, it’s a win-win for you,” he offered, smirking and you smiled humorously.

“Sure,” you agreed, not paying attention to Heeseung who witnessed this interaction of yours.

It was easy to keep up with him, the rumours of you two being together spread like wildfire, especially with the Yule ball coming up, which only favoured you, granted that Heeseung had tried to approach you several times but Jake hadn’t left your side at all.

In fact, you were scared how easy it was to be in his company, “she wanted me to teach her how to ride the broom,” Jake had told you once, and he was one heck of a flyer, despite him not being in the team.

Naturally, you offered him to teach you that instead, watching how his eyes lit up and he nodded. Something about Jake was endearing to you—like how he helped you ride the broom with him sitting behind you. It felt real, too romantic the way he held on to you, smiling as he pointed out the various spots you could see from the height.

And you knew he felt it too, his heart pumping out of his chest as you rested your back against him.

It felt too real to him when you got him a tie that matched the colour of your dress, asking him to match with you, and he realized he had stopped thinking about the other girl completely as he helped you around with studies and you helped him feel alive.

Somewhere along the lines, you had forgotten that it was all fake, simply because it felt real to the both of you. The hand holding, the snuggling closer, the soft smiles on your faces, none of it was fake.

It didn’t hit you till you were on your way to meet Jake, only to find the other girl already talking to him in a corner, your jaw clenched at the sight of them talking about something you couldn’t make out from this distance. Your mind wasn’t sane as you stepped back and rushed to your own room, wondering if they had gotten together.

You knew it could very well be a misunderstanding, yet you didn’t do anything about it, especially when Jake didn’t come to meet you at all today.

You were slightly heartbroken as you woke up the next day, everyone seemed happy to the point they couldn’t stop talking about the Yule ball tonight, doing their hair and skincare already and you tried to join them, knowing that you can’t run away from it no matter what the situation would be.

Now, clad in your gown, you most certainly did feel better, looking in the mirror to find the prettiest version of yourself, you felt beautiful as you walked down the stairs, smiling gently when you found Jake waiting for you by the stairs.

His breathing hitched the second he saw you, eyes twinkling as he took you in, heart beating faster when you stood in front of him. It was magical how he took your hand, kissing your knuckles gently, “you look beautiful,” he whispered, your face heating up at the compliment.

So, you postponed asking him about the other girl, focusing solely on him as you were called for the first dance with Jake—the Hogwarts champion. He treated you well, he looked like the prettiest man alive, pulling you closer and dancing with you like he meant it when the rock band came out, but after a while, you stopped, pulling him out when he got you drinks to talk by some secluded area—a classroom nearby.

“I saw you guys talking,” you told him, admitting how you would be okay if he leaves you now and he how doesn’t need to put up this act anymore, making his heart lurch, “fuck—no! I asked her to stay away because,” he gulped as he met your eyes, “because I like you, not her.”

Everything felt rushed after, his lips on yours, your fingers in his hair, bodies pressed against one another as he messed up your lipstick, “I like you so much,” he kept mumbling between the kisses, lips trailing down to mark your neck.

He knew what he had to do—kiss every inch of you till you understood the depth of his words. He wants you so genuinely it makes your heart beat faster, his eyes full of earnestness as he comes up to kiss you again, but more than that, he wants to taste you, give you the pleasure you deserve.

Getting down on his knees was easy for him, getting under your gown even easier. You breathed in deeply when you felt him burying his nose in your pussy, pushing your panties aside to lick a stripe of your cunt, leaving a small kiss on your clit right after.

His movements were slow and calm, his hold on your thighs tight as he devoured you, seeming as if he’d be hungry for ages. You could have sworn you never felt this way before, gripping the table you were leaning against tightly, you tried your best not to fall down with how your knees were getting weaker by the second as his tongue was pushing around much faster than before.

“Jake—” you gasped, seeing stars as you finally came undone, your whole body felt as if it was on fire but Jake was just getting started with you.

Getting out, he looked more disheveled than ever, taking your hand and making you feel his hardened cock, “see what you do to me, baby,” he whispered, pulling you into another kiss, unzipping your dress as you cried about how much you need him.

Soon, your dress was on the ground and his body was connected with yours in a slow rhythm, full of lazy kisses and smiles, your face hidden in his neck as you bit him to conceal your moans when he hit that one spot which had your whole body weak.

You looked so beautiful, it made him lose his control, the sight itself had him twitching with the need to fill you up.

When you kissed him again, he finally let go, loving each second of it, knowing that you were truly his now.

Gryffindor!Sunghoon x Slytherin!reader

Trope: quidditch players, enemies to fwb

“Gryffindor! Gryffindor! Gryffindor!”

“Slytherin! Slytherin! Slytherin!”

The chants were loud, the crowd going wild at the sight of you and Sunghoon circling around each other before the game—something you always did as a challenge. It most certainly didn’t help that you were on par with each other, both chasers for your respective houses.

Watching you guys bicker was something everyone enjoyed, especially when it was about your houses and their reputations.

“You better watch out, Park,” you smirked, taking your position, “Slytherin is taking the win today,” you sang, watching his smirk grow.

“In your dreams, darling,” he whispered, winking at your right as the whistle blew.

The chants were loud and so was your motivation as you grabbed the Quaffle, successfully throwing it in one of the hoops as the crowd cheered. Watching Sunghoon scowl was a sweet treat, especially when you winked at him, passing by with the quaffle again.

The game continued for a while, your house leading by thirty points, much to Sunghoon’s dismay. You were having more fun teasing him rather than playing the actual game.

However, the second the snitch was caught by your seeker, Sunghoon got hit by a bludger, falling off his broom. You should have been celebrating his downfall (pun intended) yet you couldn’t help but worry, eyeing his figure while your team celebrated their win.

It was out of character for you to visit him in the hospital wing, but you did it, showing up with the pudding he liked—and you had no clue why you knew it. He was surprised to see it, looking away with a scoff, “why are you here, huh? To boast about your win?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes, “I came here to see if you were doing well but seeing as you can still work that mouth of yours, I’ll just assume it’s alright,” you huffed, leaving the pudding behind. Sunghoon gulped, watching you leave the hospital wing with a huff before eyeing the pudding and eating it, a sudden warmth spreading in his chest.

The bickering worsened since that day, because you had to overcome the fact that you showed care to him, your friends telling you to fuck the sexual tension out—which you won’t do even in your wildest dreams.

Sunghoon was just as furious cause he couldn’t stop thinking about you showing up at the hospital wing just to visit him, his taunts and that smirk annoying you more than ever now, you just wanted to punch him, or shut him up. It didn’t help that he looked awfully attractive with that smirk of his.

Fighting even during the dinner time was getting on everyone’s nerves, to the point you had to go to detention for pulling pranks on each other.

To diffuse this tension, he met you before the next quidditch match you had against him, “oh, ready to have your ass beat, Park?” You asked him with a mock smile.

“We’ll see who gets their ass beat, darling,” he spoke, invading your personal space by whispering in your ear, “let’s make a bet, if I win then I get to fuck you tonight.”

“What the fuck, Park?” You asked, eyes widened.

“You want it too, baby.” He says, a lazy smirk playing on his face, “besides, I won’t bother you ever again if I lose. So, do we have a deal?”

The deal was too tempting, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the fact that you’ll, (1) either be ignored by him or (2) have sex with him.

You grabbed his hand, shaking it with no aim whatsoever, you felt too lost but also determined to put up a good game.

However your mind was busy imagining his lips on yours, the smirk still present on his face, and that’s how you barely put the Quaffle in through the hoops while Sunghoon played with more energy than ever, awfully determined to win the match—win you.

The verdict? He won.

And as lost as you felt, you weren’t sad about it, in fact you were staring at Hoon who was celebrating, his eyes still on yours with that stupid smirk on his face which clearly said: you’re mine for the night.

Being in his room was crazy, the fact that he had successfully pushed out all his roomies was even crazier.

“Not fighting back anymore, kitten?” He raised his brows, his features looking sharper up close now that he had you under him, his weight on you barely giving you any space to move, his scent only driving you crazier.

“You’re the one who gave up, Park,” you finally whispered, pulling him closer by the collar with your usual expression full of mock, your finger tracing his jawline, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, “you proposed the idea of fucking me—been thinking about me then?”

His fingers traced the curve of your neck, trailing down till he settled on grabbing your waist, “what if I have? What if I wanna see you shut the fuck up when I make you cry on my cock?”

“I’d like to see you try,” you chuckled, pushing your knee up to caress against his crotch, making him hiss.

It didn’t take him any longer to practically rip off your robes, attaching his mouth to your nipples, flicking them with his tongue as he cupped your cunt as a warning to shut your mouth, but you couldn’t let him win, opening your mouth to mock him again, only to have his tongue shoved down your throat, his fingers kneading your flesh, rubbing your wetness with all his strength to have you whimpering under him.

“I hate you so much, Park,” you mumbled, breathless.

“Feeling’s mutual, kitten,” he groaned right beside your ear, finger fucking you now as his thumb worked your clit roughly, yet giving you the kind of pleasure you never thought you’d receive.

You feel hot as the guy you hate makes you moan uncontrollably, stopping right before you were about to reach your high with his same stupidly attractive smirk when you whined out of desperation.

“What’s the hurry, kitten? We’ve got all night.”

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