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misswynters · 7 months ago

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Gilded Cage part two

featuring. Ekko x fem!reader

wc. 15k

synopsis. Born from house Arvino, one of the richest and influential families of piltover. You had it all from luxurious gifts, fancy meals, a magnificent bedroom and much more. You're parents gave you everything you asked for. However still never satisfied you. You're mind always looked at the injustice and suffering zaun was going through. That's when you first met ekko, the firelights' leader. Not very happy to have a pilty messing stuff up.

trope. "enemies to lovers"

warnings. slow burn, cursing, blood, drugs, kissing, death!, suggestive, kinda grinding against each other (clothed tho), angst

requested. by anon

a/n. it's more like enemies to friends to lovers (sorry) let me know if there’s any mistakes so i may fix it.

Darkness. An oppressive, suffocating void that seemed to stretch endlessly. You floated in its cold embrace, weightless yet crushingly burdened by the weight of your own thoughts. Memories flickered like dying embers, elusive and fragmentary. You could barely recall where you had been, what had happened, or how you had ended up here. The edges of recollection teased you: Ekko’s voice, steady and warm, calling your name. The heavy press of bodies at the Last Drop, the tang of alcohol mingling with smoke. Then a sharp, searing sting in your neck—and the world spiraling into oblivion. Now, you were adrift, lost in a sea of disjointed images and emotions.

Your mind was an unrelenting storm, twisting and turning with fears and insecurities you thought you had buried long ago. The sound of Margot’s cruel laughter cut through the fog like a blade, her words threading through your subconscious like venom. “He doesn’t care about you,” her voice echoed, dark and mocking. “You’re nothing to him.” You wanted to fight against it, but the darkness clung to you, invasive, as it dragged you deeper. Somewhere, faint and distant, there were voices that were sharp and unfamiliar. They seemed to be arguing, but the words were muffled.

“She’s worth more alive,” one voice said, cutting through the haze like a knife, dragging you closer to consciousness.

“Though, Dead might be less trouble,” another replied, cold and indifferent, a tone that sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

The words clawed at the edges of your awareness, snapping you back toward the surface of reality. Your body felt heavy, impossibly sluggish, but you fought against the pull of unconsciousness with everything you had. It was as if your mind and body were at war, one was desperate to wake up and the other held captive by a paralyzing weight. Slowly, agonizingly, your eyes fluttered open, and the harsh glare of a fluorescent light stabbed into your vision.

The room around you was cold and unforgiving, bathed in the sterile glow of artificial lighting that illuminated every inch of its metallic surfaces. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of rust and oil, and beneath it all lingered something acrid and chemical, clinging to your nostrils like a warning. The faint hum of machinery thrummed in the background, a low, ominous noise that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. You tried to move, but your arms were pinned to the cold metal chair beneath you, thick leather straps biting into your wrists. A matching set bound your ankles, and as you tested the restraints, they didn’t budge an inch.

A spike of panic shot through you as the reality of your situation set in. Your breath came faster, shallow and uneven, as your eyes darted around the room. The Chem Barons loomed before you, seated around an oval table at the far end of the room. The glow from the monitors lining the walls illuminated their faces, casting their expressions in stark relief. Each face was a mask of greed, malice, and twisted amusement, their eyes gleaming with predatory intent as they spoke about you as though you weren’t even there.

“She’s valuable,” one of them said, his voice carrying a sickening undertone of satisfaction. “Alive, she’s worth a fortune to topside. They’ll pay anything to get their hands on her.”

“Dead might be easier to deal with,” another replied, leaning back in his chair with a shrug. “Still worth a decent haul. Less risk of her escaping, too.”

Your stomach churned as their words sank in. You were a prize to them, nothing more than a commodity to be traded for wealth and power. Every instinct screamed at you to fight, to get out, but the restraints held firm no matter how hard you pulled. Your breathing quickened as you struggled, the leather cutting into your skin, and the faint taste of blood rose in your throat.

“Ah, you’re awake.” The smooth, taunting voice cut through the air like a blade, and your gaze snapped to the woman standing at the table. Margot. Her presence was magnetic in the worst way, her movements deliberate and calculated as she leaned casually against the table, arms crossed over her chest. Her lips curled into a smirk, her eyes alight with cruel amusement as she studied you, like a predator toying with its prey.

“Well, well,” she said, pushing off the table and taking a slow step toward you. “The perfect little topsider, all tied up and helpless. Not so high and mighty now, are we?”

You glared at her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response, but the corner of her mouth twitched, as if she were amused by your defiance. She began to circle you, her heels clicking against the floor with each measured step, her presence oppressive and suffocating.

“Do you know where your little hero is right now?” she asked, her voice dripping with mockery. “Out there, playing the savior for Zaun. That’s his priority, isn’t it? Always has been. Zaun this. Zaun that.”

It seemed like the world around you shifted, like a bad dream slowly releasing its hold on you. And there it was, the overwhelming effects of the shimmer. Oh the pounding in your head, twisting of your thoughts, and voices echoing in your ears. Then it began to fade. It felt like dragging yourself out of quicksand, every inch a battle as clarity tried to surface through the chaos. Your breath came in shallow gasps, chest heaving as the purple haze in your vision began to lift.

Dim lights suffocated the room, illuminated by the faint flicker of old industrial lights dangling above. The Chem Barons lounged around the oval table, their laughter low and cruel as they watched your struggle with detached amusement. The factory scent in the air, mingled with the acrid sting of chemicals you didn’t want to identify.

Margot leaned casually against the table, twirling the now-empty syringe between her fingers with an air of smug satisfaction. Her lips curled into a grin that sent a wave of anger through you, though your body was too weak to act on it.

“Looks like you’re finally coming down,” she remarked, her tone almost conversational. “I’ll admit, I was worried for a moment there. Would’ve been a shame if you’d overdosed before we made use of you.”

You glared at her through the haze of exhaustion, your teeth clenched as you struggled to steady your breathing. “Go to hell,” you rasped, your voice hoarse and raw.

Margot chuckled, pushing off the table to approach you. “Feisty, even now. I like that,” she said, crouching in front of you so that her face was level with yours. Her eyes gleamed with twisted delight as she reached out, gripping your chin tightly between her fingers to force you to look at her.

“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” she murmured, her voice low and almost admiring. “But spirit won’t save you. You’re nothing more than a bargaining chip now.”

You jerked your head away from her grasp, the movement sharp despite the lingering weakness in your body. Margot let out an amused laugh as she stood, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Here’s the deal, sweetheart,” she began, her tone turning more like one of a businessman’s. “We hand you over to topside. You get to enjoy whatever punishment they’ve got waiting for you, and we get our prize money. It’s a win-win, really.” The other Chem Barons murmured their approval, the greed in their voices unmistakable.

You stared at her, your chest tightening with rage. “You really think I’d agree to that?” you spat, your voice laced with venom.

Margot shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching into a mocking smirk. "Oh, I don't need your agreement, darling," she replied smoothly, her voice dripping with condescension. "I was just being polite by giving you the illusion of a choice. Hey, but maybe we can work something out. Give me something useful. A secret, a connection, something, and maybe I don't have to hand you over." Her words were a sick game, a mockery of negotiation. You weren't stupid; you knew she had no intention of letting you go freely. Your anger bubbled over as you leaned forward as much as your restraints allowed, glaring daggers at her.

"I'll see you rot before I help you," you growled, the force of your words surprising even yourself.

Margot's expression darkened, and the smirk fell from her face. For a moment, there was silence, tension crackling in the air like static. Then, without warning, she lashed out, slapping you hard across the face. The sharp sting of her hand against your cheek was enough to make your head whip to the side.

"Stupid girl," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You think you have power here? You think you get to decide anything?" She took a step back, reaching into her pocket and pulling out another syringe.

Your stomach dropped as you saw the familiar glow of shimmer inside it, brighter and more concentrated than before.

"No-no, don't," you stammered, panic setting in as she approached.

"Don't what?" she mocked, her grin returning with a sadistic edge. "You already made your choice. Let's see if we can loosen that sharp tongue of yours."

Before you could protest further, she plunged the needle into your neck. Pain shot through your body as the shimmer flooded your veins, an uncontrollable heat spreading through your limbs. You let out a scream, your vision blurring as the drug took hold. The world tilted on its axis, the edges of reality fraying as hallucinations crept in. The Chem Barons' laughter grew distorted, their faces warping into monstrous visages. The room seemed to shrink and expand simultaneously, and the voices in your head (the ones you thought had faded) came roaring back with a vengeance.

You clawed at the arms of the chair, your nails digging into the metal as you tried to anchor yourself. Your heart pounded so loudly in your chest that it felt like it might burst, and your breathing became erratic.

Margot's voice cut through the chaos, taunting and cruel. "Look at you, squirming like a cornered animal. It's almost poetic."

Your restraints clicked open suddenly, and you stumbled forward, barely catching yourself before hitting the ground. Margot stood over you, her hands on her hips as she sneered down at your trembling form.

"We're taking you topside," she announced, her tone laced with finality.

"Dead or alive, you're worth the same. But I think I prefer you like this, completely broken and barely holding on. It'll make the handoff more entertaining."

Two of her lackeys stepped forward, gripping you under your arms and hauling you to your feet. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the shimmer wreaking havoc on your motor control. The world spun violently as they began dragging you toward the door, your head lolling as you tried and failed to stay upright. Harsh sunlight hit your face like someone slapped you as they pulled you outside. The brightness was disorienting, and you squinted against it, your head throbbing. Air, heavy with the industrial tang of Zaun, and the sounds of machinery mixed with voices. Enforcers.

Ahead, you could see the bridge leading topside, a line of Enforcers waiting at the end with rifles slung over their shoulders. The sight sent a fresh wave of panic through you, and you thrashed weakly in the Chem Barons' grip.

"Let me go," you slurred, your voice barely above a whisper.

Margot walked alongside you, her expression one of smug satisfaction. "Save your strength," she advised mockingly. "You'll need it to grovel when you're thrown at the feet of the Council."

The closer you got to the bridge, the harder your heart pounded. You were barely holding on, your mind teetering on the edge of madness as the shimmer coursed through you. The voices in your head screamed louder, with the fear and anger that threatened to drown you.

Margot leaned in close, her breath hot against your ear as she whispered "Don't worry, sweetheart. This is just the beginning." You gritted your teeth, determination flickering within you despite the haze.

The journey to Piltover’s inner walls was a blur of pain and exhaustion. Your legs refused to hold you, the shimmer coursing through your veins wreaking havoc on your body. Every step felt like a battle, your limbs trembling as Margot’s goons dragged you forward. The bright sunlight burned your eyes, and the Piltover’s bustling streets added to your disorientation. All of the voices of the enforcers were sharp as they spoke to Margot, thanking her and her men.

“Good work,” one of the officers said, his tone almost bored. “Your payment will be processed soon. We’ll take it from here.”

Margot smirked, her victory evident in her smug posture. She leaned close to you one last time, her voice a low whisper meant only for your ears.

“Enjoy the next chapter, darling,” she sneered. “If you survive, maybe we’ll cross paths again.”

You didn’t have the strength to respond. Instead, you slumped further as the Enforcers took hold of you, their grip cold. You tried to plant your feet, to resist, but your body betrayed you. Your knees buckled, and they dragged you forward without hesitation.

Piltovers inner walls loomed ahead, their pristine white stone a stark contrast to the grime and chaos of Zaun. Everything was suffocating, the streets lined with polished brass and bustling citizens who barely glanced your way. The shimmer made it hard to focus, your vision swimming with colors and shadows that didn’t belong.

By the time you reached the Council building, you were on the verge of collapse. The Enforcers hauled you through the ornate doors, their boots echoing loudly against the marble floors. Of course the air would be cold and sterile, filled with the murmur of voices and hurried footsteps as people passed by.

They led you into the grand council chamber, its circular design intimidating and imperial. The room was bathed in warm light from the massive stained-glass windows, depicting Piltover’s history in vibrant detail. At the center was the imposing council table, its surface polished to a mirror shine, where Ambessa Medarda sat like a queen upon her throne.

Beside her were your parents. Your father’s expression was like stone, his cold eyes fixed straight ahead. He didn’t even glance at you as the Enforcers placed you in one of the chairs facing the council. Your mother, on the other hand, was a picture of worry, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her eyes were wide as they took you in, darting over your disheveled appearance and the faint glow of shimmer in your irises. The moment the Enforcers stepped back, your mother rushed to your side. Her arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it left you breathless.

“My sweet child,” she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. “I was so worried about you.”

You barely had the strength to return the embrace, but her warmth was a calming sensation to your anxious nerves. She pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, her hands cupping your face as she searched your eyes.

“What have they done to you?” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her gaze landed on the faint pink glow in your irises, and you saw her expression shift from relief to horror. “Shimmer…” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Her hands faltered for a moment before she composed herself, but the fear lingered in her eyes. She sat down next to you, her presence a small comfort despite the chaos raging within you. Your father, meanwhile, remained motionless, his gaze fixed ahead as if you weren’t even there. His indifference cut deeper than you expected, and your heart sank. He doesn’t care. He never has.

Ambessa’s voice rang out, commanding and unyielding, but the pounding in your head made it impossible to focus on her words. Your mother nudged you gently, her worried expression urging you to pay attention.

“Listen,” she whispered softly, but her voice carried an undertone of dread.

You blinked, forcing yourself to focus on Ambessa. Her sharp eyes bore into you as she spoke, her words cutting through the haze.

“You have become a liability,” she declared, her voice devoid of sympathy. “A danger to the order and stability of Piltover. It is the council’s decision that you be sent to Stillwater Hold immediately.”

Your stomach dropped, the weight of her words crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Stillwater Hold, the maximum security, isolation, a prison for those too dangerous to be allowed freedom.

“No,” you muttered, shaking your head weakly. “No, you can’t—”

“This is not up for debate,” Ambessa interrupted coldly, rising to her feet. Her imposing figure seemed to tower over you, her presence suffocating. “You will be placed in isolation, cut off from all outside contact. Perhaps there, you will have time to reflect on your mistakes.”

Your mother’s hand gripped yours tightly, her knuckles white. She looked as if she wanted to speak, to protest, but no words came. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and you could see the conflict in her eyes.

Your father, however, barely reacted. He simply stood, his face betraying a flicker of surprise, but nothing more.

As Ambessa turned to leave, the Enforcers moved forward to restrain you once again. Panic clawed at your chest, your mind racing with the implications of her decree. You would be alone, cut off from everything and everyone you cared about. The thought of never seeing Ekko again made your heart ache, but then Margot’s words crept back into your mind.

He doesn’t care about you. He only cares about Zaun. But did he?

You shook your head, trying to dispel the doubt, but it lingered like a shadow. The Enforcers’ hands were rough as they pulled you to your feet, and your mother’s grip slipped away.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you looked at her. “Don’t let them do this.”

The hallway outside the council chambers was dimly lit, while there was golden glow coming from the chamber’s interior. The walls were lined with brass and marble, their polished surfaces catching faint reflections of the soldiers escorting you. Their grip was unyielding as they dragged you forward, your legs barely able to cooperate. Your body felt heavy, a dull ache spreading through your muscles, but the shimmer in your veins still faintly there. Almost like a silent threat waiting to be unleashed. Unpredictable.

Your mother walked alongside you, her hand clinging tightly to yours as if her touch alone could anchor you in this moment. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, her voice choked by the emotions roiling within her.

“You can’t do this to them,” she pleaded to the soldiers, her words soft but desperate. “They’re not a danger—they’re my daughter.”

The soldiers didn’t respond, their expressions stoic. They marched forward with mechanical precision, their polished armor clinking faintly with each step. You glanced over your shoulder at your mother, her hand tightening around yours as if she sensed the impending separation.

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Let me—”

Her words were cut off as the soldiers abruptly stopped, their grip on you tightening. One of them turned to her, his expression a mix of irritation and indifference.

“Ma’am, please step back,” he ordered firmly.

“No,” your mother said, her voice rising in defiance. “I won’t let you take my daughter!”

The soldier’s hand moved to pry hers away from yours, but she held on tighter, her knuckles white. Her desperation was palpable, each of her movements fueled by love and fear.

“Mother,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “It’s okay—”

However, it wasn’t okay and it never would be. With being over dramatic that they would send someone to prison just for being a kind person. What kind of society was piltover, and how you could’ve been so blind.

The soldier’s patience snapped, and he moved to forcibly remove your mother’s hand from yours. The moment he yanked at her wrist, something inside you cracked. All the shimmer that had been bubbling beneath the surface roared to life, seeping in your veins. Heat spread through your body, the sensation almost euphoric.

Before you could think, your body moved on instinct. With a feral growl, you jerked free from the soldiers’ grasp. Your fists flew before you realized what you were doing, one striking the soldier nearest to you with a sickening thud. He staggered back, his helmet clattering to the ground, and you turned on the second soldier with the same ferocity. The shimmer gave you strength you didn’t recognize, each movement fluid and devastating. Your fist collided with the second soldier’s chest plate, sending him stumbling backward into the marble wall with a dull clang. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the shimmer’s intoxicating power coursing through you. The sensation was overwhelming, your limbs felt lighter, faster, and yet there was a wildness to it all, a lack of control that frightened you even as it exhilarated you.

Turning back, you stumbled into your mother’s arms, clutching her tightly as though holding her could tether you to the world and keep the chaos at bay. Her arms wrapped around you immediately, her warmth and familiar scent grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking as tears burned at your eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again.”

“You will,” she said firmly, her hands gripping your face to make you look at her. Tears streaked down her cheeks, but her gaze was resolute. “I’ll find a way. I swear to you.”

Her promise felt like a fragile thread in the storm raging inside you. You wanted to believe her, but every step you’d taken since leaving Zaun seemed to lead only to destruction and despair. The sound of heavy footsteps broke the moment, and you turned to see your father striding toward the chaos, his expression carved in stone. His cold eyes scanned the scene: the soldiers disarmed and you clinging to your mother. His lips twisted into a sneer of disgust.

“Enough of this display,” he snapped, his voice laced with venom. “You’re embarrassing yourself, woman.”

Your mother flinched at his tone, her grip on you tightening as though she could shield you from his words. “They’re our daughter!” she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion. “How can you stand there and act like they mean nothing to you?”

“They don’t,” your father said flatly, his gaze flicking to you as if you were a mere inconvenience. “They’ve chosen to align themselves with filth, with criminals. They’ve disgraced this family, and I will not tolerate it.”

His words hit you like a physical blow, and your grip on your mother faltered. The shimmer inside you pulsed violently, responding to your rising anger. You could feel it clawing at the edges of your mind, urging you to lash out, to fight back.

“I never chose this,” you spat, your voice trembling with rage. “You abandoned me long before I ever set foot in Zaun.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, pulling your mother away from you with a firm hand. She resisted, but his grip was unyielding, dragging her back as she cried out in protest.

“Let her go!” you shouted, lunging toward them, but the shimmer’s effects were waning, leaving your body weak and unsteady.

The soldiers had recovered by now, and they seized you once more, their grips like iron. You struggled, but the strength you’d felt moments ago was gone, replaced by an aching exhaustion.

“Take them away,” your father ordered coldly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Father, please—”

“You are no child of mine,” he said, cutting you off.

His words echoed in your ears as the soldiers dragged you away, your mother’s cries fading into the distance. Your heart felt like it was shattering in your chest, each beat a reminder of how alone you were. All of the halls blurred around you as you were pulled toward your fate. The shimmer’s residual effects made the world feel surreal, the edges of your vision tinged with purple. Your thoughts spiraled, looping back to the same unbearable truth: no one was coming to save you.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, a flicker of defiance remained. The shimmer may have weakened, but it had left something behind. A burning determination not to let them break you. Never.

As you were led toward the transport that would take you to Stillwater, you clenched your fists, vowing to fight for every chance to escape, for every moment to prove them wrong. Whatever happened next, you would not give up. Not yet.

There were occasional crackle of old, sparking wires however the hideout was quiet. It should’ve been comforting, this kind of silence, which was a rare occurrence. But it wasn’t. It never would be, not with you missing.

Ekko sat hunched over his desk in the corner of the workshop, his head resting in his hands. The glow of the green light hanging above cast harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the exhaustion etched into his features. He hadn’t slept in days. He didn’t have the luxury of rest, not while you were out there somewhere, alone. Or worse. Dead.

The thought of what could be happening to you tightened his chest. It wasn’t like you to not come back without a word, and the reality of your disappearance had hit him like a freight train. He could still see you in his mind, sitting across the room from him with that subtle smirk you always wore when teasing him. You were always a little guarded, but he could read the warmth in your eyes when you let your guard down around him. That warmth haunted him now.

He slammed a fist down on the table, rattling a collection of discarded tools and blueprints. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

The door to the hideout creaked open, and Scar stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the floor. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, he knew better than to try when Ekko was like this.

“Any word?” he asked without looking up, his voice clipped.

Scar hesitated. “Not good news.”

Ekko turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Spit it out.”

Scar exhaled, crossing his arms. “Word on the street is there’s a bounty on their head. Big money, too. Dead or alive.”

For a moment, all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. He shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “What?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and fury.

“You heard me,” Scar said, his tone softer now. “Ambessa is the one behind it. And who else would want that good amount of money other that the chem-barons. So if I had to bet…”

“Margot,” Ekko growled, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as anger surged through him.

“Yeah,” Scar said. “She’s got her hands in everything these days. If anyone’s got the resources to snatch someone up, it’s her.”

Ekko couldn’t think. He grabbed the edge of the desk and flipped it in one violent motion, sending tools, papers, and scraps of metal crashing to the floor. Scar didn’t flinch. He’d seen him lose his temper before, though never like this.

“They took my friend!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “They were safe, or at least I thought they were. I should’ve—” He stopped himself, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

“You couldn’t have known,” Scar said cautiously.

“I should’ve kissed them when I had the chance,” Ekko muttered bitterly, his voice barely audible.

Scar raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by his admission. “Wait, you mean—”

“Don’t,” Ekko interrupted sharply, his jaw tightening. He didn’t need his commentary, not now.

Scar sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, boss, I get it. You care about them. We all do. And tearing yourself apart isn’t gonna bring them back. You need to focus.”

“I am focused,” Ekko snapped, his eyes blazing. “I’ve been doing everything I can to find them. I’ve been working nonstop! But every second that goes by, they could be—” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Scar stepped closer, his voice softening. “We’ll find them, Ekko.”

Ekko turned away from his second-in-command, his shoulders slumping. The weight of his responsibilities as a leader, as someone who cared about you more than he was willing to admit, was crushing him. He thought back to all the moments he could’ve told you how he felt. How he should’ve told you. Now, he might never get the chance.

“Do we have any leads?” he asked after a long silence, his voice low.

“Nothing solid,” Scar admitted. “But I’ll keep digging. And so will the others.”

Ekko nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. If Margot had you, then time was running out. He’d seen what the chem-barons were capable of, how they toyed with their captives before discarding them like garbage. The thought of you in their clutches made his stomach churn. He clenched his fists again, his knuckles white.

As Scar left to rally the others, Ekko sat back down amidst the chaos he’d created, staring at the mess of blueprints and tools scattered across the floor. He picked up a small gadget you’d been working on before you disappeared. It was a half-finished invention with wires sticking out at odd angles.

He turned it over in his hands, a lump forming in his throat. You were always so brilliant, so determined to make a difference in this broken city. How could he have let this happen to you?

“I’ll find you,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. “No matter what it takes, I’ll bring you back.” The promise felt hollow in the silence of the room, but it was all he had.

Smoky air filled around the abandoned factory that thick with decay, the scent of rust and mildew clinging to the walls like an oppressive fog. Inside, the dim light of a single hanging bulb swung precariously, casting jagged shadows across the cavernous space. Crates were scattered haphazardly, some half-opened to reveal pilfered goods and shimmer vials, their contents glowing faintly. Laughter and the clink of glasses echoed faintly, a mocking contrast to the somber silence of the building’s other corners.

Ekko crouched in the shadows near a crumbling brick wall, his mask concealing his expression but failing to hide the fury radiating from him. His staff was collapsed and strapped to his back, ready to be wielded at a moment’s notice. He had been tracking Margot’s operations for days, every lead bringing him closer to you. This factory, this desolate place reeking of despair, was supposed to be your last known location.

Inside, three men sat around a makeshift table fashioned from a wooden pallet and a few stacked crates. They were laughing uproariously, playing cards, and passing a bottle of cheap wine between them. Their demeanor was casual, careless. They had no reason to suspect that death itself was crouched a few feet away, waiting.

Ekko’s fingers flexed over the edge of the wall, the faint creak of leather gloves breaking the ambient noise. The goons’ laughter paused, one of them squinting into the shadows. “You hear that?” he muttered, his hand hovering near his knife.

Ekko stepped into the light, his mask catching the faint glow of the overhead bulb. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his presence was anything but. The sight of him was enough to make the men freeze, their drunken haze evaporating in an instant.

“Don’t move,” Ekko said, his voice low and cold, like the steel of a blade. He tilted his head slightly, a predatory gesture that sent shivers down their spines. “I’ve got questions, and you’re going to answer them. If you try to run, you won’t get far.”

One of the men, the burliest of the three, leaned back in his chair with a forced laugh, trying to mask his unease. “Questions, huh? You don’t look like an enforcer, kid. What do you want from us?”

Ekko’s fingers twitched, but he kept his composure. “Where is she?”

“Who?” another man asked, feigning ignorance as he leaned forward, his greasy smile exposing yellowed teeth. “We’ve got a lot of ‘shes’ around here. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Ekko took a slow step forward, the sound of his boots deliberate and sharp against the concrete floor. “Don’t play dumb. The girl you took. The one Margot had dragged out of Zaun. Where is she?”

The men exchanged glances, their bravado faltering under the weight of Ekko’s presence. But it wasn’t fear that made them hesitate, it was cruelty. Disgusting.

“Oh,” the burly man said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You mean your little girlfriend. Didn’t think a leader like you would be so sentimental. What’s it like, knowing Margot’s had her claws in her?”

Ekko’s grip on his staff tightened, though he didn’t extend it. Not yet. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said, his voice like gravel. “… She’s under my protection, which means you’ve made a very big mistake.”

The third man, younger than the others and visibly more nervous, chuckled weakly. “Margot did more than protect her. Injected her full of shimmer. Changed her forever.” He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. “You should’ve heard her screaming. Begging for it to stop.”

Ekko’s vision got blurred. He didn’t remember crossing the room, but suddenly his hand was around the throat of the younger man, slamming him against the wall with a force that made the other two jump to their feet.

“I said sit down!” Ekko roared, his voice echoing through the factory like a thunderclap. The other two hesitated, their bravado crumbling as they realized just how dangerous this masked vigilante was. Slowly, they lowered themselves back into their seats, though their hands hovered near their weapons.

Ekko released the younger man, letting him crumple to the ground in a coughing heap. He turned his attention to the burly one, his body radiating barely contained rage.

“You think this is funny?” Ekko asked, his voice low and menacing. “You think I won’t rip this place apart to find her?”

“Relax, kid,” the burly man said, though his voice wavered. “You’re not a killer. Everyone knows that.”

Ekko smirked beneath his mask, though there was no humor in it. “You’re right. I’m not. But I don’t need to kill you to make you wish you were dead.”

With a flick of his wrist, he extended his staff and brought it down on the man’s hand with bone-shattering force. The sickening crunch was followed by a howl of pain, and the man clutched his mangled hand to his chest, tears streaming down his face.

“Now,” Ekko said, his voice icy. “Where. Is. She?”

The younger man scrambled to his knees, babbling incoherently. “She’s—she’s gone! Taken to Piltover! The boss wanted to claim the prize money! Please, man, that’s all I know!”

Ekko turned to him, his eyes burning with fury. “Where in Piltover?”

“I don’t know!” the man cried, his hands raised in surrender. “I swear, I don’t know! They took her meet ambessa at the council meeting! That’s all we heard before they left!”

Ekko studied him for a long moment, then stepped back, his staff retracting with a metallic click. “If I find out you’re lying,” he said coldly, “I’ll be back. And you won’t like what happens next.”

He turned and disappeared into the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. The factory’s silence returned, but Ekko’s mind was anything but quiet.

You were in Piltover. That much he knew. But the thought of what they might be doing to you, how far they’d gone already, made his blood boil. He blamed himself for letting this happen, for not being there to stop it.

“I’ll find you,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped out of the factory. “No matter what it takes, I’ll bring you home.”

Shivering. The cold was the first thing you noticed. It crept into your bones and settled like a permanent ache, no matter how tightly you wrapped the thin blanket around yourself. The steel walls of your cell reflected nothing but your own hollow gaze, distorted in the warped metal like a ghost haunting itself. The dim, flickering light overhead buzzed incessantly, a monotonous drone that filled the silence.

Days bled into one another. Or were they weeks? Months? You couldn’t tell anymore. Food was delivered regularly, the plates piling up untouched on the small tray by the door. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, but the idea of eating felt impossible. It reminded you of before, of when Ekko had kissed you, then left you in an agonizing limbo of uncertainty.

Back then, you had at least been free. You could wander through Zaun, trying to escape the heartache in the neon haze of the Undercity. Now, there was no escape. No Ekko. No freedom. Just you and the cold steel cage that held you prisoner.

You sat on the edge of the cot, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The shimmer coursing through your veins was a cruel reminder of what had been done to you. It pulsed like molten fire, burning and twisting your thoughts. Your body ached, muscles spasming unpredictably, leaving you weak and trembling.

The voices were the worst. They came in waves, some screaming accusations, others whispering taunts.

“He’s forgotten you.”

“You’re nothing but a burden.”

“This is what you deserve.”

“Shut up!” you yelled, pressing your palms to your ears. But they didn’t stop. Instead, they multiplied.

“You’ll never see him again.”

“He’s better off without you.”

“You’re better off dead.”

Tears spilled from your eyes, hot against the cold air, as you rocked back and forth. You hated yourself for crying, for being weak, for breaking under their weight. But there was no one here to tell you otherwise. No one to hold you and say it would be okay.

You slammed the back of your head against the wall behind you, the dull thud grounding you for only a moment before the spiral began again. The sobs came harder now, wracking your body as you curled into yourself.

“Leave me alone,” you begged the voices, but they only laughed in response. And then, faintly, you heard something else.

“Hey!” The voice echoed down the corridor outside your cell, distant but distinct. Your head snapped up, your breath hitching as you strained to listen.

“Who’s there?” you croaked, your throat dry and raw from disuse.

The faint sound of footsteps grew louder, steady and purposeful. You squinted into the dim hallway, trying to make out the figure approaching the barred door.

“Leave me alone!” you cried again, shaking your head, convinced it was another hallucination. The shimmer had twisted your mind before; why would now be any different?

But the figure didn’t fade. Instead, it became clearer. Taller. Familiar. The scent of machine oil and faint traces of herbs reached you before the figure did, stirring something deep in your chest. Your heart raced as the figure came closer, the flickering light catching on the unmistakable outline of his goggles, his scarf, the curve of his jaw.

“Ekko?” you whispered, gripping the railing of your cot as you pulled yourself to your feet.

The figure stopped just beyond the bars, his hands curling around them as he leaned forward. “It’s me,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

“No,” you said, shaking your head violently. “You’re not real. You’re just—just another trick!”

“I’m real,” he said, his voice firmer now. “It’s me. See! Look at me.”

You stumbled forward, your legs weak and unsteady, until you reached the door. Your hands gripped the cold metal bars, your eyes searching his face for any hint of deception. But there was none.

“Ekko,” you breathed, tears streaming down your cheeks.

His hand covered yours, warm and grounding. “Hi,” he whispered, his voice thick with relief.

You choked on a sob, your knees buckling as you slid down to the floor. “You’re really here?”

“I’m here,” he said, his other hand slipping through the bars to brush a stray tear from your cheek. “In the flesh.”

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his palm against your skin a stark contrast to the cold that had consumed you for so long. “I thought…” You hiccupped, struggling to form the words. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I thought the same,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I wasn’t going to stop until I found you.”

Your fingers tightened around his, desperate to hold onto him, to convince yourself that this wasn’t just another cruel trick of your mind. “They said… they said you forgot me.”

“Never,” he said fiercely, his hand gripping yours with equal intensity. “Not even for a split second.”

You buried your face against the bars, your shoulders shaking as the tears came harder. “I’m terrified, Ekko,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“You’re real,” he said, his forehead resting against yours through the bars. “I’m real. And I’m getting you out of here.”

His words wrapped around you like a lifeline, anchoring you to the moment. For the first time in weeks, the voices fell silent. All you could hear was the steady beat of his heart and the unspoken vow in his gaze.

The air in Stillwater Hold was suffocating, thick with the acrid scent of damp metal and the faint tang of saltwater. The dim, flickering lights overhead buzzed like angry insects, casting ghostly shadows on the cold steel walls. Ekko stood outside your cell, gripping the large brass key in his hand, his knuckles white with tension. His mask obscured most of his face, but his eyes burned with fierce determination.

He glanced at you through the bars, his heart breaking at the sight of your frail form. You looked so much smaller than he remembered, your skin pale and your frame too thin. The shimmer’s effects were evident in the faint tremors in your hands and the shadows beneath your eyes, but there was still a spark in your gaze, a fragile but unyielding fire.

He took a steadying breath and inserted the key into the lock, his movements quick but not careless. The lock groaned in protest, a sharp metallic screech echoing in the corridor.

“How did you get that?” you asked, your voice hoarse but laced with curiosity.

Ekko’s lips twitched into a small smirk, though the weight of the moment kept it from fully forming. “Long story,” he said, his tone light but tinged with weariness. He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t press him. You could tell from the shadows in his eyes that whatever he’d done to get here hadn’t been easy.

He jiggled the key, muttering a low curse under his breath. “Of course, it has to be the trickiest damn lock in the whole place,” he murmured. You almost laughed at his frustration, the sound foreign and strange in this place of despair.

Finally, with a heavy clunk, the lock gave way, and the cell door creaked open. Before Ekko could fully process his success, you surged forward, throwing yourself into his arms with all the strength you could muster. The momentum knocked him off balance, and the two of you tumbled to the cold floor, his back hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, the breath knocked out of him for a moment. But then his arms tightened around you instinctively, cradling you against his chest as though you might disappear if he let go.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your thin arms clinging to him desperately. “Don’t let me go,” you choked out, your voice muffled against his shoulder.

“Of course not,” he whispered, his voice breaking as his hand slid up to cradle the back of your head. He felt how much lighter you were, how your ribs pressed against him like fragile bird bones. It was like holding a shadow of the person he remembered, and it made his chest ache with guilt and sorrow.

Your tears soaked into his scarf as you cried harder, your sobs wracking your frail body. “I thought—I thought I’d never see you again,” you stammered, your words broken by hiccups. “I thought I was going to die here.”

Ekko tightened his hold on you, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Not a chance,” he said fiercely, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to stay strong. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your tear-streaked face inches from his. “I missed you so much,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the only thing that kept me going.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. The raw emotion in your voice cut through him like a knife, and he cursed himself for not finding you sooner. “Well no need to worry now,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “Im never going to leave your side”

Your arms tightened around him as if you were afraid he might vanish. “I’m never letting you go again,” you vowed, your voice trembling but resolute.

“I wouldn’t let you if you tried,” he replied softly, his lips brushing against your temple as he held you close.

As the flood of emotions began to ebb, a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corners of Ekko’s mouth. “By the way,” he said, his tone lightening just enough to catch your attention, “your mom’s got some stories.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “My mom?”

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Xerah Arvino. Fancy name, by the way. She’s got opinions, especially about me.”

You let out a weak laugh, the sound surprising both of you. “What did she say?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, his voice teasing. “She might’ve mentioned how you feel about me. Called you out, really.”

Your cheeks burned, the warmth of embarrassment cutting through the cold that had settled in your body for so long. “She didn’t,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible.

“Oh, she did,” he said, his smirk widening. “Guess she wanted to make sure I wasn’t oblivious.”

Despite your exhaustion, you managed a small laugh. “She’s always been… direct.”

“I like her,” Ekko admitted, his tone softening. “But you, Firefly…” He cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing away the lingering tears. “I knew. I’ve always known.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the weight of them settling over you like a warm blanket. “You did?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How could I not?” he replied, his voice filled with equal parts affection and disbelief. “You’re my light in the dark. Always have been.”

The warmth of his gaze, the steadiness of his presence, filled the void inside you that had felt so bottomless. For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed you might actually be okay. You clung to him, burying your face in his chest as his hand stroked your back in soothing circles.

The inside of the air duct was surprisingly spacious, though its tight metallic walls didn’t leave much room for comfort. The hum of machinery vibrated through the structure, and the faint scent of oil and rust lingered in the air. Ekko’s hoverboard hummed softly beneath you, its energy signature blending seamlessly with the subdued mechanical symphony of Stillwater Hold.

“Hold on tight,” Ekko whispered, his voice low and cautious as he steadied the hoverboard under both your weight and his. His body was warm against yours, shielding you from the cold draft in the duct. You obeyed, gripping his waist tightly, your heart racing. Not only just from the escape but from the proximity, his warmth body against your own.

The hoverboard glided smoothly, its propulsion barely making a sound as Ekko maneuvered it through twists and turns. He had memorized the map of this place with a precision that made you marvel at his resourcefulness. You couldn’t help but wonder how many sleepless nights he’d spent planning this.

“Almost there,” he said, his voice steady but his grip on the hoverboard controls firm. His tone, though calm, carried the tension of someone who knew there was no room for error.

After what felt like an eternity, the dim blue light of the exit vent came into view. Ekko slowed the board and leaned forward, pressing a hand against the vent cover. It creaked slightly, and for a moment, you both froze, your breaths held. But when no alarms blared, he pushed harder, and the vent cover fell away, clattering onto the concrete outside.

“Ready?” he asked, glancing back at you.

You nodded, your heart pounding as adrenaline coursed through your veins. “Let’s go.”

With a quick adjustment, Ekko angled the hoverboard downward, the two of you sliding out of the duct and into the open air. The cold night breeze hit your face like a splash of water, a stark contrast to the stuffy air of the ducts. The stars twinkled above, unbothered by the chaos below, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the promise of freedom.

It took longer than expected to navigate back to your house. The ride was quiet, each of you lost in your thoughts, the weight of the escape pressing heavily on your shoulders. By the time you arrived, the familiar silhouette of the Arvino estate loomed before you, its elegant structure bathed in pale moonlight.

As you approached, panic flashed through your chest. “Ekko,” you said, your voice urgent. “What if someone sees us?”

“They won’t,” he assured you, his tone confident. “Trust me.”

He steered the hoverboard toward a thick cluster of vines that climbed the side of the house near your bedroom window. Landing softly on the grass, he helped you off the board and gestured toward the vines. “Think you can climb?”

You nodded, though your body was weak from weeks of confinement. His hands hovered near your waist, ready to catch you just in case you were to fall.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

With his help, you made your way up the vines, the rough texture scratching at your hands. When you finally reached the windowsill, you pushed it open and climbed inside, tumbling onto the familiar softness of your room. Ekko followed quickly, landing with a quiet grace that made you roll your eyes at his ease.

The moment your feet hit the carpet, a deep sigh of relief escaped your lips. You turned and launched yourself onto the bed, burying your face in the comfort of your pillow. The softness cradled you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. Kicking your feet excitedly, you let out a laugh that was equal parts relief and joy. “I can’t believe we made it,” you said, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Ekko leaned against the wall, watching you with a soft smile. His arms were crossed, his frame relaxed for the first time all night. “You look happy,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes warm.

You turned over, sitting up on the edge of the bed, your feet dangling just above the floor. “Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it,” you replied, your grin infectious. “I feel like I can breathe again.”

Ekko pushed off the wall and took a few steps toward you, his boots barely making a sound on the plush carpet. His smile remained, but there was something else in his eyes now. Love maybe?

Before you could process his movement, he leaned down, placing his hands on either side of you. The bed dipped slightly under his weight, and suddenly, he was so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His face was mere inches from yours, his breath brushing against your skin.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as his eyes traced your face, lingering on your lips. It was as if he was asking for permission without saying a word. “Hmm…” you whispered to yourself thinking about something, your voice barely audible.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low, as though he was fighting to keep his composure.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat. “Yeah. I just…”

“Just what?” he murmured, his lips quirking up in a small, teasing smile.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

But you couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the way his presence seemed to fill the room. Slowly, as though giving you every chance to pull away, he leaned closer. The world seemed to fade into the background: the room, the night, the fear and chaos of your escape, until there was only him. Standing infront of you, leaning so close that you could feel him breathe.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your lips parted, and you nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. And then his lips were on yours, gentle at first. But the moment your hand slid up to curl into his jacket, he deepened the kiss, his other hand moving to cup the side of your face. The weight of the world seemed to lift in that moment, replaced by a heat that consumed you, chased away the cold and the fear that had gripped you for so long.

Ekko’s breath was warm against your lips, and when he closed the gap between you, it felt like the world tilted on its axis. The kiss was soft at first, an unspoken confession of everything the two of you had held back for the last few months. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him to believe this was real. His lips moved with a desire that sent a shiver down your spine, his fingers gripping your hips as though he never wanted to let go. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his jawline, tracing the sharp angles of his face, grounding yourself in the reality of his handsome face.

"You're lips are so soft," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and thick with emotion.

"I could stay that about yours," you replied breathlessly letting out a small chuckle. Your forehead pressing against his as you both caught your breath.

His gaze locked onto yours, his eyes searching yours. "I don't think I'll ever get enough of this... of you," he admitted, his voice soft but passionate, as though he needed you to understand the depth of his feelings. Of how much he had felt for you ever since the two of you met.

You smiled, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. "Took you long enough to realize," you teased, though your tone was gentle, almost reverent.

His hands slid up your back, pressing you closer, and you could feel the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat through his chest. The air between you grew heavier, more charged, as the kiss became desperate. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly, earning a low sound from him that sent a shiver racing down your spine. The need that had been simmering between you for so long now threatened to boil over, every touch and every breath. Adding to the fire between you further.

You shifted slightly, pressing yourself closer to him, and the sensation made your cheeks flush. His grip on your waist tightened in response, his other hand cupping the back of your neck as he angled your face to deepen the kiss. His movements were urgent but deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment, every sound you made, every way your body fit against his.

Ekko's lips left yours, trailing along your jawline and down to your neck, his warm breath sending goosebumps over your skin. His fingers grazed the edge of your shirt, his touch featherlight but electrifying. "I love you," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with restrained emotion. You tilted your head slightly, giving him better access as your hands slid down his back.

Ekko chuckled, leaning forward to press another kiss to your lips, this one slower and filled with something deeper. His hands never stopped moving, one tracing lazy circles on your back, the other brushing strands of hair from your face. This moment felt infinite, like the two of you had carved out a space that existed only for the two of you. It wasn't until the door suddenly swung open, flooding the room with light. Startled, you froze, your lips still brushing Ekko's, as you both turned to see Anya standing in the doorway. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh-oh my! I'm so sorry!" she stammered, her voice high-pitched with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to- I was just—"

Before either of you could respond, she quickly turned around, flicking the light off as she shut the door behind her with a hurried, "I'll come back later!"

The room went back into the darkness, the only light coming from the moon outside. You and Ekko stared at the closed door for a second, stunned into silence. Then Ekko broke into a quiet laugh. "Well, that's one way to ruin the mood," he said, looking back at you with a teasing glint in his eyes.

You buried your face in his shoulder, groaning in embarrassment. "I am never going to hear the end of this from her," you muttered, your voice muffled.

He laughed again, the sound vibrating through you as he wrapped his arms tighter around your waist. "Hey, at least she knows you're in good hands," he joked, leaning back slightly to meet your eyes.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "This isn't funny, Ekko!" you protested, though your tone was far too soft to be convincing.

"Come on," he said, brushing his nose against yours. "It's a little funny."

You couldn't help but laugh then, the tension breaking as you leaned against him, your forehead resting on his. Closing your eyes, the only sound was that of the wind outside.

The early morning light filtered softly through the cracks in the curtains, painting the room in muted hues of gold and pink. The air was still, and there was peace. Ekko’s arm draped securely around your waist as your head nestled against his chest. His warmth was a shield against the cold realities waiting just outside, and in his unconscious state, he held you as if you might disappear. The two of you had found sanctuary, one where, just for a few hours, the chaos of the world couldn’t touch you. The chaos that was caused by just wanting to help others.

That illusion shattered when the door creaked open, followed by the hurried, uneven shuffle of footsteps. The sound pulled Ekko from his slumber instantly. His eyes snapped open, his instincts sharper than ever, and he propped himself up on one elbow just as Anya stumbled into the room. Her hand clutched her stomach, blood seeping through her fingers and staining her dress in it. The sight of her broke through the last remnants of your sleep, and you sat up, a chill running down your spine.

“They… they took her,” Anya gasped, leaning heavily against the doorframe as she shut it behind her. Her voice was strained, trembling from pain and urgency. “Ambessa. She took your mother. They know… they know what she did.”

“Anya.” Ekko was on his feet in seconds, rushing to her side and steadying her before she could collapse. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the panic swirling just beneath the surface. “What the hell happened? You’re hurt—sit down. Let me—”

“No!” Anya interrupted, her voice sharp despite the agony etched across her face. “There’s no time. They’ll come here next. You need to leave. Now.”

You stared at her, frozen in place. Her words echoed in your mind, but they felt distant, like they were coming from underwater. Your chest felt tight, your vision narrowing as her message sank in. Your mother. Taken. By Ambessa. It was too much, all of it crashing down like a wave threatening to drown you. You wanted to scream, cry, do something, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. You felt yourself disassociating, retreating into the safety of numbness that you once knew because facing this reality head on was unbearable. As soon as you try to catch a break, there’s always something ruining it. It was almost as if the universe didn’t want to you be happy.

Ekko’s voice broke through the haze. “We can’t just leave you like this!” he said, his frustration mounting as Anya winced and doubled over. He ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt and pressed it against her wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. “Anya, stay with me. Where is she? Where did they take her?”

“I don't know,” Anya managed, her voice weakening as her knees buckled. “Ambessa… she’s going to lock her away somewhere. She knows what your mother did, how she helped you.” Her gaze shifted to you, her eyes glassy but full of determination. “You need to get out of here before they get here.”

You barely registered the words. The room around you seemed to spin, but you couldn’t focus on anything. Ekko glanced over his shoulder, concern etched across his face as he noticed your vacant expression. “Firefly,” he called softly, but there was no use. Your mind was blocking him completely.

He guided Anya to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands searching for something to stem the bleeding. “Who else was taken?” he asked, his voice steady despite the urgency in his movements.

“Just her,” Anya whispered, wincing as Ekko pressed a cloth against her wound. “I tried to stop them. I swear I did.” She glanced at you then, her eyes filled with an fear that mirrored your own. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t get to her.”

You heard the words, but they felt distant, like echoes in a tunnel. Your body moved on autopilot, standing and grabbing a bag, stuffing it with whatever essentials were nearby. Ekko was saying something to you, his voice low and firm, but the words seemed blurred together. It wasn’t until he placed his hands on your shoulders and forced you to meet his eyes that you realized he was trying to snap you out of it.

“Hey,” he said, his tone softening as he searched your face. “We’re getting out of here. You with me?”

You nodded mechanically, though your gaze drifted past him, your focus slipping again. Ekko hesitated, his brow furrowing as he studied you, but there was no time to dig deeper. He turned back to Anya, his jaw tightening. “We’ll get her back,” he promised, though the weight of his words hung heavy in the air.

Anya sat there bleeding out with her hand holding her stomach, sadly there was too much blood. This was it for her. Your maid the one who you’ve spend you entire childhood with. Playing dolls, hide and seek, how she would help you with your homework due to yours parents being busy with handling trade routes, businesses and being councilors. You thought of her as an older sister, and now she was gone. Dead. All thanks to Ambessa and your father. That worthless excuse of a father.

After everything that just happened, how were you suppose to enjoy anything. The journey back to the hideout was a blur to you, not even focusing on how you moved above everything. The streets of Piltover passed by in a haze of colors and shapes, the city slowly waking to another day. You stood behind Ekko on his hoverboard, your arms loosely wrapped around his waist, your body moving only when the board shifted beneath you. You didn’t speak, didn’t cry, didn’t even flinch when the wind whipped against your face. The world felt muted, like you were trapped in a dream you couldn’t wake from.

Ekko glanced over his shoulder at you more than once, he had a worried look on his face. He didn’t say anything, every time he caught a glimpse of your glowing pink eyes and their unnatural light, it was a reminder of the shimmer coursing through your veins. He cursed under his breath, his mind racing for a way to bring you back to yourself, to pull you from the darkness that seemed to be consuming you. Slowly dragging you deeper into something he may never be able to help you get out of.

By the time you reached the hideout, the sun was fully up, casting harsh shadows across the abandoned buildings that surrounded the hideout. Ekko helped you down from the hoverboard, his hands lingering on your arms as he steadied you. You didn’t resist, but you didn’t acknowledge him either. He led you inside, the familiar smell filling the air, and guided you to the bed he had made for you when you first arrived.

“Stay here,” he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be right back.”

You sank onto the bed without a word, your gaze fixed on the floor. Ekko watched you for a moment, his heart aching at the sight of you so lifeless, so unlike the fiery, vibrant person he had fallen for. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and helplessness bubbling beneath his calm exterior.

Hours passed in silence. The hideout was quiet, the usual activity softened as the other firelights gave you and Ekko space. He stayed close by, tinkering with gadgets and pretending not to watch you out of the corner of his eye. You remained in the same spot, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes staring into the middle of the wall.

As night fell, Ekko finally broke the silence. “You need to eat,” he said, setting a plate of food on the table near the bed.

You didn’t respond, and he sighed, pulling a chair closer to sit beside you. “Listen. I get it,” he said softly. “You feel like it’s all slipping away. Like nothing you do will change what’s happening. But sitting here, shutting down—that’s not you. That’s not the fighter I know.”

His words stirred something deep within you, a faint flicker of the person you used to be. You turned to him slowly, your voice hoarse when you finally spoke. “What if I can’t do it?”

Ekko’s expression softened, and he reached out to take your hand in his. “Yes you can,” he said with quiet conviction. “I’m with you every step of the way. We will get your mother back.”

For the first time since the morning, tears welled in your eyes, though they didn’t fall. You nodded, the faintest hint of determination returning to your gaze. Ekko smiled, his grip on your hand tightening briefly before he stood. “Please firefly. Get some rest,” he said.

When you finally lay down that night, it wasn’t on the makeshift bed Ekko had made for you. You slipped under the covers of his bed, your presence wordless but clear. He hesitated for a moment before climbing in beside you, his arms wrapping protectively around you as you curled against his chest.

You were left in awe. The mural was breathtaking. Ekko had worked on it tirelessly for hours, the paintbrush an extension of his hand as he brought Anya’s face to life on the wall of the hideout. Her eyes sparkled with the same determination you remembered, her smile gentle but firm. Behind her, he painted a swirl of warm, golden hues interspersed with fiery reds, symbolizing her unwavering courage even in the face of death. When he stepped back, covered in smudges of paint, he glanced at you with a quiet kind of sadness.

“She deserved this,” Ekko said, his voice low. “She gave everything to protect you. To protect what’s left of your family.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. Standing before the mural, you felt the weight of her sacrifice pressing against your chest. A small, fragile part of you hoped that wherever she was now, she could see this tribute, feel the gratitude and respect that burned through your veins. The only family you had left and yourself and your mother. But how long would that last. What if she were to die, who else would you consider family? You surely wouldn’t think of your father. After everything he did to you. No. It was pointless, you had no family.

Ekko turned to you after a long moment of silence, his expression hardening. “We need to talk about rules,” he said firmly.

You looked up at him confused, as your mind left the empty void it was in. “Rules?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer and resting his hands on your shoulders. “You’re not to be left alone. Ever. If I can’t be there, one of the Firelights will be with you. It’s non-negotiable.”

The hardness in his tone left no room for argument, but you still tried. “Ekko, I don’t need a babysitter—”

“Yes, you do,” he interrupted, his eyes boring into yours. “What happened with your mother? With Anya? That was a wake-up call. We can’t afford to take risks anymore.”

You swallowed hard, his words sinking in. He was right, but the thought of being under constant watch gnawed at your independence. Still, the raw concern in his expression made it impossible to argue further. But knowing how you were, taking risks was going to hard.

“The second rule,” Ekko continued, “is that we plan carefully before doing anything. No impulsive moves. No rushing in without a backup plan—or two, or three. And if things go south, we need to be ready to evacuate the hideout.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of leaving the hideout behind, but you knew it was a necessary precaution. Ekko wasn’t just thinking about you, he was thinking about everyone who relied on him. All the children.

“I understand,” you said quietly, your fingers twitching at your sides. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Ekko relaxed slightly, though his expression remained serious. “Good. Now, there’s something I need to see.”

He motioned to the necklace you wore, the one he had given you weeks ago. You reached for it, pulling it from beneath your shirt, but your hands trembled too much to unclasp it. Wordlessly, Ekko stepped forward, his calloused fingers brushing against your neck as he worked the clasp.

There was a soft click of the necklace unlocking, making a shiver down your spine. Ekko lingered for a moment, his warm breath brushing against your temple before he pressed a gentle kiss there. His touch was grounding, pulling you out of the haze of fear and exhaustion that had consumed you.

“Come on,” he said, taking your hand and leading you back to his place. His workspace was cluttered with scraps of metal, gears, and tools, but the centerpiece was a large box that you hadn’t noticed before. Ekko placed the necklace into a small slot on the box, and with a faint sound, the lid unlocked and slid open.

Inside, nestled in protective padding, was a sleek wrist device. It was compact but intricately designed, with glowing blue accents that pulsed faintly. You stared at it, unsure of what you were looking at.

“What is it?” you asked, glancing up at Ekko.

“It’s a prototype,” he explained, a hint of pride in his voice. “Took me months to design, and I nearly got myself blown up more times than I’d like to admit, but I think it’s ready now.”

Concern flickered across your face. “Blown up? Ekko—”

He held up a hand, cutting you off. “Relax, t’s fine. I’ve tested it. No explosions, I promise.”

You frowned but nodded, trusting him despite your apprehension. “What does it do?”

“It’s a utility device,” he said, picking it up and fastening it around your wrist. “It’s got a tracking function, a distress signal, and a shield generator for emergencies. If anything happens, you activate this, and I’ll find you. No matter what.”

You stared down at the device, the weight of it unfamiliar but oddly comforting. “You did all this for me?”

Ekko’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I’d do a lot more if it meant keeping you safe.”

He reached into the box again and pulled out a compact crossbow, its design as sleek and efficient as the wrist device. You stiffened at the sight, your stomach knotting with unease.

“I… I’ve never even held a knife, let alone a weapon,” you admitted, your voice barely whisper.

Ekko looked at you, his expression softening. He placed the crossbow gently on the desk and turned to you, taking both your hands in his. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, grounding you as his dark eyes searched yours.

“I know this isn’t easy,” he said softly. “And I’m not asking you to become a fighter overnight. But things are different now. The people who did this to your mother, to Anya. They won’t stop. We need to make sure you can protect yourself if it comes down to it.”

You glanced down at the crossbow, then back at Ekko. His words made sense, but the thought of hurting someone, even in self-defense, sent a chill down your spine. Still, the determination in his eyes was infectious. He believed in you, and for him, you would try.

“Okay,” you said, your voice firmer this time. “Teach me.”

Ekko’s smile widened, but there was a flicker of relief in his expression as well. “We’ll start slow,” he promised, picking up the crossbow and turning it over in his hands. “It’s lightweight and compact, so it’s easy to handle. And it’s more for precision than brute force, which suits you.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly despite yourself. “Suits me? You saying I’m weak?”

Ekko chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, just saying you’re quick. Smart. You don’t need brute force when you can outthink your opponent.”

He handed you the crossbow, guiding your fingers to the proper grip. His hands were steady as they covered yours, showing you how to aim and adjust the tension on the string. You couldn’t help but notice the warmth of his touch, the way his focus never wavered.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “That’s the key. Steady your hands, focus on your target, and breathe.”

You tried to follow his instructions, your fingers trembling slightly as you raised the crossbow. It felt strange in your hands, foreign and dangerous, but Ekko’s presence steadied you.

After a few practice movements, Ekko took a step back, watching you with a mix of pride and caution. “You’ll get the hang of it,” he said, crossing his arms. “And when you do, no one’s gonna mess with you.”

You set the crossbow down carefully, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. “For everything. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Ekko shook his head, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. “You don’t have to repay me,” he said quietly. “Just promise me you’ll stay alive. That’s all I need.”

The weight of his words hung between you, heavy with unspoken emotion. You nodded, swallowing hard. “I promise.”

Satisfied, Ekko reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered for a moment before he pulled back, gesturing to the desk. “We’ll go over more later. For now, you should relax.”

You nodded, suddenly aware of how exhausted you felt. The events of the past few days had taken their toll, and your body ached for sleep. Ekko led you to the corner of the hideout where your shared bed was now set up. You were tired for days, beyond exhaustion. Surprisingly now, you liked to sleep. Maybe, it was because of your lack of energy.

As you lay down, Ekko pulled a blanket over you, his movements careful and deliberate. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “Stay with me,” you whispered.

Ekko hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He kicked off his boots and slid under the blanket beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. His warmth was comforting, and as you rested your head on his chest, you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Zaun. The streets were always treacherous with now people lingered around. Dangerous people. You were walking back from a short supply run as the sun began to set over the horizon, the weight of the crossbow slung across your back almost forgotten as your mind wandered. Ekko’s words about being cautious echoed in your head. Always make a plan, always think before you act. He had drilled that rule into you countless times, but none of it mattered when you turned a corner and saw the scene in front of you.

A little girl, no older than seven, was backed against a crumbling wall, her tiny frame trembling. Two men loomed over her, their gruff laughter echoing down the alley as they taunted her. She clutched a stuffed toy to her chest, her eyes wide with terror. One of the men reached for her arm, and without thinking, you moved.

Your crossbow was in your hands before you realized it, the familiar weight grounding you. The shimmer coursing through your veins dulled your hesitation, sharpening your focus. The first arrow struck the shoulder of the man closest to the girl, a sickening thud silencing his laughter as he staggered back with a howl of pain. The second arrow found the leg of the other man, sending him crumpling to the ground. You moved quickly, reloading and taking aim again, though neither man seemed eager to continue.

“Get out of here,” you growled, your voice cold and unyielding. The men scrambled to their feet, one limping heavily as they disappeared into the shadows without a backward glance.

The girl was still pressed against the wall, her tiny hands clutching her stuffed toy so tightly her knuckles were white. You knelt down in front of her, setting the crossbow aside. “Hey,” you said gently, trying to soften your tone. “It’s okay now. They’re gone.”

Her eyes darted to the weapon lying on the ground, then back to your face. “You… you hurt them that,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You swallowed hard, the weight of what you’d done sinking in. “I had to,” you said softly. “They weren’t going to leave you alone. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, her grip on the toy loosening slightly. “No. Thank you, miss lady.”

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps behind you made you tense. You turned to see Ekko, his expression a mixture of relief and frustration. Of course, he would show up. He always did. You noticed the small device in his hand and realized with a sinking feeling that it was a tracker. He must have known the second you fired the crossbow.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice low but firm as he approached you. “I told you to think before you act, to make a plan.”

You looked down at the girl, then back at Ekko. “She needed help,” you said simply, your voice steady despite the guilt creeping in. “I couldn’t just stand there.”

Ekko sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he crouched beside you. His gaze softened when he looked at the girl. “Hey there,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering between the two of you. “Mila,” she said quietly.

“Well, Mila,” Ekko said, offering her a small smile. “You’re safe now. No one else is going to hurt you.”

The girl nodded, her shoulders relaxing just a little. You reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Do you have any family, Mila? Anyone we can take you to?”

Her expression darkened, and she shook her head. “My mom… she died a long time ago. And my dad…” She trailed off, her voice cracking. “He left. He didn’t want me.”

By hearing those words. Gosh it hit you like a punch to the gut, your breath catching in your throat. You glanced at Ekko, who was watching you carefully, his brow furrowed. He knew what you were thinking. Your father had abandoned you too, leaving you to fend for yourself in a world that was cruel and unforgiving. Mila’s pain was all too familiar to you.

You cleared your throat, trying to push the memories away. “Mila,” you said softly, “would you like to come with us? We have a safe place where you can stay.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked like she didn’t believe you. “Really?”

“Really,” Ekko said, his voice warm and reassuring. “You’ll be safe with us. I promise.”

Mila hesitated, then nodded, clutching her toy tightly. “Okay.”

You helped her to her feet, glancing at Ekko as the three of you started back toward the hideout. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. He waited until Mila was a few steps ahead before leaning closer to you.

“We need to talk about this later,” he murmured, his tone serious but not unkind.

“I know,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I’d do it again.”

Ekko sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out and gently squeezed your hand. The gesture was enough to remind you that, no matter how angry or worried he might be, he was still on your side.

When you arrived at the hideout, the Firelights greeted Mila with curiosity and kindness, their youthful energy helping to put her at ease. You showed her to a quiet corner where she could rest, and Ekko gave one of the older Firelights instructions to keep an eye on her. Then he turned to you, his expression serious.

“Come with me,” he said, leading you to his workshop. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against the closed door, crossing his arms. “We need to talk.”

“I know,” you said, sitting down on the edge of the workbench. “I broke the rules. I acted without thinking. But, Ekko, she’s just a kid. I couldn’t let them hurt her.”

“I get it,” he said, his voice softer now. “I do. But you can’t just jump into situations like that without a plan. What if they’d had weapons? What if they’d hurt you?” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t lose you again y'know.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten. You stood and crossed the room, placing a hand on his arm. “You won’t,” you said firmly. “But I can’t stand by and do nothing when someone needs help and you know that. Its not who I am.”

Ekko nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours. “From now on, you need to be careful. Promise me that will you.”

“I promise,” you said, and this time, you meant it.

Ekko pulled you into a tight embrace, holding you close to his body. He really did love hugging you. It’s not like you minded anyways, the way he hold you every time he did was endearing.

Shining bright through the sun was heavy as it seeped through the windows. Casting warm beams of light onto the small play area you and Ekko had carved out for the kids. Mila was a different child than the one you had brought in a few days ago. Her cheeks were fuller, a healthy glow replacing the pallor of malnourishment. Her hair, now free of dirt and tangles, was neatly braided in a style one of the older Firelights had taught her. She wore clean, simple clothes that fit her nicely, and the sight of her beaming smile was enough to make your heart swell. You began to love her as a little sister. One who needs to be protected from the harsh world.

You and Ekko sat cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by a mix of giggling children who were eager to show off their toys as they invent new games. Mila gravitated toward you, her tiny hands tugging at your sleeve as she laughed at something one of the kids said. Her joy was infectious, and for the first time, you felt a lightness in your chest that had been absent since everything began. One that only appeared when you would share special moments with ekko, or in the past when you would make memories with your mother and anya.

“Watch this!” Mila declared, holding up a toy dragon that one of the Firelights had carved from wood. She mimicked the sound of its roar, moving it around in exaggerated loops. The other kids burst into laughter, and so did you, unable to resist the sheer enthusiasm radiating from her.

“You’re getting pretty good at that,” Ekko teased, leaning back on his hands as he watched her antics. “Maybe we should make you our official storyteller.”

“Really?” Mila’s eyes widened, the idea filling her with excitement. “Can I, can I?”

“Of course,” you said with a soft laugh, though your voice came out a bit sharper than you intended. Mila didn’t seem to notice, but Ekko shot you a quick, concerned glance. The shimmer was still in your system, subtle but nevertheless present. It would sometimes heighten your senses, making you jittery. It was like holding a storm inside you, and no matter how hard you tried, it bled through the cracks sometimes.

Mila tugged your sleeve again, pulling your attention back to her. “What’s your favorite story? I can tell it to everyone!”

You hesitated, the warmth in your chest flickering. “Maybe later,” you said, your tone sharper than before. “Let’s keep it quiet for now.”

Mila frowned, her brow furrowing slightly. “But we’re not being loud—”

“I said keep it down!” The words snapped out of you before you could stop them, your voice harsh and biting. The shimmer roared in your veins, amplifying your frustration to a level that felt almost unbearable. Mila flinched, her toy dragon slipping from her hands to the ground. The head of the dragon broke from its body, and you watched as it rolled towards your feet. The other kids fell silent, their wide eyes darting between you and the little girl.

Mila��s bottom lip quivered, her hands trembling as she reached for the dragon. “I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She clutched the toy to her chest and bolted from the group, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Silence. It was suffocating. The other kids stared at you, their expressions a mix of confusion and fear. Ekko was on his feet in an instant, his eyes blazing as he grabbed your arm and pulled you aside. Away from prying eyes.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed, keeping his voice low but firm. “She’s a kid, and you just yelled at her like she did something awful.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you said quickly, guilt clawing at your chest. “It’s the drug—it’s messing with my head. I didn’t mean to scare her.”

“You need to get it under control,” Ekko said, his tone softening but still stern. “The poor girl looks up to you. She trusts you. You can’t let the drug make you into someone she could afraid of.”

You nodded, your throat tightening as you looked in the direction Mila had run. “I’ll talk to her,” you said quietly. “I’ll make it right, okay?”

Ekko nodded, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment before letting go. “You’d better,” he said, though his voice held more concern than anger. “She needs you to be better than this.”

Taking a deep breath, you followed the faint sound of Mila’s sniffles to a secluded corner of the hideout. She was curled up on the floor, her back to the wall and her headless toy dragon clutched tightly in her arms. Her small shoulders shook with quiet sobs, and the sight made your chest ache.

“Mila,” you said softly, kneeling down a few feet away from her. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t look at you, her face buried in the dragon’s wooden wings. “You yelled at me,” she said, her voice muffled but heavy with hurt. “I didn’t mean to be loud…”

“I know,” you said, your voice thick with regret. “I wasn’t angry at you, Mila. I’m just… not feeling like myself today but hat’s not an excuse. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m so sorry for scaring you.”

Mila peeked up at you, her tear-streaked face breaking your heart. “You promise you’re not mad?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes i promise you that,” you said, reaching out slowly. She didn’t pull away when you rested a hand on her knee. “You’ve been so brave and strong since you came here, Mila. I’m really proud of you. And I’m really, really sorry for making you feel like you did something wrong.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, slowly, she reached out and placed her tiny hand on top of yours. “Okay,” she said softly. “I forgive you.”

Relief flooded through you, and you pulled her into a gentle hug. She wrapped her arms around your neck, her headless toy dragon squished between you. “You’re my favorite grown-up,” she whispered, her voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

You laughed softly, the sound tinged with emotion. “Well, you’re my favorite storyteller,” you said, pulling back just enough to see her face. “How about we go back and tell the others a story? You can even make one up about a scary headless dragon.”

Mila’s eyes lit up, her earlier sadness melting away. “Okay!” she said, her smile returning in full force. “But you have to help me make it really good.”

“Deal,” you said, standing and taking her hand. As you walked back to the play area together, you glanced over your shoulder to see Ekko watching from a distance, a small smile tugging at his lips. As you stood beside mila and the other kids, you somehow managed to glue the head back to the headless dragon. Now it wasn’t headless anymore. Mila looked up at you, thanking you for fixing her dragon. A smile crept up her face. Even thought it was a small gesture of kindness after you made her cry, she thought it was a big deal. It was precious how mila would think even the smallest things were the best thing. Adorable.

You definitely knew that you still had work to do on yourself. To control your emotions and impulses but as well as being a person Mila could to look up to. However as her laughter rang out again, you felt a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could be that person after all.

But was it true? The lines between reality and fiction began to converge. It all made sense as the waterfall’s thunder filled your ears. You stood motionless on the ledge, staring at the mirror-like surface of the lake below. Your reflection rippled faintly, distorted by the spray of water. You didn’t see yourself as you were, but only what you feared you had become. Mila’s tear-streaked face flashed in your mind, her sobs echoing louder than the rushing water. The guilt felt unbearable, pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. Your trembling fingers brushed against the edge of the rocky ledge, the cold biting into your skin. A sob escaped your throat as tears fell freely, mingling with the mist around you. You apologizing to mila and fixing her headless dragon was all fake. Your mind imagined it. So right now mila was sad, hiding in a corner as she cried. What a horrible person i am.

“Maybe they’d all be better off without me,” you whispered to the air, your voice trembling as it was swallowed by the roar of the falls. The words left a bitter taste in your mouth, but you couldn’t stop the thoughts racing through your mind. You had tried, tried so hard to fit in, to make Zaun feel like home. Yet every mistake, every outburst reminded you that you didn’t belong. The Firelights were kind, but they didn’t understand you. Mila didn’t deserve your anger, and Ekko didn’t deserve the chaos you continued to bring into to his life. You stepped closer to the edge, the rocks shifting beneath your feet.

The world seemed to narrow as you took another step forward, your gaze fixed on the lake below. You fell silently, the cold air rushing past you before the icy water enveloped you like a second skin. The cold was shocking at first, stealing your breath, but then everything went quiet. You sank deeper, the surface growing distant as the weight of the water pressed in from all sides. The noise in your head didn’t stop, though. It only grew louder, something you couldn’t escape.

Images of your mother flickered in your mind, her smile fading like a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto. Anya’s laughter echoed, only to be drowned out by the sharp voice of your father. You’re not good enough. You never will be. The words clung to you like chains, dragging you deeper into the lake. You thought of Piltover and how it had abandoned you. Whereas with Zaun, you were nothing more than an outsider. Even here, even with Ekko, you felt like a burden. The water cradled you, its silence deceptive as your body floated aimlessly. You closed your eyes, hoping for darkness, for peace, but it didn’t come. Nothing was ever easy for you.

Instead, the world exploded in sound, a loud splash followed by muffled movements cutting through the water. You opened your eyes to see a figure diving toward you, moving with urgency. Ekko. His form was unmistakable even through the distorted water. He was always saving you after you do something stupid. How long would this last? When would it be the last time that he would save you?

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you upward with a strength you couldn’t resist. You felt the rush of cold air as he broke the surface, his grip on you tightened as he dragged you to the shore. His breaths came heavy, his movements frantic as he laid you down on the damp grass.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice a mix of anger and desperation. He crouched over you, his hands gripping your shoulders as his eyes searched your face. “Do you even understand what you just did?”

You turned your head away, unable to meet his gaze. “I—I didn’t mean for you to find me,” you said weakly, your voice trembling. “I just… I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m tired of feeling like this.”

“That’s not an excuse!” His voice cracked, his frustration palpable. “You don’t get to just give up! And leave me like that.” He paused, taking a shaky breath before softening his tone. “Damn it.”

A small voice broke the tense silence. “Why did you do it?” Mila stood a few feet away, her eyes wide and tearful as she clutched her arms tightly. “Did I do something wrong? Was it because of me?”

Your chest tightened, the guilt suffocating as you shook your head. “No, Mila. No. It wasn’t your fault,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong. I let my anger get the best of me, and I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

Mila hesitated, her small hands twisting nervously in front of her. “You said you cared about me. But then you yelled… I thought…” Her words trailed off, her voice breaking.

Ekko placed a hand on her shoulder, his expression softening. “It’s not your fault, Mila,” he said gently. “Sometimes grown-ups do stupid things when they’re hurting. But that doesn’t mean we stop caring. You’ve gotta trust me on that.” He glanced at you pointedly, his meaning clear.

You sat up slowly, your body trembling from the cold. “I’m sorry,” you repeated, this time to both of them. “I was selfish, and I wasn’t thinking about what it would do to you. I never wanted to hurt either of you.”

Mila stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out to touch your hand. “Are you gonna be okay now?” she asked softly, her voice still uncertain.

You nodded, tears threatening to fall down your face as you squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll try to be. I promise.”

Ekko sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he helped you to your feet. “We need to find something to help you with this,” he said firmly. “I need the old you back. I want my firefly back.”

There was no way that a cure for shimmer exists in Zaun. And even if it did, even if someone had it, they wouldn’t give it up that easily. Not without a fight. Maybe you had to deal with your new life, the one were you were unstable and unpredictable. How can someone love a person like this. How can someone do deserving of something better like ekko deserve a person like you?

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satoruxx · 1 year ago

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pairing: toji fushiguro x reader | 1.2k words summary: boyfriend!toji again, fluff, soft!toji, grumpy x sunshine, that obligatory sick fic, bickering, affectionate scolding, pet names, this is very self-indulgent !! rheya's note: had this written for so long and never posted it oops !! but yeah resident grump worrying over his fav what's new?

toji knows something is off as soon as he steps into his apartment. he comes to the conclusion almost immediately, because he isn’t greeted like he normally is when he comes home.

normally, he’ll push the door open and you’ll trip over yourself as you stand from the couch, a giddy smile on your face as you jump into his arms. and being the asshole that he is, toji never hesitates to grumble about it, clicking his tongue as he says things along the lines of “dammit kid one day i won’t catch you” or “jeez baby let me get in the house” or something similar. but despite all that his hands will still be attached to you, rubbing your back as he smothers an amused chuckle against your hair.

but not today. today he’s greeted by quiet and emptiness—a clear lack of you. he had opened the door ready to catch you in his arms, but all he can do is raise a brow at the silence. as much as he normally complains about it, this absence makes his gut churn. he pushes all that aside, more concerned than anything as he drops his jacket onto the couch and heads for the bedroom.

toji is nothing if not observant, paranoid as his eyes dart from corner to corner of the small apartment. it’s ingrained into him—this fear that his past will come back to haunt him and take you away in the most brutal way imaginable. but he tries to ignore that, continuing to head down the hall until he pushes the bedroom door open.

his shoulders drop in relief, seeing you laying on your stomach, face buried in the pillows, and he lets out a sigh. he sees you shift a little, signaling that you’re awake, so he takes a few steps forward.

toji climbs onto the bed and lays down next to you, dropping a heavy arm over your back. “what’s wrong?”

“don’t feel good,” you answer back. toji’s brows furrow, and he manages to push his free palm against your forehead. heat pulses against his skin, and his frown deepens.

“the fuck did you do to yourself?” he asks, not unkindly but still stern—you can only glare at him hazily.

“it’s not my fault!”

“uh huh,” toji rolls his eyes, threading his fingers through your sweaty hair and pushing it back from your forehead. “so me telling you to put some layers on when you go out in the cold has nothing to do with this?”

you huff, face heating under his pointed stare, and all you can do is shove his hand away, before pathetically burying your face into the sheets again. “shut up.”

“don’t be a brat.” toji lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head indulgently. “it’s your fault for not listening to me.”

“if you’re just gonna lecture me, go away,” you complain, cheek pressed into the pillow. toji snorts, though his hand rubs what you assume to be soothing circles on your back.

“who’s gonna make sure your dumbass doesn’t get into more trouble?”

another indignant huff, and toji only chuckles. “alright c’mon kid. let’s get you in better shape, yeah?” he grunts, looping his arm around your waist and tugging you up. you immediately protest, whining out a plethora of curses attached to his name, and he rolls his eyes. “okay, alright shut up.”

he maneuvers your body into sitting position, leaning you up against the pillows and pulling the blankets up with furrowed brows—meticulous in a way that he is only with very few things.

“you eat anything today?” he asks, still fussing over the blankets, and you gulp quietly. one look and toji’s frown grows deeper. “kid.” the word comes out stressed, like a scolding, and you wince.

“i didn’t feel like it,” you groan, trying not to wilt under his pointed glare.

“don’t care,” he huffs. “your body needs energy, stupid.”

“rude,” you mutter, crossing your arms and toji rolls his eyes.

“whine all you want—“ he stands up, rolling his neck until he hears a satisfying crack. “—still gonna make you eat something. soup okay?”

you don’t want to admit how tempting it sounds, so with an unrelenting amount of stubbornness you glare at him. “fine.”

his lips quirk upward into a smug little grin, and you try to refrain from throwing something at him. he pats your leg. “alright.”

he heads into the kitchen, leaving you to your thoughts. you hear the occasional sounds of cooking and utensils and before long, the comforting smell of soup wafts through the apartment. you try not to show toji how your mouth is watering when he walks back in, a bowl in his palm.

“here,” he grunts, propping a knee onto the bed that dips under his weight. “eat up, doll.”

you sigh, already hating the feeling of the cool sheets when you move even slightly to reach for it.

“you gonna make me spoon feed you?” toji’s brow quirks—smug, and obviously amused.

“i can do it myself thank you—” you try to take the bowl from him with a glare but he raises it out of your reach and clicks his tongue.

“will y’just let me do this one thing for you, jeez,” he complains, glaring down his nose at you.

you cross your arms with a huff, tone going slightly apologetic. “i feel bad—”

“why the fuck do you feel bad?” he asks sharply, eyes narrowed and confused and caught off guard like you’ve said the most out of pocket thing.

“because—” you stress, throwing your hands up miserably. “you were out on these crazy missions—probably tired as hell. and instead of relaxing you have to come home and take care of me because i was too stupid to look after myself.”

toji groans, putting the bowl on the bedside table before sitting on the bed completely. “kid,” he says emphatically, taking your face in his palms firmly. “how many times do i need to tell you this? i don’t mind lookin’ out for you.”

“yeah but—”

“no shut up,” he snaps, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. “you always worry about bothering me or inconveniencing me or some other crap like that. i’m telling you—don’t.”

his thumbs gently press into the apples of your cheeks, and your lips part under his pointed gaze.

“i like doin’ shit for you, okay? ‘n takin’ care of you when you’re sick? that’s nothing.” his lips tug into a lopsided smirk. “who else is gonna look out for you anyway?”

you purse your lips, throat going tight because toji rarely talks like this—so honestly open. and though you’re sure that many people out there would say he’s harsh and mean and not good for you, it’s things like this that prove how wrong they are.

“what’s wrong? did i break your brain?” toji asks, reaching up to knock his knuckle against your head, and you huff out a laugh, pushing his arm away.

“shut up,” you mutter, falling into his chest heavily. he chuckles, low and throaty as he pats your back.

“you up for eating now?” you can feel him reaching for the bowl, and you smile against him, pressing your face further into his warmth because toji will always be nothing but safe for you.

“in a minute,” you answer, looping your arms around his waist. he sighs, shaking his head but he doesn’t say anything else.

but you think you can feel him smile against your hair as he drops a chaste kiss to your forehead—you don’t tell him that though.

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comatosebunny09 · 11 months ago

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cater 2 u | sylus

summary: you can't sleep. he tires you out in the best way. warnings: female anatomy described, soft!dom sylus, fingering, explicit language, praise kink, pet names, heavy petting, bodily fluids now playing: go to war - tanerélle alright - victoria monét notes: for @muvaginger. the sylus brainrot is too real. thank you so much for reading! ❤️❤️❤️

It comes through the serene, amber glow of your bedroom. Through the slurry of your thoughts and your restless leg syndrome.

It’s a gentle pressure in the form of idle fingers smoothing along the skin of your belly. Meant to soothe, to anchor you down as the maelstrom behind your skull threatens to spill out and sweep you away.

His reminder that he is here and very much real.

“Can’t sleep?” he rasps from behind, voice heavy with exhaustion. Sends tingles down your spine, and his breath stirs the hairs at the nape of your neck.

Your stomach pulls, heart sinks. You must’ve woken him up with your jostling about.

He doesn’t sleep well himself. The constant traveling between the N109 Zone and Linkon has its drawbacks. Transitioning from darkness to light so abruptly has surely mucked up his circadian cycle.

Doesn’t help that he abhors the sun. On cue, it defiantly creeps through the slit of your curtains, casting both your faces in an amber stripe. He bears it all if only to see you. To feel your pulse beat beneath his lips, to hold you like this.

You stroke his wrist with an apologetic thumb. “No, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He groans low like distant thunder. Tugs you closer until your ass sits all perfectly in the notch of his pelvis, and his chin finds the pocket of your shoulder. He tangles your legs together, arms possessive around your middle while he caresses your feet with his surprisingly soft ones.

He clings to you like a lifeline. You revel in the notion that you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. Stripped down, bare-boned, all lovey-dovey, with cartoonish hearts swirling overhead.

He’d thump you for thinking like that. He hasn’t gone soft; he swears it.

“S’alright. Can’t expect you to completely change your routine for little old me.”

You scoff at that. Study the flutter of the curtains across from your bed as a breeze eases in. You’ve already changed your lifestyle so much to accommodate him.

“You talk like I wouldn’t give you the world.”

A chuckle roils in his chest, vibrating your back. Your bed sheets rustle as he shifts to press his lips to your carotid. Mouth lingers there like he intends to soak all the warmth of your body into his. You shiver.

His voice crackles with emotion peeking through the grogginess. Something quiet and raspy, barely audible beneath the hum of the AC. “You are my world. And right now, my world is having trouble sleeping.”

Sylus can be the epitome of sweet when he wants to be. Has a hand, hot and coaxing, on your sternum, scorching you from the outside in. His thumb coasts over the grooves of your ribcage, and he roots his nose behind your ear, inhaling deep.

“So, what can I do to help?”

The pressure in the room shifts. Heavy, buzzing like white noise in your ears. When you swallow thick, your throat clicks, and you feel his lips curve upwards against your skin.

His tone is deceptively innocent. Had he been anyone else but Sylus, you would deem his intentions pure. However, the coarse pads of his fingers outlining the underside of your breast warn you against it. You inwardly snort at his cheekiness. So much for being ‘sweet.’

You go for coy. Make yourself cozier halfway on your back, a smile rounding your lips. You reach back to curl your hand around his nape. Thread fingers in a thatch of messy white, and he groans something bitten-off at the attention. You quietly grant him more access to your body, knowing the path he intends to err down.

“Dunno,” you say on a wistful exhale. “Maybe a big, fat sleeping pill would help.”

That laugh again. Coarse like P80-grit sandpaper, and you feel it shoot straight to the space between your thighs. You clench them together to ward off the pulsing.

He ponders all low and throaty, dragging his mouth up your neck until his teeth tease your earlobe. He steadily grows hard against the cleft of your ass. Rolls his hips sluggishly against you as if to convey, yes, this is very much your doing.

“I can think of more effective ways to help you relax, sweetie.” There’s danger there. A wicked curve to his tone, reminiscent of the bold under-notes of whiskey. You take the bait regardless.

“Like how?”

“Hmm. Well, I was thinking we could start with a nice massage.”

To punctuate his words, cupped palms mold around your tits. Weigh and knead them all slowly and thoroughly in the way you like. In the way that makes your tummy flutter and your panties sticky, and you’re pinching your thighs together to take the edge off.

“Starting right here.”

His breath is hot and sodden as he traps your puckered nipples between his fingers. Tugs, and it borders between pain and pleasure. Occasionally, he scrapes his nails over them, the sensation amplified by your nightshirt stretched thin over your breasts. You bite your lip against a whimper. He sees that as a challenge to make you cry his name.

“Then maybe here,” he pursues, groping your tits with one hand whilst the other embarks on a languid journey southward.

You’re halfway between a pant and a giggle as the flat of his nails graze your belly, all honey slow in pursuit of your waistline. Sylus then drags his fingers over your thigh, avoiding the space where you crave his touch most.

You wind your hips to chase his hand, and he chuckles something abrasive at how cute you are. How adorable his little darling is, desperate for his fingers, his touch.

Instead, he takes to kneading your thigh, and he peers down to watch your skin crater between his fingers as he slowly encourages your legs to open.

“Here,” husked into your ear, his voice prickling your skin. He runs meticulous lines up and down your inner thigh. Gentle, gentle, and you spread open so pretty for him like a flower.

Each time, he ventures closer to the sticky mess between your legs. He braces you against him with an arm snaked around your neck. Not enough pressure to choke you, but enough to remind you of his power and how the tide could easily shift if he deems it necessary.

“And here.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from him, all shaky and ragged. His dick jumps against your backside when he finally, finally teases the seam of your pussy. It’s quick and maddening, and you ruck your hips up to chase the sensation once more. He laughs because you’re so eager, and your mind fills only with Sylus, Sylus, Sylus.

“Sy,” you pant. You sound pitiful. Needy, but you could give two shits about keeping up facades right now. You crave him in a way that edges animalistic, and he knows it by the earthy scent of your pussy permeating through your panties.

“Yes, sweetie?” he coos. It’s doting, nurturing, and dulcet because he knows you love it when he talks to you like this. Like you’re something delicate, something to be exalted, and he’d give you the moon and stars if he could.

He teases you through your panties with the flat of nails, reveling in how your hips jerk and your breath catches each time he does it. Teetering along the edge himself, his breaths jerky and his hips winding in tandem with yours.

“Please,” you whimper, pelvis undulating against his like waves licking the shoreline. “Please, please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for anymore. You don’t know what you need anymore.

“Hmm? Please, what?”

“Please just…fuck.” He gets off on this, making you beg so nicely for him. You’re too tired to argue. Too drunk off the feel of his body behind you and his weighted dick pressing to your spine, and if he keeps talking like that, you’ll cum from the pitch of his voice alone.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“Here,” you gasp out, and your vision’s blurry around the edges as your stomach gnarls and twists. You wrap shaky fingers around his wrist, guiding him to where heat builds. Where you throb for him so eagerly. “Need you here.”

“Right here?” he parrots, his voice strained. His mouth seals around your jugular as he strokes up the slit of your pussy. Hard in that way you like, sending pleasant jolts to your synapses.

You burn hot as your hips surge off the bed, and he groans something appreciative at how your body responds to him. You’re always so good. Too good to him.

He taps your pussy once, twice. Sucks in a breath, and spots of milky white circle the edges of your vision at his ministrations.

He groans alongside you as he builds a steady rhythm thereafter, stroking you with the finesse of an artist molding pottery. And he rubs and pats and teases until you’re a mess of incoherencies in his arms. He licks up your throat, breathing all hot and uneven in your ear, promising the best of things.

“Oh, you feel so good here. Need you to stay with me, kitten,” he rasps, closing a large hand around your neck. “Want to take care of you.”

You’re trying to hang on. You honestly are, but if he keeps on like this, you’ll be painting the seat of your panties with your cum in no time.

Cold air suddenly kisses your swollen labia. You’ve barely time to react to him rucking your panties to one side before his fingers are there again. Spindly and rough, parting your pussy lips and pulling back the hood of your clitoris in search of the pearl nestled within.

He finds it in no time. Presses against that unfathomable bud of pleasure, and he rubs in meticulous circles. You shackle his wrist down as he alternates between outlining the rim of your sticky, slutty pussy hole and playing with your clit. Teases a finger inside when you’re sobbing ‘til he’s knuckle deep, and fuck.

You both groan as he eases home, your walls greedily sucking his finger in. How sweet you sound, chanting his name like a broken hymnal. Thrashing this way and that, clamping your thighs shut and tugging on his hand to stave off the rush of endorphins. Too much. Too soon. You don’t wanna cum. Not yet. Not—

Sylus kicks your legs further apart, snaking his calf around yours to keep you nice and open for him. And it’s cute how you think you can fight back when he manacles your hands over your head using one of his. He could easily use his Evol to restrain you, but where’s the fun in that? Likes it when you fight. When you act all sweet like you’re not slowly succumbing to the pleasure.

Your head thrashing on the pillow, Sylus eventually works another finger into the fray, and he presses and curls and pistons until your voice is broken and you’re leaking pretty, sticky pearls of white onto his hand.

Pleasure mushrooms in your stomach. Coils in your throat. Threatens to spill you over the edge. “Sy! Sy, please! I can-I can’t—”

“You can,” he counters, voice heavy with lust. Weighed by undertones of desperation, and his brows furrow as he pants through parted, wet lips. He needs this, needs to have his pretty princess spasming around his fingers. You always take such good care of him. Such good care of everyone. It’s about time someone places you on a plinth of your own. “I know you can take it, sweetie.”

His eyes are like liquid sin when they find yours, and you can’t look away. Can’t look away because he’s aching for you to cum. And somewhere between him begging you to…

Cum. Cum. Cum. Give it to me, sweetheart. Let it go. Want it so bad.

Somewhere between the third finger he’d worked inside, and somewhere between his thumb smearing your sticky nectar onto your clit, and his grip tightening upon your wrists to keep you in place...

You cum.

God, you cum, and it’s like stars shooting across an inky nebula. You don’t think you’ve ever cum harder, painting his hand with your essence with a scream corked in your throat.

He works you through it. Coddles and strokes you until you’re pulsing and shaking from the aftermath, and he releases a weighted sigh, panting alongside you as you come down, down from the stratosphere, floating back into your skin.

You’re boneless and loose-limbed. A sheen of dewy sweat paints your body, but it doesn’t deter him. A doting chuckle in his throat, he leans down to kiss your forehead before rolling off the mattress, leaving you cold and bereft of the warmth of his body.

Still, you curl up with the sheets balled into your fists, and the goofiest grin is plastered on your face. Somewhere far off, you hear the pipes of your bathroom hissing to life.

You’re halfway dozing when Sylus pads back into your bedroom. And then, there is the sensation of you being tenderly lifted, his arms sturdy at your back and the crooks of your knees. You nuzzle into the heat his muscles exude, too exhausted to open your eyes or ask where he’s taking you. Just register the feeling of wet steam wading over you and his laugh, warm milk and honey, vibrating your body.

“You can’t fall asleep before I bathe you, kitten.”

“Watch me,” you challenge on a whisper, a catlike smile spreading cross your lips as you fade into inky bliss.

hair down | masterlist | international

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus smut #sylus romance #sylus fic #l&ds x reader #l&ds x you #l&ds smut #love and deepspace sylus #sylus imagine #sylus love and deepspace

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ysaefinn · 14 days ago

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"Suguru?"

Your little whisper echoes through the dark halls of your shared home."Honey, is that you?" Silence responds to your call before–thump! "ughh..." well, there it is.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were at all holding before making your way toward what you are sure to be your poor, tired, pitiful boyfriend.

And lo and behold, it is your Suguru, in all of his sleepy drowsy glory. Poor thing bumped into the wall on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water probably. Whatever the case may be, you step closer before placing a hand over his flaming-hot forehead, you can feel him shudder and flinch at the contact.

"What are you doing here?" You scold gently while mentally noting the urgent need for a wet rag "we've gone through this already love. No sneaking out, you're sick, you should stay in bed" you slide your hand down, brushing your fingers against his sweaty neck and moving his hair back. An affectionate gesture, to assure him that you could never truly be upset with him.

Suguru is silent except for the occasional sniffles and grunts to moisturize his itchy dry throat. His gaze is glued to the floor like a guilty misbehaving child caught elbows deep in the cookie jar.

A weak raspy sigh barely makes its way out of his heavy chest and Oh does it tug at your heart strings "I'm sorry to worry you it's just..." he swallows a lump "you haven't eaten anything today".

...Sigh.

You don't know if you're feeling fond or disappointed really. Suguru is barely standing at all. A high fever, wobbly legs, a dry throat, a runny nose, and yet he still has the nerve to leave his soft warm bed, escape the room of his confinement, bump into the wall on his way to the kitchen, to make you, his dearest darling, a meal. It would be adorable if his health wasn't on the line, seriously suguru forgets that he is your baby just as much as you are his.

Suguru needs some tough loving to keep him in line sometime– is not a ridiculous statement honestly, but God is it hard to be mean to him.

"Oh, Sweetheart " you try again, a little softer this time, no scolding, he's your boy after all. "This is the last thing you should worry about" he turns his head away like he knows the lecture is coming.

Enough.

He's not running away. Two soft hands rest on either side of his face before moving his head back down to face you. Direct, raw eye contact.

You're not sure if it's the troubled breathing due to his stuffed nose, or your sudden solidified tone. But his breath visibly hitches and he jolts back a bit.

"Listen to me." You begin with sudden authority "You're going to sleep, right away" and it feels like a gavel striking the sound block. "Now come on" You take his hand in yours and start marching back in the direction of your shared bedroom. Suguru stumbles right behind you like a little wobbly puppy, desperately trying to match your hurried steps, he hasn't earned your consideration just yet.

The act is dropped once you enter the safety of your bedroom, and watch your boyfriend get cozy under the soft covers and a swarm of plushies you placed there for his protection.

"There you go, honey" you're looming over him in the blink of an eye "I'm sorry for being harsh, but you needed the lesson" your hands smooth over his sides, ensuring he's safe and shielded from the pesky cold of the night, before running your fingers through his gorgeous hair.

Suguru is seemingly not yet over your earlier exchange. He tries to blame the redness of his face on being sick but you know better.

He's visibly hanging by a thread.

"Come on, let's just take it easy tonight. Okay?" There's a second of unresponsiveness followed shortly after by a hesitant little nod. So so so adorable, seeing him this shy really isn't an everyday occurrence, the big and bad Dobermann reduced to a little black kitten at the palm of your hand.

"My poor baby" you absentmindedly coo "I know...it must feel terrible" You look up to meet his half lidded brown gaze "but you're tough, I know you'll be back on your feet in no time" you kneel down to peck his warm forehead, feeling his hot breath against your collarbone. Suguru shudders in response. And with your lips still tenderly placed on his skin– "My big strong man".

The final nail in the coffin. Suguru turns over and hides his face in one of his plushie warriors, hugging the toy tightly enough to cut its circulation if it were alive. Poor baby would usually just chuckle at your teasing, the fever must really be messing with his brain, he seems to think the stuffie is there to keep him safe from you.

Safe to say you're pretty taken aback at the sudden reaction. You sit there unblinking looking at his well built back, wow..this has really never happened before Still, you choose to spare him for now.

Okay maybe one last jab wouldn't kill him.

You place one hand over his strong shoulder before rubbing slowly and coming closer. Suguru's eyes are blown wide open once his overheated brain registers the soft weight of your chest pressed against his back.

"O-okay..please that's e-eno"–"Get well soon for me, okay?" The hand on his shoulder travels down to rub his back again, this time making its way to his thighs. "I have a treat for you but I need to be sure.."Suguru is as quiet as a mouse. A little bunny playing dead "That you can handle it~" and with a long lingering kiss on the back of his ear, the deal is sealed.

"I'll be right back with a wet rag for you!" You skip away to the bathroom victorious, leaving a poor breathless man behind. Suguru swears he felt your tongue make an appearance during the kiss. You won't get away with this. He'll get you back for sure!

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rqnarok · 9 months ago

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you cannot tell me that old man!logan doesn’t have a daddy kink…

cws/tags: sexual content. oldman!logan. mild daddy kink. subspaces. dd/lg undertones. crying. dom!logan.

Old man Logan would be so into daddy kink; the name rolls off his tongue easily—“So good for Daddy, sweetheart.”

He just can’t help it when you accidentally call him by that name while you were reaching your high. He is the one who continuously brings it up; never letting go of it. Because he fucking loves it.

“Yeah’ that’s it, kid. There ya’ go.” Logan murmurs endless praises as you try to sink down on his large girth. Calloused hands are rubbing circles on the skin on your tummy, guiding you down and down, “Fuck. Ya’ feel me here, kiddo?”

You only respond to his question in a whimper, closing your eyes and biting your lips as you try to take more of him. The sight of his pretty baby fucked out on his lap is the most adorable thing he has ever witnessed, “Wanna be good for dada, huh?” His mouth trails soft kisses on your warm cheeks and temple.

“Can you speak, baby?” To let him know you’re alright, you lightly bob your head as you place your hands on his shoulders to support your body and raise yourself so only his tip remains—before dropping down again—way deep this time, you’re sure you got all of him inside you and you gained some confidence.

Logan lets out a strangled grunt in surprise, “Hey, take it easy, little bug. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.” He draws his palms on your back to cling you closer to his chest.

Slowly but surely, you rest your heavy head on his neck and rub your own head there to feel his untrimmed greying beard. You’ve earned your motivation again.

“I can do it, Daddy.” You plea to him, “Can’ do it. ‘M a big girl.”

He tilts his head to lovingly scold you, “Don’t hurt yourself, little one.” Logan’s tired sugary smile only remains until you’ve managed to lift yourself upwards—your velvet walls wrap so deliciously tight around him and making him shut his eyes and inhale sharply, “F-fuck.”

“‘M a big girl!” You repeat as you bounce irregularly—feeling like you’ve overtaken him and everything else.

Well…not for long.

Because after around five more times going up and down on him, you could feel yourself getting exhausted. Your eyes barely open up as you squeak a high-pitched whine—making grabby hands at him to get his attention.

To get Daddy’s attention.

“Ah- n-need help, Daddy.” You choke out, opening your eyes slightly to see that he’s already looking - observing you.

“Hm?” Logan hums as he brings his fingers to pinch at your soft cheeks, “Thought you’re a big girl now, baby?” His thumb rests just outside of your spit-licked mouth. Earning more humming approvals from the older man when you willingly open your lips and sucks it inside.

“Wha’dya need Daddy’s help for if you’re a big girl?” He paraphrased his question again—his palm roaming below your breast before kneading each one of them.

Tears begin to well up in your eyes as you’re feeling the stretch, “Daddy—” and the sting in your dripping pussy as an effect of your previous actions, “I-I thought I could do it…”

“What’d Daddy say?” Oh, you know you’re in trouble because he’s scolding you now. For not listening to him and to play-act in front of him.

“‘M sorry!” You cannot help but cry out then wrap your arms around his neck, “Was just so excited, Daddy—need you so bad!”

Logan coos your figure by threading his big hands through your hair, shushing you hiccuped sobs down, “Shh,”

After hearing your breath steadying, he ruts his hips up against yours. Circling and thrusting to your tight heat as you rest your entire body weight onto him. You tremble in his arms as you hear skin-meet-skin slapping sounds echoing through your shared bedroom. Fully giving yourself to fall in his embrace.

“Ya’ see? Y’re just a little girl, baby. Daddy’s little girl.”

You nod and make out a confirmation whimper. Before you register it, he starts to move you too.

Yeah, you feel way much better like this.

Being Daddy’s little girl and letting him have all the control there is.

#going insane.......#logan howlett #logan x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #old man logan #old man!logan #old man logan x reader #deadpool and wolverine #cw: daddy kink #wolverine smut #smut #wolverine #logan howlett blurb #logan howlett imagine #logan by nina <3

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lvl109 · 9 days ago

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"so what i'm hearing is that you hate me and you want me dead.”

a noncommittal hum sounds through the speakers of your phone. “i said no such thing. is there a reason why the dramatics are pertinent even more tonight?”

your eyes narrow. “you haven't called in two days. two days. clearly you hate me.”

a laugh now, tinged with fondness. you try your best to fight off the smile threatening to spread across your lips. “my most sincere apologies, my love. how can i begin to grovel for your forgiveness?”

“you're not getting a lick of forgiveness from me. two days! i was worried.” your brows furrow, amping up the act. “i keep forgetting my stupid boyfriend loves to put himself in harm’s way.”

sylus’ expression softens in the face of your exaggerated complaints, going quiet in the way he does when he realizes his actions have upset you even if just a little bit. when he realizes you care more than just saying it verbally. it makes your heart sink.

“i really was worried,” you finally relent, cracking first underneath the silence. “i know you have to do these things, but. it's not just you anymore. you have people who care about you.”

he looks away for a moment, his gaze downcast. when his gaze returns to the screen, he offers an apologetic smile. “i'm sorry, sweetheart. i didn't mean to frighten you. i'm alright. i promise.”

“you can show you're sorry by getting on the earliest flight home.” your joke slips past in an attempt to divert attention from your growing sadness from being apart for so long. his expression knowing, he agrees without hesitation. “i mean it. i want to see the wine glass when you're on board.”

it's not long before the two of you are engrossed in a recount of your day—from grueling paperwork to wanderer attacks to discounted groceries (a steal) and so on. he listens with rapt attention, adding little comments either to stoke your dramatized frustration or make you laugh between words. in turn, sylus fills you in on what he's able to share on his end, ensuring you that while things were hectic, he'd run into little to no trouble in the two days you hadn't heard from him.

opening your mouth to grill him once again—really, it was that serious—your attention is caught by the sound of keys entering a lock at the front door. sylus pauses when you stop talking, letting out a confused sound at your silence.

“sweetheart? is everything alright?”

muffled footsteps sound from the living room followed by the faint sound of a bag dropping on the couch. the drag of socked feet against the floor is heard for a few more seconds until the bedroom door is pushed open a bit wider, revealing none other than a tired mass of limbs in slightly rumpled work clothes.

still, the sight of him makes you smile. “zayne is home,” you say quietly, partly in response to sylus’ question, partly in greeting to your other boyfriend.

too tired for words at the moment, he sheds his jacket and falls forward on to the bed, letting out a tired sigh as he worms his way between your legs much to your vocal surprise. his cheek rests against your thigh, your legs folded over his shoulders.

“long day?” you ask softly, threading a hand through his hair. his lashes rest above his cheeks, casting shadows as he nods after a long beat.

“almost lost a patient.” his voice is muffled against your skin, his brows furrowed as his arms wrap around your thighs. “a child. coded during the surgery.”

he takes a long breath, his exhale shaky even after successfully completing the surgery. “i keep thinking about what would have happened had i hesitated even one second. what if i had cost him his life? what if i had made a wrong decision?”

you glance back at your screen with a frown, meeting sylus’ concerned gaze. there were times when he'd lost patients and had resigned himself to exhausting as much of his knowledge as possible, but children had always hit the closest to him. it makes your chest squeeze with both worry and sympathy.

“i kept thinking about what i would have done if it was either of you on the table, with my hands being the barrier between death. i don't think i could bear it. losing either of you would kill me.”

he doesn't cry, but his shoulders tremble with the weight of the near loss. haunting. your hand smooths across his back in soothing circles, trying to ground him as much as you can.

“has he…” zayne clears his throat, his eyes still closed. his voice is quiet. “called…? it's been two days. it's worrying.”

your head inclines slightly towards your phone, eyes narrowed with no heat as if to say see? sylus’ expression falls a bit, realization further weighing his shoulders down.

“two days too many. i'm sorry for worrying for you as well.”

zayne’s head snaps up upon hearing his voice, wincing as it causes his vision to swim a little. tired eyes squint at your phone before two and two is put together, pushing up on his arms to move forward and look at your screen as well.

“glad to see you're doing well enough to answer the phone.” zayne’s tone, while neutral, is pointed, making sylus look increasingly chided over the few words uttered. “you don't get to pout. stop pouting.”

“i'm not pouting.”

“he's definitely pouting.” you pipe up in a cheerful tone, your smile sweet when sylus scowls. you shift into a more comfortable position that ends up with your head against zayne’s chest, sighing in content as the steady beat of his heart lulls you into a sleepy haze.

zayne takes the phone from you as you move, fond in the way his other hand settles on your hip. all the way sylus watches, growing a bit skittish from the lack of attention.

“is my punishment watching the two of you cuddle without me? is this my momentary prison? the both of you are cruel. heartless.”

“come home, then,” you grumble, sticking your tongue out at him. “miss your stupid face.”

“i concur.” zayne shakes his head at your antics, a soft smile gracing his lips. “stupid face and all.”

sylus sighs as he settles into his own bed, the pillows soft against his head but unfamiliar without the scent of your shampoo and zayne’s jasmine scent lingering in the fabric. he watches the both of you succumb more and more to the pull of sleep, gently probing the both of you to go to bed.

you fall asleep first after mumbling your goodnight, out like a light before the phone call ends. zayne stifles a yawn of his own before also bidding him goodnight, but not without sending him a photo to his messages.

when the call ends, his heart eases just a little bit when he opens the picture sent to him of the two of you in each other's arms. waiting for him to come back to your shared home. and he'd come back to the both of you every single time no matter what obstacle lay itself before his path.

"i'll be home soon," he murmurs into the quiet air. "promise."

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milkbobatyun · 5 months ago

Text

fireworks and red packets

pairing: jingyuan x reader

genre: fluff

summary: once again, it's yanqing's favourite time of the year and also his 'payday' — chinese new year

word count: 1.2k

a/n: happy lunar/chinese new year to those who celebrate !! hope you guys received lots of red packets ! to those who dont celebrate, hope you have a good day (>ᴗ•) !

living in a household with jingyuan’s little aide meant that life was never a bore, especially in the morning of the annual chinese new year.

once again, you have woken up before jingyuan, gently hugged like a teddy bear. the sunshine smiles warmly upon you from the sheer curtains as birds twitter cheerily outside your windows. however, the peace does not last long.

distantly, you hear the patter of running footsteps from down the hall, a clear sign of trouble brewing, so naturally, you pretend to sleep, awaiting with baited breath to see what would happen.

the door to your bedroom is thrown open and jingyuan’s soft snores are rudely interrupted by a heavy weight launching himself towards the bed.

“general, general!” yanqing calls out, joy and excitement evident in his voice, “wake up! it’s the new year! time to pay up!”

peeking open one eye, you can’t help but let out a quiet laugh when you see yanqing, seated atop the dozing general and shaking him vigorously. his poor victim is grumbling and sleepy, trying to push yanqing off in his sleep.

mimi gently pads in behind yanqing, making a beeline for your side of the bed. she places two large paws on the bed as she pleads for pets with her eyes, which you oblige. the last thing you want to happen is for the huge lion to climb into bed as well.

after much grumbling from jingyuan and yanqing’s nonstop insistence to “get out of bed, lazy head!”, the general slowly reaches towards his bedside table and opens his drawer, taking out a thick hóngbāo.

delight lights up yanqing’s face as he receives the money. mission complete. time for the next one.

you knew you couldn’t watch such amusing entertainment for free, and indeed yanqing wanted you to pay the full fare. the two of you locked eyes, but before he could say anything you had beat him to it.

“young man,” your voice was stern, one eyebrow raised, giving him that look. yanqing knew it was fruitless arguing with you right now, especially since you held possession of his precious money. “go and get ready for breakfast. after that, i’ll give you your hóngbāo.”

with an obedient nod, yanqing agreed.

after breakfast, yanqing received his thick wad of hóngbāo money, along with a custom new outfit you had designed and hand sewn for him. not wanting to be left out, mimi pawed and pawed at your garments, begging for a little something for herself.

not immune to the adorable boba eyes she gave you, you rummaged through the pile of papers and files overflowing from your desk and retrieved the collar you had made for her, bright, festive red silk, embroidered with golden thread. however, all your work went to waste when the stunning collar disappeared under a puff of silver-white fur.

as per tradition, the four of you set foot out of the house, into the chilly air of xianzhou, to mingle with its citizens and partake in the festivities.

naturally, yanqing had a penchant for expensive and rare swords, so he spent a tiny a lot more than what he brought in his wallet.

as parents of the year, you and jingyuan watched with ill-suppressed amusement as yanqing panicked, patting himself down and searching to and fro, up and down for where his money could’ve gone (spoiler: he spent it all)

yanqing was in a pinch, a terrible moment of his life, the worst moment, in fact. he had hit rock bottom. with pleading puppy dog eyes, yanqing turns to the most reliable two adults on the xianzhou—his lovely parents. however, jingyuan only regards him with teasing golden eyes, finding pleasure and great entertainment in his panic. fortunately for him, you came swooping to the rescue.

without hesitation, you drew out an all too familiar wallet and withdrew a hefty amount of credits from within. jingyuan’s amber eyes scrutinised your every movement like a hawk. it was rare that you would be so generous with yanqing’s spending, normally you would’ve been adamantly putting your foot down and telling him he had enough swords, unless…

peering closely at the wallet in your hand, it seemed similar to the wallet he owned. the same colour, the same model, hell, even the same scratches from when he left it on a table and mimi thought it was a new toy and began sharpening her claws…

to reassure himself, jingyuan patted the pocket where he stored his precious wallet, but when his hand made solid contact against his own thigh and not the bulge of the wallet, his heart dropped into his stomach. shoot. he’d lost his wallet.

when he sheepishly dragged his eyes to meet yours, his mind was racing with the millions of reasons he was going to give as to discreetly retrace your steps. however, upon glancing at your mischievous grin, jingyuan’s mind came to the only possible conclusion.

good lord. you sneaky little minx. at some point during your walk, youh ad slipped your hand into his pocket and palmed his wallet. no wonder you were so generous with your spending today.

as the night drew to a close and the fireworks faded into the starry sky, the festivities began dying down, with all the families and their sleepy children heading home.

your family was no different. despite his conviction and bold statements, yanqing's head was beginning to nod, eyes weighed down by sleep.

cheerily, you volunteered to carry him home. panic flitted across jingyuan's face before being replaced by his signature smirk.

“darling,” he purred, tone sugary sweet. “are you sure? yanqing is quite heavy now and home is a long distance away.”

you shook your head adamantly. you'd known jingyuan for too long to know if he was being genuine. plus, the general who is always pushing his work onto others, being generous? unheard of. add on the fact that the same thing happened every year, you were definitely NOT giving in.

sure enough, you had made the right judgement.

the locals struggled to hold back their laughter as they watch their dozing general and his family pass down the street. ahead, you carried a dozing yanqing in your arms, the sight enough to warm even the coldest of hearts. trailing a way behind you, was what appeared to be a cloud of levitating mimi with a pair of human legs.

contrary to popular belief, mimi was just a baby. she was tired from chasing behind yanqing and wanted to be carried. you were occupied, so the job naturally fell upon jingyuan.

thus, her ever loyal spare human was tasked with carrying her. kneeling in front of her, jingyuan spread his arms, bracing himself against her weight. his knees nearly buckled when mimi threw her heavy paws upon his shoulders. mentally encouraging himself, jingyuan stood up with shaky legs, trembling under the heavy lion. maybe he should lay off on the treats and give her a stricter diet.

when you turned to jingyuan, you came face to face with an innocent looking mimi, who blinked languidly at you in contentment while the spare human was currently being suffocated by her thick, silky fur. (though you doubt jingyuan was complaining, he always loved using her fur as a pillow)

life in the general's household was never a bore, especially when it came to the chinese new year.

footnotes:

1. the new clothing for yanqing—— in chinese tradition, parents usually give their children new clothes for the new year

2. how i imgained jingyuan would carry mimi, but on a MUCH larger scale ꉂꉂ(ᵔᗜᵔ*)

3. hóngbāo（红包）—— more often known as red packets/red pockets and often given to children, the red colour of the envelope symbolises good fortune in chinese and other east asian countries. they also symbolise good luck and wishes for the year ahead

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2025 / づ ♡

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killerplink · 22 days ago

Text

TROUBLE

Pairing: Roy Harper x Female Reader

Plot: You'd been a brat all evening because of course you had. That always happens when you have one too many drinks, and tonight? Tonight the wine was really fucking good.

A/N: okay first of all... I KNOW. I KNOW THIS TOOK FOREVER 😭 I'm sorry besties, work went from "yay I love my job" to "oh" real fucking fast and I've been coming home with just enough energy to doomscroll TikTok and blink at the wall until bedtime 😭 this is the first out of three I'm planning on writing (with the guys calling reader a slut for the first time) BUT Roy was up first bc I don't have enough fics with him and I love him so much it's disgusting. Dick's next (bc hello?? neglected pretty boy hours) and then our fave menace Jason 🙂‍↕️ also yes... it's long. I know it. I felt it. I lived it. but I needed the ending like I needed air after this week so I stretched

👉🏻👈🏻 thank you for your patience and for still being here ily 😭🫶🏻

Roy had promised you a date night. No distractions, no missions, no one needing saving, just the two of you, dressed to the nines and making the most of a rare night off. And oh, he delivered.

You're in this little dress that makes you feel like a walking sin—short, silky, low cut, the kind that makes heads turn the second you walk in. One wrong move and it might ride all the way up your thighs, but Roy hadn't been able to stop staring since you stepped out of the bedroom, lips parted like he was already halfway to losing his mind.

You'd been on your best behavior at first, giggling through appetizers, holding hands across the table, sneaking kisses between glasses of wine. But somewhere around glass number... three? Four? Things started to shift.

The man's got his hair slicked back tonight, wearing that deep green button down you love—tight at his arms, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up just enough to flash the curve of his forearms and the edge of his watch. And those black slacks? Fitted to hell, of course, because he knows exactly what he's doing.

Your foot found his under the table. Your fingers started trailing up his thigh. You pressed your chest a little closer when you leaned in to whisper something stupid in his ear. And then you got bold.

Now, sitting pretty with your legs crossed and your face flushed from the wine, your hand is tucked between the crisp white tablecloth and Roy's lap. Your fingertips drag slow, deliberate strokes over the bulge growing behind his zipper, and his thigh tenses beneath your palm.

He's been grabbing your wrist all night, whispering sharp little warnings through clenched teeth like, "Cut it out, baby" or "You tryna get us kicked out?"

But it's never lasted. You keep going, poking the bear, giggling like you don't know any better. This time, when you rub your palm in a teasing little circle right over the tip of his cock, you feel his whole body shift. His jaw clenches, the vein in his neck jumps, his fingers wrap tight around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to make you still.

He leans in, voice low and warm and dangerous in your ear. "You'd better behave, pretty thing."

You grin, drunk and delighted, and turn your head just enough that your lips brush his cheek. Your voice is syrupy sweet, full of mischief, "Or what, baby?"

You hear the sharp breath he pulls through his nose, feel the twitch of his cock under your palm. His grip tightens, just slightly.

"You're—fuckin' shit. I'll show you what, trouble. Just wait until we get home."

And fuck, the way he says it? That low growl threading through his words, like he's barely holding himself together? It fucking thrills you.

You flash him a grin. A little smug. A little drunk. A little too confident for someone who's about to get their back blown out for being a menace. He doesn't smile back, just watches you like he's already picturing exactly how he's going to make you pay for it, and you know that look. But God, you're in for it.

Roy lets go of your wrist with a sharp sigh and leans back just slightly, like he needs to create some space between you and his rapidly dwindling self control. You flash him an exaggeratedly sweet smile, batting your lashes as you reach for your wine glass again because you are not done being a problem.

He watches you the whole time. Narrowed eyes, that tense set to his jaw. You drain what's left of your glass, clearly way too pleased with yourself, and then you spill, just a little. A drip of deep red wine slips from the corner of your mouth and rolls down your chin, slow and glossy, heading straight for the neckline of your already too revealing dress.

"Oh shit," you giggle, swiping at your chin with your knuckles, but you're a little too slow, a little too clumsy.

Roy's already there. He doesn't say anything, just lifts his hand and brushes his thumb over your skin, right below your lip. Gentle, controlled. It's nothing, really, just a wipe. A quick, efficient swipe to keep the wine from staining the expensive dress he definitely plans to peel off of you later.

But then? Oh, then you lean in and wrap your lips around his thumb. Just like that. Soft and sweet, like you're trying to make a fucking point. Your eyes locked on his, all glassy and innocent like you have no idea what you're doing, like you're just being polite. Except you're definitely not being polite.

Roy freezes. His whole body goes still. His eyes flick down to your mouth and he just stares for a second, like he can't quite believe you're doing this here. In public. After all his warnings, after all his threats.

You swirl your tongue a little, just to twist the knife, then you let his thumb go with a soft little pop and smile again, drunk, smug, and glowing with mischief.

He groans, quiet and low, like it's been ripped out of him, finishes his water and sits back so fast his chair creaks. One hand drags down his face, the other gestures sharply for the waiter.

"Check, please."

You let out a tiny hiccup of laughter, tipsy and proud of yourself as you press into his side, clinging to his arm like you haven't just been acting like a walking, purring little sex fantasy in the middle of this overpriced restaurant. He's solid under your hands—warm, tense, and radiating the kind of heat that promises hell once you're alone.

He's trying to pay the bill like a normal person, flipping his card out and adding the tip with the kind of tight, rushed motions that make it painfully obvious he's holding back from grabbing you and bending you over the damn table.

Meanwhile, you're a mess. A happy, drunk, soaked little mess. Your panties? Fucking ruined. You're so wet it's embarrassing, heat pulsing between your thighs with every little glance he throws your way, every clench of his jaw, every muttered curse under his breath as he signs the bill.

Truth be told, you've been like this since glass number two. He looked too good, smelled too good, kept putting his hand on your thigh, and your mind has been in the gutter ever since. You've been picturing everything: him tugging you into his lap, bending you over the hood of the car, manhandling you against the bedroom door with your dress shoved up around your waist. It's all just filth. Filth and more filth, and you haven't even touched him properly yet.

The second the waiter walks away, Roy turns to you, jaw clenched tight. "Car. Now."

Not a question. Not a request. You trip. Twice. Once on the sidewalk and again on the edge of the curb, but Roy's right there both times, steady hands catching your waist with practiced ease.

"Careful, pretty thing," he murmurs, voice still edged with heat but softened by the way you cling to him like your bones don't work anymore.

You giggle and melt into his side, nuzzling your cheek against his arm like some drunk, needy little cat. Your arms wrap around his bicep, your heels clacking as you lean all your weight into him, humming contentedly like you haven't just spent the last hour groping him under a white linen tablecloth.

And for a second, just one second, he forgets why he was annoyed with you. You're warm, tipsy, glowing from the wine and affection, and he's always had a soft spot for the way you get like this. Clingy. Cute. All curled into him like you belong there. Which you do.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head as he reaches for the car keys, fumbling slightly while you rock on your heels behind him. But the second he unlocks the car door, you make your next move. One arm snakes around his waist from behind. The other? Right back on his dick.

Your hand cups him through his slacks like you own him, like it's your damn toy to play with, rubbing slow little circles right over the tip until you feel him twitch, straining against the fabric all over again. And the worst part? You're still doing it with that innocent little hum in your throat like this is just your natural resting position.

He sighs. Half frustrated, half turned the fuck on, eyes closing for a second as his head drops forward.

"You're so lucky you're cute, trouble."

Then he turns and kisses your forehead—soft, gentle, the kind of kiss that makes you feel sweet and adored even as you make his life hell—before turning you around to the passenger side.

He helps you into the car with a guiding hand, like you're a drunk doll he has to babysit, and leans over to fasten your seatbelt for you. Except you don't make it easy.

Your arms wrap around his neck before he can pull away. Your lips are on his skin—soft, wet kisses along his jaw, your tongue teasing the shell of his ear as you squirm in your seat like you're possessed.

"Baaaby," you whine, licking at his throat, "want you."

He groans under his breath, the belt clicking into place with a snap just as his hand comes up to cup your cheek. He tilts your face up and kisses you, just once, hot and impatient.

"Just a bit more," he mutters against your lips. "We're almost home, yeah?"

You pout. Full, glossy lips pulling into the kind of expression that should be illegal with how wrecked you already look. Your cheeks are flushed, your thighs spread slightly, and when you grab his hand and guide it between your legs, he doesn't resist. Your panties are soaked.

He groans, this time louder, because fuck, he knew you were worked up. He could smell it on you the second you climbed into the car. But this? This is insane. You're soaked through the lace, sticky and hot and absolutely throbbing for him.

"But I want you now, baby," you murmur, hips grinding forward into his palm. "Look—feel how wet I am."

Yeah, he's feeling it, alright. His fingers press slow, lazy circles over the damp fabric like he wants to feel how far he can push you before you break. You gasp. Shudder. Your thighs twitch. But he just watches you with those smug green eyes like he's trying already a thousand miles ahead of you.

He pulls his hand away and smirks as your breath catches in protest, then he shuts the door without another word, rounding the car like nothing just happened.

You cling to his arm the second he slides into the driver's seat, like some pathetic little koala who can't bear to be more than two inches from his body. Your cheek rests against his bicep, lips pushed out in a ridiculous pout, and Roy just exhales slowly, one hand gripping the wheel as he starts the car.

If he's being honest, you'd be adorable if you weren't such a needy mess right now. Your hair is all mussed from leaning on him, your lipstick is half gone, smudged from kissing his jaw, and your pupils are blown wide, drunk on red wine and dirty thoughts. He can practically feel the heat rolling off you, warm and needy, like your whole body is just buzzing for him.

He doesn't say anything, just pulls out of the parking lot and heads for the familiar way home, trying to ignore the huff you let out when he doesn't immediately pull over and fuck you in the backseat like some goddamn animal.

He nearly laughs. Nearly. But he doesn't. Because he has no fucking idea what you'll try next if he pushes you even one inch further.

You're already bratting harder than he's ever seen, and the moment he lets his guard down, he knows you'll be leaning over the console with your dress hiked up to your hips and that sweet, filthy mouth wrapped around his dick like it's your goddamn job.

Five minutes into the drive, the rain starts, light at first. Just a soft drizzle against the windshield, but then it thickens, heavy drops splattering the glass in a steady rhythm.

He clicks the wipers on and groans under his breath. "Great. Half hour drive just turned into an hour."

You whine. Whine. Soft and pathetic like you're physically in pain over it. He doesn't even have to look at you to feel it—the pout, the crossed arms, the little dramatic wiggle of your thighs like you're trying to grind down on nothing.

"I can't wait that long, Roy," you moan. "I want you now."

He presses his lips together and stares at the road like it personally offended him.

"Jesus Christ, trouble," he mutters. "I'll fuck you once we're home. Just behave."

You huff. Loudly. Arms crossing over your chest like a brat with a wet pussy, and he knows you're doing that on purpose. Pressing your tits together, letting that little lace bra strain against your dress so he can see the outline through the fabric. Being a menace just to watch him suffer. And he is suffering.

Because truthfully? He hates saying no to you. From the very beginning, he's been a yes man when it comes to you. Yes to late night pancakes. Yes to you dragging him shopping. Yes to your sleepy kisses and your insatiable need for attention, even when he's halfway through a mission report and you're climbing into his lap in nothing but one of his shirts.

And yeah, maybe you're a little spoiled now. Maybe that's his fault, but he's never minded. Not really. Because you're his, and he loves giving you what you want.

But there are lines he won't cross. Not because he's some prude, but because fucking you means something. When he's got you under him, he wants to take his time. Wants to make you feel it, make you remember it.

He wants to fuck you dumb and then hold you after, letting you snuggle into his chest, all soft and fucked out and glowing. He wants to worship you. And he can't do that on a rainy stretch of road with your panties shoved to the side and the gearshift in the way. So yeah, no, he's not gonna fuck you on the drive home.

Or at least, that's what he thinks. Because you? Oh, you're not done. And this poor man's resolve? It's hanging by a fucking thread. He pulls up to a red light with a quiet sigh, his hand flexing around the wheel, and that's your cue, like fucking clockwork. You lean over the console again, all warm and shameless, cheek pressed to his arm, those wide, glossy eyes peeking up at him with the fakest innocence he's ever fucking seen. You blink at him real slow, lashes fluttering like you're sweet, like you're just cuddling him for warmth.

But your hand? Yeah, it's on his dick again. Of course it is.

You squeeze him gently through his slacks, fingers pressing into the thick, twitching length you've been teasing for the past two hours, and Roy hisses between his teeth. His hand drops to your thigh, gripping you hard enough to make you squirm, his fingers digging in just enough to sting.

"Baby. Stop that," he says, voice rough, but he doesn't push your hand away.

And you? You know exactly what that means. That quiet, desperate little hitch in his breath when you stroke him again? Yeah, you've got him. You've been dancing on the edge all night and now you've got one foot planted on the gas. So you lick your lips, just to be a menace, just to see that muscle tick in his jaw.

"C'mon, Roy," you murmur, lips brushing against his ear. "I'm so fucking wet. I need your dick, please."

He closes his eyes like he's trying to find inner peace while your hand is wrapped around his cock in public. He even pinches the bridge of his nose.

"We can't fuck here," he grits out. "We're in the middle of a red light."

"No," you say sweetly, stroking him again, "but we can fuck there."

You point. Supermarket parking lot. Mostly empty. A few empty vans scattered here and there, the kind of place no one's paying attention to anyone else. Discreet. Quiet. Perfect.

You see the flicker of temptation in his eyes, the way his fingers tense, the way he thinks about it, but then he shakes his head.

"I don't wanna fuck you in the car, pretty thing," he says softly, fingers rubbing small circles into your thigh like he's trying to soothe himself more than you.

And you scoff. "Why not? I literally want you to."

He opens his mouth, maybe to say it's about respect, or that he doesn't do this kind of thing, or that it's not romantic enough, but then you stroke his cock again, slow and steady, right over the hard line in his pants.

And just like that, he's fucking silent.

So you lean in closer, breath hot against his neck, and whisper, "I know you love fucking me at home. I get it. I love it too. But I can't wait that long, baby. My pussy is dripping all over your goddamn seat."

That's it. That's the final fucking straw. He doesn't say a word, just flicks the turn signal on and heads toward the parking lot.

You squeal, practically bouncing in your seat like a bratty little gremlin who just got her way, but if you knew what was coming? You wouldn't be smiling. Not like that. Because Roy Harper? He's done playing nice. You wanted this? You're gonna get it.

He pulls into the lot without a word, eyes dark, jaw tight, and swings the car right into the far corner, wedging it neatly between two parked vans. Out of sight, out of mind. The second he shifts into park, you can feel the shift in him. He unclicks his seatbelt with one hand, and the other?

Right under your chin, tilting your face to him—not aggressively, but just enough to make your breath hitch. Just enough that you feel the dominance radiating off him now that he's fully done pretending to be calm.

"You wanna be a little slut in my car?" he asks, voice low, rasped, like the words burn on his tongue.

And it stuns you because Roy has never talked to you like that. He teases, sure—calls you trouble, baby, pretty thing—but this? This is different.

Your eyes go wide, lips part, breath catches.

And your pussy? Oh, your pussy fucking pounds. Throbbing behind sticky lace, so wet it's a miracle he doesn't hear it when you shift in your seat.

Your mind is racing—did he really just say that?—but your body is already on board, already aching.

You gasp, soft and breathy, not in shock but in... something else. Something dark and hot and deep in your belly. And Roy—poor, sweet Roy—thinks for half a second that he's gone too far, that he fucked it up.

His brows twitch together, his mouth opens, and he stammers, "I—Shit, baby. I didn't mean—"

But you cut him off with a shaky murmur, soft and needy. "Y-yeah."

And he fucking freezes. Eyes searching your face like he didn't just hear that right, like maybe the rain is playing tricks on him.

"Yeah?" he echoes. Rougher, like gravel dragged across velvet.

His thumb brushes your lower lip. Just a gentle sweep, slow, like he's trying to test how far he can push. And you nod. A little too fast. A little too eager.

"Yeah," you breathe, slower this time, like your whole body is melting for him.

"Fine," he growls. "Then you're gonna take it like one, huh?"

You nod again, whimpering under your breath as heat floods your skin, and then he pounces. His lips crash against yours, greedy and hot and hungry, all teeth and tongue and desperation, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl in your heels.

And his other hand? Oh, his other hand slides between your legs, pushing that little dress up with no patience whatsoever until his fingers find your panties, lace clinging to your folds like a second skin.

He groans into your mouth the moment he feels it. "Fuck... you meant it, didn't you?” he rasps, lips brushing yours as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the sticky fabric. "This soaked for me? That wine didn't do shit. You've been a mess all night."

You moan—loud, shameless—grinding into his palm as your fingers clutch at his jacket, needy and twitching.

"Y-yeah, Roy... fuck—please, I need it..."

"Yeah," he growls, dragging the lace to the side just enough to feel the slick mess between your thighs. "You're gonna get it, trouble. Gonna fuck you just like the little slut you wanna be."

And he means it. Because you wanted the mouth, you asked for the edge, and Roy's about to make sure you feel it. You don't even get the chance to brace yourself,

because the moment your panties are tugged aside and he feels your pussy—hot, wet, dripping all over his fingers—Roy groans into your mouth like he's been holding it in for hours.

"God, baby... this pussy," he mutters against your lips, thumb sweeping over your clit again. "So fuckin' wet for me."

Your head falls forward against his shoulder as his thumb circles your clit, lazy but firm, and the heat builds fast. You clutch at his arm, nails digging in through his jacket, and he just chuckles under his breath because you're already starting to tremble and he hasn't even slipped a finger inside yet. Then his lips find yours again.

It's hot and messy, his tongue pushing past your lips with a moan that rumbles deep in his chest, one hand cradling your jaw while the other works between your thighs just like he's done this a thousand times. The kiss is desperate—teeth clashing, lips slick, gasps shared between hungry mouths—and your hips roll without permission, grinding against his hand like you need it to breathe.

Then he breaks the kiss, panting, eyes locked on your face as he finally pushes two fingers inside your needy cunt, and you shudder. You're whimpering, tight walls clenching around him as he groans again, dragging his fingers out slow before sliding back in just as deep, curling them the way he knows makes your back arch every time.

"There she is," he says low, thumb pressing against your clit again, just right. "That's what you needed, huh? Had to act like a brat all night just to get my fingers in your pussy."

You nod, barely able to breathe, much less form a sentence. Every stroke of his fingers hits perfect, and his thumb is working that swollen clit like a damn menace, tight circles that make your thighs twitch and your cunt clench.

"Gonna cum all over my fuckin' hand, aren't you? Make a mess all over the damn seat—shit, baby—listen to you."

And you do listen. You hear it, every slick drag of his fingers, every breathy whine tumbling from your mouth, every low groan he lets out when your pussy clenches tight.

"Tight little pussy's fuckin' chokin' my fingers," he groans. "You needed this bad, huh? Needed to be full. Needed to be used."

You're gasping, hands fisted in his jacket, thighs shaking, and he knows. He feels it. Your pussy is fluttering around his fingers, your clit pulsing under his thumb, and you're right on the edge, desperate and dripping and needing to fall.

"Go on, baby," he whispers, voice dark and sweet and so mean. "Be a good little slut and cum for me."

The rain is a steady drumbeat against the windshield, but all Roy can hear is you. Your gasps, your whines, the wet, obscene sounds of your greedy cunt sucking on his fingers like it's starving for more.

You're a mess in the passenger seat, hair falling in your face, dress bunched up at your waist, panties shoved to the side, legs spread and trembling as you fuck yourself on his fingers. And Roy? He can't stop staring. He's got two thick fingers buried inside you, knuckles deep and soaked to the damn wrist, and your pussy is clenching around them so tight he's half convinced it's trying to milk him dry.

"Fuckin' hell, baby," he mutters, brows furrowed as he curls his fingers and watches your hips twitch. "You're losing your damn mind, huh?"

And you are. Rocking into his hand like a bitch in heat, practically fucking yourself on his fingers with this broken, whiny rhythm that's got your thighs shaking and your voice high and needy. You're soaked, so wet he can hear every messy drag of his fingers inside you, and fuck if the slick heat around them doesn't make his cock throb painfully hard.

He hadn't expected you to love the filth, hadn't expected to see you like this. Hair wild, chest heaving, lips parted, drunk off his voice and his touch and the way he's talking to you like you're just some cockdrunk little toy in his car. But you are, and you're loving it.

"Look at you," he grits out, thumb circling your clit faster. "Fuckin' your needy little pussy on my fingers. Didn't think I'd ever call you a slut, but shit, baby."

And you do, you feel it. The way you're riding his hand, soaking his palm, whimpering every time he crooks his fingers just right and sends sparks up your spine. You're gasping, bucking, completely out of control, mouth falling open in a silent moan.

Roy's watching it all with wide eyes, heart pounding, like he's seeing a whole new side of you unfold right in front of him and fuck if it's not the hottest thing he's ever seen.

You're so close. Clit throbbing under his thumb, walls fluttering around his fingers, hips stuttering against his palm as the pressure builds fast, hot and tight and relentless. Your hands scramble over his jacket, desperate for something to hold onto, and he knows.

"You gonna cum for me, pretty thing?" he says, voice low and dark and way too soft for how mean he's being. "Go on. Fuckin' cum, baby. I wanna feel it."

And just like that, you snap. You cry out, thighs clamping around his wrist as you cum hard, cunt pulsing around his fingers with wet, messy spasms that make you tremble from head to toe. Your voice breaks, breath hitching in your throat, and you shake through it, hips rocking helplessly as the orgasm crashes through you like a wave.

Roy doesn't stop, not for a second. His fingers fuck you through every aftershock, curling deep while his thumb teases your throbbing clit until you're gasping, twitching, nearly sobbing from how intense it is. And when your arms give out and you slump against him, you drag shaky fingers into his hair, tugging him down into another kiss.

It's desperate, sloppy. Your lips on his, open and hungry, your tongue pushing past his lips with this filthy little moan as you suck on it, wet and messy and perfect. He groans and you just melt into him, grinding against his hand even though you're still pulsing, still riding the high.

Your body is still twitching, still shaking from the orgasm he just pulled out of you, but his fingers are still inside you, slick and slow, curling deep as his thumb comes right back to your swollen, throbbing clit, barely giving you a second to breathe before he starts rubbing you again.

"R-Roy—baby, no..." you gasp, your voice all broken and whiny, fingers gripping at his jacket like you don't know whether to push him away or drag him closer.

But your hips? Still rolling into his hand. Still grinding that desperate little cunt against his palm like your body doesn't give a shit what your mouth is saying. And Roy fucking notices, of course.

"No?" he echoes, voice low and hot against your lips as he kisses you again—messy, tongue and teeth and breathy little groans. "Thought you were gonna take it, brat."

Then he pinches your clit. Just a little. Just enough to make your thighs jump and your pussy clench tight around his fingers, your mouth falling open in a breathless gasp as you whimper right into the kiss.

"Oh fuck—Roy—"

"What was that?" he teases, pulling back just a little, eyes locked on your face. "You want somethin'?"

You nod quickly, still panting, still grinding on his soaked fingers like a goddamn animal.

"Want—need your dick," you murmur, eyes glassy and lips puffy as you look up at him all flushed and needy. "Please, baby."

And Roy? Smirks. Because fuck, you're so hot like this. A trembling little mess in his car, soaked, pussy still fluttering around his fingers from how hard you came, and begging for his dick.

"Yeah?" he mutters, finally easing off your clit, sliding his fingers from your cunt with this slick little pop. "Say please again, slut."

You whine, eyes fluttering, cheeks hot, and say it again. "Please..."

His cock jumps, and when he brings those wet, shiny fingers up to your mouth, you don't even hesitate. You open up instantly, tongue out, eyes locked on his like you're ready to worship every inch of him.

So he slides them in slow, two fingers pressing down on your tongue, smearing your own slick all over it and you moan as you close your lips around them and suck like he's feeding you the last drop of water on earth.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes, watching you work. "You're really my little slut, huh? Lickin' your own pussy off my fingers like you need it."

And you do. You're messy about it too, sucking hard, tongue swirling, eyes fluttering half closed as you moan around his fingers like it's his dick in your mouth, and Roy's watching the whole thing like he's about to lose his mind.

His cock? So fucking hard. Throbbing. His slacks are soaked through with precum at this point, leaking so much it's uncomfortable, and all he can think about now is shoving his dick into that hot, dripping pussy and fucking you until you cry.

"You keep suckin' like that," he mutters, voice rough as his eyes drop to your mouth, "I'm gonna cum before I even get inside you."

But you're not stopping. You're moaning around his fingers, eyes begging for more, pussy still fluttering between your legs like it knows what's coming next.

You let his fingers slip from your mouth with a slick, obscene little pop, your lips shiny with spit and your eyes all hazy as you blink up at him, dazed but so fucking hungry for more. And then you're kissing him again.

Fast, needy, nothing soft or slow about it. Just tongue and teeth and the sweetest, filthiest little moans pouring out of your mouth every time he presses deeper, every time his lips bruise yours with how badly he wants you.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging him closer like you're trying to climb into his lap without even moving. His hands? Everywhere. One sliding over your waist, the other tugging at the neckline of your dress—ruthless, honestly. He doesn't even try to be subtle about it, just yanks the straps of your dress and bra down with one rough pull until your tits bounce free into his palms.

"Fuck—look at you," he groans against your mouth, pulling back just enough to glance down at the way your chest rises and falls, nipples tight from the cold and the heat of his stare. "You know how crazy you make me?"

You just whimper, nodding as his thumbs brush over your nipples, slow circles at first, barely enough to relieve the ache, just enough to tease. He pinches them, rolls them between his fingers, making you squirm in your seat, moaning softly against his lips when he leans in and kisses you again, slower, more deliberate. Deep and messy, the kind of kiss that makes your thighs rub together.

But he's not the only one who can tease.

One of your hands slides down between you, right over the firm line of his abs, and you palm his cock through his pants, gently at first. But when he moans into your mouth, you moan right back, rolling your palm against the swollen head where it's leaking like crazy, your fingers dragging along the wet patch at the front of his slacks.

"Shit—" Roy hisses, breaking the kiss as he bites down a groan, his hands tightening on your waist. "You're still playin' with fire, baby."

And maybe you are, but you love the way he sounds when you touch him like this. The way his hips twitch under your hand, the way his jaw clenches as he fights the urge to just unzip and pull his dick out right now. You rub him slow, squeezing a little tighter this time, teasing your fingertips along his shaft until his breath gets heavy again.

He lets you fumble with his zipper, lets you pop that button open with your teeth grazing his throat like a goddamn tease—because you are one. A bratty little minx with your tits out and your hand already sliding inside his slacks, greedy and trembling like you've waited all night for this. And okay, maybe you have.

You kiss down the side of his neck, open mouthed and wet, your tongue trailing along the sharp line of his jaw as you suck little bruises into his skin. Messy, possessive, your lipstick long gone, smeared half across his throat, but he doesn't care. You've got your hand wrapped around his cock, so yeah, he definitely doesn't care.

"Shit," he groans when you finally free him, his dick slapping against his stomach, already flushed and dripping with precum. "You're really doin' this, huh?"

You hum into his neck, lips curled into a smirk as your thumb swirls around the head of his cock. Slick and warm, your strokes slow and teasing as you drag your palm down the shaft, coating it in precum. It's so wet already, obscene little squelches filling the space between you every time you pump him, and you can feel him twitch in your hand.

So you lean in and whisper, "Mhmm... been hard all night, haven't you, baby?"

Your voice is soft, breathless, teasing. And that smug little giggle you let out when his hips buck? Yeah, that's what breaks him.

In one fluid, impatient as fuck motion, he grunts and shoves his chair all the way back with a loud thunk, unbuckles your seatbelt with one hand, and then grabs you.

"Alright, that's enough," he mutters, voice thick with heat, his hands gripping your waist like you weigh nothing.

You barely even squeal, too giddy and gone to process it, because he's already lifting you, strong arms hauling you right over the center console, and then you're in his lap, straddling him. Tits out, dress bunched up around your hips, Roy's dick hot and leaking between your bodies and he's looking at you like he's about to ruin you. Because he is.

You're flushed, wide eyed and breathless, your soaked panties barely clinging to you, and he mutters, "Wanna act like a slut?"

His hands are on your ass, pulling you down so his cock sits hot and heavy against your dripping pussy. "Then ride me like one."

He doesn't push in yet. Instead, he grabs a handful of your ass and grinds up against you, the thick head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds like he's just rubbing it in how wet you are for him. And God, are you wet. You're soaked, slick dripping down onto him in sticky little strings that smear across his length with every slow roll of his hips.

"Fuck," he groans, head tilted back, jaw tight. Then, with a cocky little smirk, "What's the matter, baby? Gettin' shy on me now?"

Your breath stutters, your lashes flutter, and you shake your head quickly, cheeks warm and thighs trembling, but still full of it, still gasping when he ruts up again, cock sliding right along your swollen clit and leaving both of you groaning at the contact.

"No?" he huffs, one eyebrow raised as he slaps your ass, not too hard, just enough to make it jiggle, to make you gasp and clench around nothing. "Then ride me. Thought you wanted my dick, pretty thing."

"I— I do," you whimper, voice breathy, needy, and your shaky hand reaches between your bodies, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock as you lift your hips a little.

You guide him to your entrance, your slick making everything glide just a little too easily, and then you sink down on him.

Slowly. God, so fucking slowly because he's thick and you're tight and everything inside you is stretching to make room. And it burns a little, just the way you like. That sweet, full pressure as he splits you open inch by inch, your head tipping back and mouth dropping open as your pussy swallows him.

"F-fuck, Roy..." you gasp, walls fluttering around him as your knees wobble, thighs spread wide over his lap.

And Roy? He groans like he's about to die.

His head drops back against the headrest with a dull thunk, eyes fluttering shut, fists clenching on your hips as he feels you slide all the way down, your slick walls squeezing around him like velvet.

It never gets old. No matter how many times he's fucked you, no matter how many positions, how many rooms, how many nights you've begged him to fill you up—this feeling, that first stretch, that slow, tight slide into your perfect little pussy, it always makes his head spin.

And you? You're trembling, gasping, bottomed out and still clinging to his shoulders like you might float away without him. Your walls are fluttering around him, greedy and wet and so fucking hot, and you blink at him like you're already cock drunk.

"Thaaat's it," he groans, hands gripping your ass again, "Take it all, baby. Just like that."

You start slow. Just a little grind of your hips, testing the stretch, the depth, just how far down his cock is nestled inside your soaked pussy. And he moans, this deep, wrecked sound that vibrates straight through your chest, hands gripping your hips like he's trying not to lose it already.

"Yeah, baby," he huffs, voice tight. "Just like that. Fuckin' ride me."

And you do. God, you do. Because that grind? It turns into a bounce real quick—the first one slow, controlled, but the moment you drop back down and feel him hit that spot, the one that makes your toes curl and your breath catch?

You moan. No, it's not even a moan, you actually make this broken sound you didn't even know you could make, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you fuck yourself on his dick like a goddamn woman possessed. Fast. Hard. Deep.

Your thighs are already trembling but you don't stop, your pussy squelching as you take him over and over, his dick punching into you with a rhythm that sends shockwaves up your spine. You're whining, gasping, clenching around him, absolutely gone already.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmurs, one hand shooting up to tangle in your hair and yank you down into a kiss that's not really a kiss—more tongues, more teeth, more desperation than anything else. "So fuckin' dick drunk you can't even kiss me right."

And well... he's not wrong. You're whimpering against his lips, licking into his mouth, moaning every time his cock drives up into you like he's trying to knock the thoughts out of your head. And his other hand? Oh, it doesn't rest. He's spanking you, sharp little slaps to your ass that make you squeal and squeeze down on his dick.

"Such a filthy little thing," he mutters, lips against your jaw, breath hot. "All that fuckin' attitude earlier, just to end up in my lap like this. Humpin' my dick like a needy slut."

You moan louder, and he laughs, half out of breath, because you squeeze him again like your pussy loves being talked to like that.

Outside, the rain hasn't stopped. It pounds the windshield, mixes with the sound of your dripping pussy bouncing on his cock, the smack of skin on skin, the windows completely fogged up. A little bubble of heat and filth, the car rocking ever so slightly with each thrust of your hips.

"Gonna make a mess all over my fuckin' seat," he groans, gripping your ass again as he thrusts up into you, making you cry out. "That what you wanted, baby? Wanted me to fuck you stupid right here?"

You nod frantically, too far gone for words, your hips snapping down over and over because your orgasm is already building again, and you're shaking with it, full of it, needing it.

"F-fuck," you whimper, pussy working over his cock like you need him in every inch of you. "B-baby..."

And Roy? He's losing it. Because you take him again—all of him—pretty little cunt swallowing him whole with this hot, messy squelch, and your tits are bouncing right in his face. You're a fucking vision. Eyes glazed, lips parted, sweet little gasps spilling out of your mouth like your brain is not even connected to it anymore.

"Fuckin' hell," he groans, hands sliding up your ribs to cup your tits. "Look at you, baby. You're fuckin' unreal."

He leans forward and licks a slow stripe across one of your nipples, just the tip of his tongue at first, teasing, flicking, watching it pebble up from the chill in the air and the heat of his mouth. You moan, loud and breathy, and he fucking smirks against your skin.

"These pretty tits," he mutters, licking again, circling your nipple until you squirm. "Drive me fuckin' crazy."

And then he's sucking it into his mouth. Lips sealing around your nipple as his tongue swirls, then sucks harder, then bites, just a little, just enough to make your pussy clench around his cock and your nails drag down his chest.

"R-Roy—" you choke out, hips still working, still grinding, still fucking soaked on his dick. He can feel the slick dripping down, can feel your mess soaking his slacks, coating his lap like you've got no shame. Truth be told, right now, you don't.

He switches to the other nipple, wet mouth kissing down the curve of your breast, sucking the soft flesh before he takes the other into his mouth, greedy. Licking, sucking, groaning against you while you ride him faster, chasing your high like your life depends on it.

"You fuckin' love it, huh?" he pants against your skin, flicking your nipple with his tongue before sucking it back into his mouth. "So dick drunk you don't even care how messy you are. Just wanna use me, huh?"

You moan, loud and helpless because he's right, and he knows it. Your hips start to stutter, legs trembling again, your pussy tightening, fluttering around his cock as the mess gets wetter, thicker, louder.

"Shit, baby," he groans, pulling off your breast with a pop, mouth shiny, chin wet. "You gonna cum again for me?"

Every bounce, every needy grind, your clit drags across his skin—bare, swollen, soaked and throbbing with every push down. Roy's dick hits deep, stretching you so good it punches these desperate little sounds right out of you, gaspy and high pitched like you can't even help it anymore.

"Jesus," he pants, watching the way you lose yourself on top of him. "Look at that sweet pussy takin' me. You're fuckin' soaked."

And he's not lying. Slick's everywhere—on his cock, his thighs, his lap. Every bounce makes a sound, obscene and hot, like you're making a mess on purpose.

You ride him harder, sloppier, wetter, grinding your clit down with every drop of your hips until your whole body starts trembling.

"Oh f-fuck," you whimper, thighs twitching, pace stuttering. "I'm— Roy—I'm gonna—"

You freeze when it hits. Body going taut, legs shaking, arms wrapped around his shoulders as your pussy squeezes his cock so tight it's fucking criminal. You're buried on him to the hilt, not moving, just trembling and whining against his mouth like you can't even breathe through it.

"Shit," Roy hisses, barely keeping it together as he feels you pulse and flutter around him. "Jesus, baby—fuck—"

And then you crash into him, mouth hot and messy on his, moaning as your orgasm wrings you out. Your hips twitch helplessly in his lap, clit rubbing against his skin, and your mouth? Sloppy. Tongue in his mouth, licking over his, gasping for air through the kiss like you can't bear to be even a breath away from him. He groans into your mouth, hands on your hips as you twitch and pulse and soak him all over again.

You keep kissing, hungry and breathless and messy, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, your lips slick with spit and moans. He pants against your mouth, and you breathe into his, like the two of you forgot how to survive without the other's air.

Your chest brushes his with every pant, sweat blooming between your skin and his shirt, and you don't even notice the way your hips move, grinding just a little, clit dragging against his skin again like you can't stop even if you tried. Sensitive? Sure. But greedy? Oh, that's the problem.

Roy feels it. That soft, subtle grind, that soaked little pussy rubbing all over him again. And something in him just snaps.

"Can't get enough, huh?" he mutters against your mouth, hands sliding down to grab your ass, rough and greedy. "You just got off and you're still grindin' on my dick like a little slut."

You gasp, cunt clenching on him so tight his eyes nearly roll back.

"That what you are, pretty thing?" he murmurs, voice low as he squeezes your ass. "Just my dick starved little thing?"

And then he starts to fuck you. Not slow. Not soft. Just hips slamming up into yours, rocking the damn car, his thick cock sliding deep—every inch—and pulling back soaked with your cum. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body jolting with every sharp thrust as he fills you over and over.

"That's it," he groans, hips slapping up into your soaked cunt, watching your tits bounce and your mouth hang open. "Take it. You wanted it, fuckin' take it."

And you do. Your pussy is so messy, all slick and stretched around him, every thrust pushing slick out around the base of his cock. God, the stretch, the thickness, the drag of every vein as he sinks back in, bottoming out with this deep, filthy slap that knocks another sound out of you.

The car rocks, the windows fog, and the rain is just background noise because the only thing that matters is his dick, splitting you open over and over while you moan for more.

His hips drive up hard, sharp, and mean, each thrust punching his cock right into that sweet, aching spot inside you. That thick stretch knocks your breath loose every single time, and the way he's fucking into you? It's filthy. Slick sounds fill the car, obscene and constant, every deep stroke bullying your poor pussy until you're just a mess of gasps and whining.

Your thighs tremble around his hips, your pussy swallowing his dick like it's starving, and he watches the way you start to fall apart—body rocking, tits bouncing, mouth hanging open as you pant and stutter like you can't form full words anymore.

“Fuckin' look at you,” he groans, one hand gripping your ass before slapping it again, sharp enough to make your pussy clench tight. "Riding me like my little slut. That it, baby? That what you are now?"

And you whimper, full body shudder as you nod, moaning yesyesyes, voice barely holding together.

"Y-Yeah, baby, yes, more—more, please—fuck, don't stop—"

He nearly loses it right there. Because never in his wildest dreams did he think this would be you, so needy and soaked and wild on his cock, moaning as he called you a slut in his car while the rain pounded against the windows. That sweet girl who's smiling at him in the mornings and kiss the bridge of his nose before pulling on lip gloss?

Now she's writhing in his lap, fucked dumb and gasping for more, bouncing on his cock in a supermarket parking lot while the car rocks like a damn metronome to the rhythm of his thrusts.

It's fucked. He knows it. It's insane and filthy and wrong in all the right ways, but God, you're clenching so tight around him, so warm and wet and messy, and you keep moaning like you're addicted to it, like you need it deeper, harder, more.

Your pussy is dripping—hot, tight, squeezing him like it's the only thing you were made to do. Every stroke drags against your swollen walls just right, all thick and slick and deep, and you can't even think anymore. Your brain is fucking gone, wiped clean by the way his dick hits all those spots that make your knees weak and your spine curl.

You're not riding sweet Roy right now. You're taking dick from feral Roy—sweaty, possessive, handsy, swearing under his breath as he slaps your ass again and watches you bounce on his cock like you're in heat.

And the worst part? You love this man so fucking much it hurts. Your thoughts are a blur, just God he's so deep, fuck I love him, his dick is so fucking good I'm gonna cry, and then nothing. Just heat and slick and the way his cock stretches your pussy like it always does, makes you feel full and owned and completely wrecked.

"Gonna fuckin'—fuck, baby, shit—"

Roy's hips stutter, driving up into you with all the control of a man hanging by a thread. His hands squeeze your ass tight, keeping you still as he thrusts, messy and erratic, deep enough that your pussy flutters from the inside out, that squelching noise rising as your slick runs down his cock and drips onto his pants.

His moans are rough and loud, desperate little groans right in your ear as his cock twitches inside you, and then he cums.

Hot and thick and so much, flooding your pussy like his body couldn't hold it back another second. You feel every pulse of it coat your insides, feel how his dick throbs deep inside you—tight, twitchy little spasms that spill another rope, then another. It's fucking endless.

He groans, hips pressing deeper like he's trying to keep every drop in you, like he needs to. You swear you can feel it drip around his cock, warm and slick, pushed out by the sheer amount he's giving you, and that's it, that's fucking it. You cum the second his load hits your walls.

Your body arches, tight and trembling, nails dragging down his shoulders as you gasp out his name, again and again, a broken little chant. Every pulse of your cunt feels like it's gripping him tighter, like your body is desperate to wring out every last drop of his cum.

You're shaking, legs trembling uncontrollably, heat blooming low in your belly and spreading until you feel flushed all over. It doesn't stop, not right away. Pleasure keeps rolling through you in waves, drawn out and overwhelming, like your body is trying to keep up with how deep he is, how full he's made you.

You're both a mess. Panting, gasping, sweating through your clothes. The car is fogged up like a freaking sauna, windows hazy, rain still falling in sheets around you, but neither of you care. The air is hot and sticky, your skin damp, your dress wrinkled and tits still out, and Roy's got his forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed while he's catching his breath.

His cock is still twitching, still leaking cum, still hard. You bounce on his dick lazily, little rolls of your hips, grinding more than riding, just letting him stay buried inside while you chase every last twitch of pleasure. Your cunt flutters around him with every slow grind, and Roy groans, voice wrecked and full of praise.

"That's it, baby," he pants, his hands gripping your hips. "Look at you... fuckin' takin' me like that. You're perfect, you know that?"

You moan softly, so wrung out, your skin flushed and sticky with sweat. And when the last few waves pass, when your pussy stops fluttering and you can breathe again, you lean in and kiss him. Messy. Desperate. Sweet.

It's all tongues and gasps, moaning into each other's mouth as you lick into him with the last bit of energy you have. His lips are wet and swollen, his tongue lazy against yours, but he kisses you back like he means it, like he wants to crawl inside your skin and stay there. The kiss slows down into something soft, your moans turning into little whimpers between parted lips, your fingers sliding into his hair just to hold him close.

And when you finally pull back, you're both breathing hard, your forehead pressed against his, dizzy and soaked and completely fucked out.

Roy brushes his nose against yours, thumb rubbing circles into your thigh as he murmurs, "You good, pretty thing?"

You nod, lips still parted, your whole body limp and heavy as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, making a little noise that's halfway between a hum and a whimper. He wraps his arms around you without thinking, protective and soft. He kisses the top of your damp head, your sweaty temple, the curve of your neck, slow and adoring, voice low.

"My sweet girl... you wore yourself out, huh?"

You melt against him, letting your eyes flutter shut as he rubs your sore ass in slow, soothing circles, then traces lazy shapes up your spine. Another kiss lands on your shoulder, then your jaw, and you shiver even though the car is hot, fogged up windows and all.

"Still with me?" he whispers, lips brushing your ear.

You nod again—barely—and he smiles against your skin. You stay just like that for a while, the mess between your thighs sticky and warm, but you don't care. You never do. Not when it's him. Not when it's Roy.

Because he holds you so gently even after fucking your brains out like you're fragile, precious, something to be protected. His hands stroke your back in slow, easy passes. His mouth presses kisses wherever he can reach—your shoulder, your jaw, the top of your head. And he lets you melt into him, all boneless and spent, because the weight of you in his arms is one of his favorite things in the world.

It takes a few minutes before you stir, lifting your head with that familiar sleepy pout on your face, lashes clumped with mascara, lipstick long gone. Your makeup is a mess, your hair is worse, but your fingers toy with the collar of his shirt while your lower lip juts out just enough to make him chuckle.

He cups your cheek, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone before kissing your forehead with a little grin.

"Ready to go home, trouble?"

You whine like the spoiled little thing you are, nose scrunching as you murmur, "M'tired... and I want waffles."

That makes him laugh. A soft, low sound that rumbles against your chest. "Do you now?" he teases, brushing some damp strands of hair away from your face.

You nod again, eyes big and heavy lidded, your pout not going anywhere.

"Alright," he says, so soft it nearly breaks your heart, "I'll make you some, yeah?"

Your face lights up, even though your body is still limp with exhaustion, and you reach up to cup his face with both hands. You're smiling, giddy and still a little drunk, and you brush your nose against his before whispering, "I love you."

Then it's kisskisskiss—sweet little pecks on his lips, one after the other, until he's laughing again, all breathless and warm and completely in love with you.

You both chuckle, noses bumping, breath mingling, arms still wrapped around each other in a fogged up car in the middle of a random ass parking lot. Two idiots. Hopeless. Ridiculous. A mess. But two idiots in love.

And yeah, he's just as whipped, because his hand cradles the back of your head and he leans in again, brushing his lips over yours with one more whisper, low and amused, "I love you too, you needy ass gremlin."

You sigh happily, like he just read you a bedtime story and he laughs under his breath, kissing your nose before you finally shift on his lap.

And that's when he slides his hands down to help you up, slow and careful, both of you hissing a little when his cock slips out of your pussy. His cum follows in a slow, sticky drip down your thighs, still so warm it makes you shiver.

"Jesus," Roy mutters, half under his breath, watching it leak out of you like he didn't just put it there. "Fucked you full, huh."

You're too dazed to answer, whimpering just a little when he reaches across to pop the glovebox open, fishing out the pack of wipes he keeps for very specific reasons.

He's gentle with you. Always is. Even when he's smirking. Even when he's cocky. He cleans between your legs first, his fingers brushing against your clit on purpose—the bastard—and you twitch, letting out the softest whimper as your hips buck away from the touch.

"Still sensitive, huh?" he teases, not even trying to hide his grin as he slips your panties back up, making sure they sit snug over your still aching pussy. "Told you not to be a greedy little slut."

You don't even have the strength to sass him back, you just make a tired little noise, halfway between a moan and a sigh, as he helps tug your dress back into place.

But of course he doesn't just leave it at that. No, he's got your dress halfway up again in two seconds flat, thumbing at your nipples and watching you squirm.

"Just checkin' they're still cute," he says, voice all low and smug.

You glare at him. Weakly. When he's finally satisfied with his torment, he kisses your forehead and lifts you with ease, setting you back in the passenger seat. One hand cups the back of your neck, the other pulls your seatbelt across your chest and clicks it in, all gentle and careful and warm, and the domesticity of it nearly makes you fucking melt.

You blink sleepily at him, lips parted, and mumble something that sounds like thank you, but it's mostly just a soft little noise.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, kissing your temple as he goes back to cleaning himself up. "Try not to pass out before I drive."

He wipes himself down with another swipe from the glovebox stash, tucks himself back in, adjusts his slacks, and sighs like he just climbed a damn mountain. Then he reclines the seat back to normal and starts the car, glancing over just in time to see you let out a massive yawn and snuggle your cheek right into his bicep.

You're out cold five minutes into the drive.

Not that he minds. You drool a little on his sleeve—nothing new—but he doesn't say a word. He just glances at you every now and then with that stupid little smirk, his heart full and his shirt soaked. You grunt a few times in your sleep, twitching every time the car bumps over a pothole, but still, he doesn't wake you until the car pulls into the driveway. You blink awake all confused and pouty, trying to figure out where the hell you are.

"C'mon, baby," he says softly, reaching over to brush your cheek, "we're home."

You grunt like a cave gremlin. He grins like an idiot. It's still raining—hard—and Roy frowns at the windshield for a beat before reaching for his coat and stretching it over to you. Not to hand it over. No, he wraps it over your head and shoulders himself like you're some delicate little loaf that needs to be kept warm.

"There," he says, adjusting the collar so it sits around your face like a hood. "Perfect. You look like a pissed off burrito."

You give him the most unimpressed look you can muster under about twenty pounds of coat, lips pursed and cheeks flushed pink, one side all wrinkled from how you passed out on his arm. Your hair is flattened and your face is sleep mussed and pouty, and you're still so warm and dazed from earlier you can't even bite back a tiny whimper when he opens the door.

"Don't start," he warns, snorting. "I haven't even picked you up yet."

He darts out first into the downpour, and by the time he opens your door, you're already groaning dramatically. But he grins, fully entertained by your little complaints and leans in to scoop you up in one fluid motion.

"You're so dramatic," he mutters, tucking you tighter under the coat as he kicks the door shut and locks it one handed.

"Don't be mean, 'm cold," you mumble into his neck.

"No shit, it's raining," he says, jogging up the porch steps with you in his arms. "Who told you to go full noodle mode?"

The coat flaps around you like a makeshift tent as he crosses the porch and finally gets you under the cover of the awning, rain dripping off the edges. You nuzzle closer, whining into his shoulder while he unlocks the front door, one arm still solid around you.

Once you're inside, you shiver, clinging to him as he shuts the door behind you and shakes his hair out like a damn dog.

"Okay, down you go," he murmurs, easing you back onto your feet.

You sway a little, legs wobbly, feet unsteady, and he steadies you with both hands, watching you blink like a sleepy, pouty baby deer.

"Tired little thing," he says, already pulling his coat off your shoulders.

He lets it drop somewhere near the door and crouches in front of you, his hands already reaching for the straps of your heels. He slips one off carefully, then the other, thumbs pressing into your arches in soft, lazy circles. You hum, low and happy in your throat, leaning against the wall like you might melt into it.

"Good?" he asks, glancing up, thumbs still rubbing.

"Mhmm."

That's all he gets, just a noise. But your eyes flutter like you might pass out standing up, and that's enough for him to finish what he's doing, kick his own shoes off, and hook his arms under your thighs and back to lift you up again.

"Alright," he says, kissing your damp hair, "time to rinse off the car sex."

He carries you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing, strong arms holding you close while your cheek stays squished against his chest. The second the light flicks on, your face scrunches, a sleepy little glare aimed toward the overhead bulb.

"Yeah, yeah," Roy murmurs, already grinning, "I know. Too bright for your sleepy eyes."

He sets you down on the counter gently, his big hands guiding your ass to the cool marble as you pout. But you don't complain, just sit there all soft and quiet, blinking slow like you might actually doze off upright. Your thighs part a little, enough to keep him standing between them while he leans over to twist the shower knobs.

Steam starts to rise almost immediately, warmth curling in the air while the sound of the water fills the room.

He turns back around to find you half slumped against the mirror, your eyes glassy, makeup smudged in the corners. You look so sleepy and thoroughly used, hair all messy, your mouth parted in a tiny, exhausted sigh and he still thinks you're the prettiest thing he's ever fucking seen.

"C'mon," he murmurs, fingers slipping under your straps, "let's get this off, yeah?"

You hum. Barely. He tugs your dress down gently, letting it fall in soft fabric puddles around your waist before sliding it off you completely. Then your bra, your panties, and he doesn't even sneak a grope in, just kisses the top of your knee as he tugs the last bit of lace away.

You're quiet as he undresses, only swaying a little as he guides you off the counter and into the hot spray. The second it hits you, you shiver a little, but Roy's there, stepping in behind you, arms already coming around your waist.

"That's it, baby," he whispers, swaying you both gently under the stream, "good girl."

He washes you slow, reverent. No teasing, just warm, soapy hands smoothing over your hips, your belly, your back. You let him move you like a doll, grumbling sleepy nonsense every now and then, but melting into his touch all the same.

He whispers soft praise against your temple the whole time—"so fuckin' sweet" and "love you like this, all calm" and "my good girl"—and every time, your sleepy face scrunches like you're trying not to smile.

The water is hot and soothing, and you melt into his chest, letting him do everything. He washes your hair so gently, fingers threading through wet strands, whispering more little praises into your scalp while you hum, barely clinging to consciousness.

When he finally gets you out, he wraps you up like a little burrito again—clean and warm this time—and guides you back onto the counter. You're blinking up at him, cheeks puffed out, mouth slightly open like you might whine. But instead, you just tip your face up when he reaches for the makeup remover.

"There she is," he whispers, so gently it nearly undoes you. "Let's get that raccoon shit off, yeah?"

He takes his time, thorough but soft, wiping the mess of mascara, lipstick, and smudges from your cheeks, your nose, under your eyes. Every few seconds, he pauses to press a kiss to some part of your face: your temple, the corner of your mouth, the space between your brows. You don't even have the energy to joke about it. You just let him. So much of you always lets him.

And you sigh. Happy. Soft. After he helps you into fresh panties, fuzzy socks and one of his softest shirts, he tugs his boxers on, runs a towel through his damp hair, and bends to kiss your freshly cleaned cheek.

"Still up for waffles, baby?"

You nod, already wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your face to his chest.

"Alright," he chuckles, "let's go."

He laces your fingers with his and leads you downstairs, your socked feet silent on the hardwood as he guides you into the kitchen. He lifts you effortlessly onto the counter, the cold surface making you squeak a little and squirm before settling, legs swaying softly, eyes brighter.

Roy starts moving around like he's done this a thousand times—and he has. Grabbing the mix, flicking the stove on, pulling out the chocolate chips without asking because of course he remembers. Your chin rests in your palm as you watch him, something warm and fuzzy swelling in your chest.

There he is. Your man. Tattoos shifting with every movement of his arms, back muscles flexing under the shirt he tugged on last minute, that red hair still a little damp and messy from the shower. And he's humming lazily while he stirs the batter, acting like this is just another Saturday night instead of the aftermath of fucking you breathless in the car.

And every time he passes you, he presses a kiss somewhere on you. Your forehead. Your nose. The apple of your cheek. One after the other, like he has to, like he can't not. And each one makes you smile a little harder, shoulders looser, like your whole body is humming with the quiet joy of being known. Of being loved like this—completely, instinctively, without needing to ask for any of it.

The waffles come out golden and warm, all soft in the middle and crispy on the edges, with the chocolate chips just starting to melt and go gooey. Roy plates them like he always does, on your favorite stupid little pink plate with the chipped corner and the faded pattern because he knows that's the one you want, even if you'd never say it out loud.

He grabs two iced teas from the fridge, the good kind, the kind you hoard when he gets them on sale. No asking. No checking. Just knows. He pops the caps, places them gently next to the plate like he's building a shrine to your late night post sex hunger, then turns back to you with a little smile.

Still perched on the counter like the spoiled gremlin you are, you blink up at him when he steps close again, settling between your legs. One hand rests on your thigh, the other cradles your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, and then he leans in and kisses you.

Soft and lazy, the kind of kiss that doesn't rush. Tongues licking slow into each other's mouth, lips parting wider, deeper. His nose brushes yours, his palm spreads over your cheek, your hand slips up into his hair, and neither of you moves for minutes. Just lips against lips, tongues sliding, shared breaths and soft sounds of contentment. The kind of kiss that feels like a love letter written with mouths instead of ink.

But then, your stomach rips through the moment like a fucking chainsaw in a chapel. The noise echoes around the kitchen like it's got surround sound.

Roy pulls back, blinking, and then he laughs. Soft and warm and stupidly fond as he rests his forehead against yours.

"C'mon, let's feed you before you turn into a little monster," he murmurs, kissing the tip of your nose, smiling against it when you scrunch it at him.

Before you can say anything, he's already lifting you up again, strong arms under your thighs and back, carrying you like he always does when you're too sleepy or too bratty or too full of love to walk. You wrap your arms around his neck, nuzzling into the crook of it, inhaling the clean, still warm scent of him from the shower.

He carries you to the couch, lowers you gently and grabs that stupid, soft ass blanket you love—the fuzzy one that smells like home and clings to you like Velcro—and wraps it around your shoulders like a cape.

"Be right back, trouble," he says with a wink, brushing his hand over your cheek before heading back into the kitchen.

And you stay there, wrapped in your favorite blanket, sunk into the couch, blinking sleepily after the man who just kissed you like he's never gonna stop loving you. Who's making you waffles like it's a Tuesday night chore. Who laughs when you're hungry and looks at you like you're magic.

He comes back with your plate in one hand, the two iced teas in the other, and somehow manages not to spill or drop anything as he sets them down on the coffee table like the multitasking king he is. Then he plops down next to you with a little grunt—legs wide, arm slung over the back of the couch, and that tired but content little sigh he always lets out after sex. Without a word, he grabs the remote, turns to you with a smirk, and holds it out.

You glare dramatically, snatch it from his hand like the petty gremlin you are, and stick your tongue out at him as you immediately start scrolling. You don't even realize you're doing it, how your tongue pokes out, just a little, totally unconsciously while your tired eyes flick from one show to the next. But Roy notices. Oh, he notices. And he has to physically stop himself from losing it laughing right then and there.

Instead, he just watches you with that stupid soft smile on his face, the kind that makes his chest ache because God, he loves you. Loves every messy, sleepy, grumpy, ridiculous inch of you.

He picks up the fork, slices a perfect bite of waffle—chocolate chips gooey and warm, a little drizzle of syrup pooled at the bottom of the plate—and holds it up to your mouth like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And without even glancing away from the TV, you open your mouth automatically like a sleepy little bird.

"Jesus," he mumbles under his breath, smiling so wide it hurts, "you're gonna kill me one day."

You hum around the bite, clearly pleased, finally landing on some absolute garbage show neither of you will admit you've seen three times already, and settle deeper into the couch with a sleepy little sigh.

He feeds you slow—one bite for you, then one for him—back and forth like that until the plate is wiped clean and both iced teas are half empty on the table. You almost doze off between bites a couple times, chewing with your eyes closed, tongue poking out when you concentrate on chewing like you're solving a math problem instead of just eating a waffle. And Roy? Roy is fucking gone.

Three hours later, you're half sprawled across him, heavy limbed and warm. The blanket you love is tangled around your legs, your cheek is pressed against his chest, one arm tucked under your chin like a pillow, the other resting limp across his waist. You're watching a movie you've seen at least twenty times, mumbling the lines like you're trying to mouth along but you're too sleepy to even finish a sentence.

Roy's got one hand rubbing slow circles up and down your back. The other is loosely curled around your thigh, his thumb dragging little patterns on your bare skin.

But he's not watching the movie. Not really.

He keeps thinking about earlier. The car. The rain. The mess you made of each other. The way you came all over him, how he couldn't get enough of you, how you looked riding his dick—drunk off it, needy, desperate, beautiful. And the shit he said.

Slut.

It slipped out in the heat of it, rough and raw, and you didn't flinch, didn't even blink, just moaned like it lit a fuse inside you. But still, Roy's never been big on that word, not with you. He's always leaned more toward pretty thing, baby, sweet girl, even when he's balls deep and wrecking you, it's usually good girl, that's it, take it.

But that? That was something else. Something filthier. And he can't help but replay it in his head, brow furrowed slightly as he stares at the TV, not really seeing it. He shifts a little under you, brushing his fingers through your hair gently.

"Trouble?"

No response. For a second, he figures you're out cold, knocked out by food, orgasms, and the warm house. He's about to let it go until you hum sleepily, barely lifting your head, chin propped on his chest, eyes squinty and confused like you weren't totally sure you heard him.

"Hmmm?"

He exhales softly, tangling his hand in your hair like it grounds him. "You sure you're okay?" he asks, voice lower than usual. "After... y'know, the car and—"

You giggle. Like a soft, syrupy little giggle as you nuzzle into his jaw and kiss him there, warm lips brushing against stubble.

"Okay? That was so fucking hot, baby."

Roy chokes on his own breath. "Jesus Christ."

You grin at him, teeth and all, and purr, "We have to do that again."

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, half groan, half laugh, and looks at you like you've lost your mind.

"I hope you're not talkin' about the car sex."

You widen your eyes like of course you are not talking about the car sex.

"I'm talking about all of it," you say, cocky as hell, like you weren't just bouncing in his lap a few hours ago.

He blinks at you for a second, still rubbing your back, still unsure how you manage to short circuit him like this, and then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.

"So... you're not upset I called you a slut?"

Your eyes flutter closed, your lips curve, and you shake your head slow. "Upset?" you mumble, already halfway back to sleepytown. "I loved it."

You don't last much longer after that. A few more minutes of pretending to follow the movie, a few little content hums, the occasional sleepy blink that lasts way too long and then your body just gives. All soft limbs and boneless weight, melting fully against him like you belong there—because you do. Your head tucks into the curve of his neck, cheek smooshed against his collarbone, one arm looped around his middle.

You're out cold within seconds. When Roy glances down, you're already breathing deep, little puffs of air against his skin. Your mouth is parted just slightly, a smidge of drool threatening to spill from the corner, and your hand twitches once on his shirt before going still.

Then you snore, just loud enough to make him snort. He shakes his head, but his smile is fucking huge, soft and crooked as he brushes a few strands of hair from your damp forehead. You cling to him tighter in your sleep, snuggling impossibly closer, leg thrown over his thigh like you're trying to fuse into him, like your body has got a homing signal for his.

He exhales slowly through his nose, kisses your temple, and lets his head rest back on the couch.

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath. "I called you a slut and you fuckin' loved it."

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head again like he still can't believe it, still trying to wrap his brain around the whole night but yeah, that definitely happened.

And yeah, it's definitely happening again.

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lumosflairr · 8 days ago

Note

this isnt much to work with but imagine fred ron or harry doesnt matter with like that one scene from wolf on wallstreet with margot robbie putting her heel on the dudes forehead?? imagine how desperate they would be oohhh em jeepers just a desperate pathetic man is all i need in life

OH BABYYYY I LOVE THIS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST!!! I chose to write with Fred because i really have nothing of him written AND this scene is so him core.

NO TOUCHING - Fred G. Weasley

Fred had crossed a line. Again.

He’d pushed your buttons all day—flirting shamelessly behind the register, brushing his hand too high on your thigh under the table at dinner, and worst of all… he charmed your favorite knickers to float down the stairwell like confetti in front of George.

So now here he was, on his knees in your shared bedroom, smirking up at you like he wasn’t the one in trouble.

“Aw, love,” he drawled, hands spread like he was being reasonable, “I was just having a bit of fun—”

“You think this is funny?” you said sweetly, stepping forward slowly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the click of your heel on the wooden floor shut him right up.

Fred watched, transfixed, as you climbed up onto the low window seat—bare-legged, wearing one of his old Quidditch jerseys and nothing underneath. The moonlight pouring in behind you made the scene feel more like a spell than real life.

Then, you did it.

You lifted your foot, gently resting the tip of your stiletto heel right against his forehead, forcing his head to tilt back. His eyes fluttered closed. The smirk slipped.

“Oh, now you’re quiet?” you teased, voice smooth as honey. “Not so smug when you’re the one begging, are you?”

Fred groaned, equal parts flustered and absolutely wrecked. “I’d do anything right now.”

You arched a brow. “Anything?”

He nodded—slow, reverent. His voice came out rough. “You’re driving me mad.”

You pushed your heel just a little firmer against him—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who had the power tonight.

“I know,” you whispered. “And you love it.”

He looked up at you, completely undone, and you knew you had him.

“You’re going to sit there,” you said, dragging your heel down slowly until it slid off his chest and hit the floor with a click. “And you’re going to earn me back. With your mouth. No hands. No spells. Just obedience.”

Fred’s pupils blew wide.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, already leaning in.

His breath ghosted against your inner thigh, his mouth inches from your skin, and still—he hesitated. Like he needed permission. Like this was sacred.

And maybe it was.

You let your heel slide down from his chest, letting it hit the floor with a deliberate click. You shifted back on the window seat just enough to open your legs wider—slow, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his.

That was all he needed.

Fred’s mouth met your skin like a prayer, soft and reverent at first—slow kisses pressed to your thigh, just beneath where the lace ended. Then higher. Then higher.

His hands stayed at his sides, clenched into the fabric of his trousers like he was restraining himself from grabbing you, dragging you closer. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. You hadn’t given him that.

So he used what you allowed.

His mouth.

You let your head fall back against the wall behind you, a slow smirk tugging at your lips as you felt him trace his tongue in slow, aching circles just where you wanted him. The heat of him. The way he murmured your name under his breath like he couldn’t help it—like it slipped out between kisses, between soft, panting groans as he tried to keep up with the way you moved your hips.

He was so eager. So good at this. Not cocky, not teasing—just starving. Like the only thing that mattered was you falling apart under his mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just slightly to guide him, and he moaned into you like he liked being pulled—like he’d let you keep him there all night if you wanted.

“You really are sorry,” you murmured breathlessly.

He nodded against you, lips not daring to leave your skin. His nose brushed your inner thigh. Then his voice—raw and low—came between kisses.

“I’ll spend every night like this if it means you’ll forgive me,” he breathed.

“Don’t tempt me.”

#harry potter #wizarding world #lumosflair #weasley #smut #hogwarts #weasley twins #fredrick gideon weasley#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley x reader smut #wolf of wall street

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goldenbrowns · 2 months ago

Text

LITTLE TROUBLE GIRL ✩ || dbf!bucky barnes x f!reader || part one

(NEXT CHAPTER)

summary: You’re starting college in New York, and Bucky, your dad's best friend, has offered you a place to stay—just until you find your footing. It’s temporary; you're staying with him until you're able to settle down. But living with him is nothing like you expected, considering you've always had an innocent crush on him, even when you were little. The late nights, the easy laughter, the way his eyes linger just a little too long—it all starts to blur the lines. Just like that, your innocent crush on Bucky turns into something more crude.

author's note: this is an au where the winter soldier never happened, he's just good ol' buck, your dad's best friend :D

word count: 9.6k

warnings: age gap (reader is twenty and bucky is in his late thirties), alcohol consumption, tiny bit of angst towards the end, cursing, implied sexual themes, bucky is a little jealous and possesive.

You’re supposed to be packing. You really are.

But instead, you’re sitting on your bedroom floor, staring at the pile of clothes in front of you like they’re suddenly alien to you. Jeans. T-shirts. Sweaters you’ve had since the ninth grade. You think about how many of these things you haven’t worn in months, maybe even years, but now that you're moving, you swear you have to bring them. It’s like they’re your security blanket, like you can’t just let go. You’re leaving your hometown for good. Going to New York for college. The city. Your future. The dream.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like that at all.

Instead, it feels like the more you try to pack, the more everything around you gets heavier.

You shove a pile of clothes into the suitcase with less grace than you care to admit. You don’t know what to expect in New York, but part of you kind of just wants to stay here where everything’s familiar—even if everything about here kind of sucks sometimes. The awfully familiar cloudy days, the stubbornly old-fashioned people, the same neighbours you've known all your life… It's difficult to let go, but things like these make leaving your hometown all the easier.

Just as you were staring off into a wall, probably purposefully wasting time, your dad’s voice breaks into your thoughts.

"You all set?" He leans against your doorframe with a grin. At least someone was sure about all of this—even when you weren’t. Honestly, you’d bet he was more excited about the move than you were. New York had always been his dream for you. A chance to give you everything he never had growing up. All the opportunities he never got. Obviously when you took a sabbatical year after highschool he was pissed, so know that he's sure your heading to college he couldn't be happier. So, there you were, freshly twenty and off to college.

You stop. You freeze, one sneaker in midair as if it’s suddenly the heaviest thing in the world. Obviously, he knew this wasn't easy for you. He watched your expression drop the second he walked in. Everything slowly seeming more real to you than ever.

"Come on, everything’s going to be fine. Besides—hey, you’re staying with Buck for a while!" He lifts a hand in the air like that alone should fix everything. "He promised he’d make things easier for you. He’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart."

And for a second, it actually helps. That soft spot in your chest loosens just a little.

Because no, you’re not leaving everything behind. Staying with James—Buck—meant keeping at least one thread tied to home. A glimpse of your dad, your family, the place you grew up in. Something familiar to hold onto while everything else was changing. James Buchanan Barnes. The guy you’ve known forever. Your dad’s best friend. The guy who visits your house every holiday, makes a big deal about how grown-up you’re getting, who’s always laughing, always joking, and always just... there. He's the guy. But still, the fact that you were staying with him out of all people is absolutely daunting.

You haven’t seen him in a while—two, maybe three years? He used to visit a few times a year without fail—once for your dad's birthday and the rest again for the holidays and summer. He doesn’t come around as much anymore. Not because something’s wrong. If anything, it’s the opposite. Work’s just gotten more demanding for him. More cases. More clients. More responsibility. So technically, things are going great for him. Better than ever, really. Still, it doesn’t stop that tiny flicker of disappointment you feel whenever he misses a visit. Like some little piece of your old routine just… fades out.

When you were younger, you didn’t really notice how much he stood out. He was just a figure at family gatherings—he always had something funny to say, and you’d laugh at his dry sarcasm and the way his eyes always seemed to light up when he caught your attention. He was a permanent fixture in your life, like a distant relative you didn’t see enough of but still had a special place for.

But then, you turned fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. And suddenly, it was impossible not to notice.

The way he stood—relaxed, confident, like he owned the space around him without even trying. Broad shoulders that stretched the sleeves of his dress shirts just right, one hand always tucked into his pocket and the other one always holding on to a beer — which also, always seemed to be a Heineken— like he had all the time in the world. His jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. And he somehow made wearing a stupidly expensive leather jacket look like the most casual thing in the world—like he didn’t know how good he looked in it. Except, deep down, you were pretty sure he did.

He always smelled like something expensive—cologne and clean laundry, with just a little bit of city air clinging to him. Something which always made you so curious. To your 12-year-old self, Buck was your glimpse into the city. His hair was always neat but not overly styled, like he’d run a hand through it once and called it a day. And his smile was the real problem. Easy, charming, lopsided in a way that made it feel like it was just for you, even though you knew it wasn’t, it was always for one of those little girlfriends he brought every year and decided to invite on his trip.

It wasn’t like you were in love with him or anything. It was just… you noticed. You noticed everything.

As the years went by, something shifted. The way he looked at you sometimes. The way his eyes lingered just a second longer than you were comfortable with. The way he called you kid like he was trying to remind himself that’s what you were—and that’s all you were—whenever your thoughts seemed to go somewhere they shouldn’t.

But you’ve always pushed that aside. He’s your dad’s best friend. He’s… untouchable. Not that you would ever do anything about it.

But now? Now you’re moving in with him, and you have no idea how to feel about it or how to carry yourself around him.

Your dad is still standing there, waiting for a response. He’s in that spot where he’s practically bouncing.

"You’re sure about this, right?"

You force a smile, trying to make it seem like the fact that you're moving in with him doesn’t bother you at all. At this point, you didn’t know how it made you feel, it had its ups and downs… It’s fine. You’ll be fine. Right?

“Yeah, Dad. Totally fine,” you say, and you really hope you sound convincing. The truth is, you’re not sure what you’re even supposed to be feeling. Is this supposed to be an adventure? Because you don’t feel like it. You feel like maybe you’ve made a huge mistake and that there’s no way you’ll be able to look Bucky in the eye without turning into a human tomato.

Your dad beams at you, oblivious to the small storm brewing in your stomach. “Good. You know Bucky. He’s a great guy. He’ll look after you. It’ll be fine.”

Yeah, Bucky’s a “great guy.” Everyone says that—and it’s true. He’s always been there for your dad, always quick with advice or a sarcastic joke to pull him out of a bad mood. He’s steady, dependable, the kind of guy people trust without thinking twice. You’ve always known that.

But living with him? That’s a whole different ballgame.

You’re not your dad. You don’t have that effortless bond with Bucky—the one built on decades of inside jokes and shared mistakes. In fact, you can’t even remember the last time you had a real conversation with him. Outside of the usual “how’s school?” or the occasional “got a boyfriend yet?” And now you're about to move into his home like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The thing is, Bucky’s always been this constant in your life—this person you’ve admired from a distance, someone you’ve always thought of as off-limits. You’ve never let yourself go too deep into it, but now it's a little different. You'll be living with him every day for god knows how long.

The airport felt colder than usual. Not because of the air conditioning, but because of everything else—the goodbye hugs that lingered too long, your mom pretending she wasn’t crying, your dad cracking one too many nervous jokes, his teary eyes catching the lights. You smiled through it, made it look easy. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t terrified.

But as you walked away from them and toward the gate, something settled heavily in your chest. That weird, aching feeling of moving on.

You didn’t cry. Not really. That would probably come later. You just stared out the window of the plane, watching the ground peel away beneath you, smaller and smaller until it was just a blur. That was home down there. Your whole life, packed into backyards and gas stations and little streets you could navigate blindfolded. Gone now—just like that.

You tried not to overthink it. Tried not to spiral about living in a city you didn’t know, in an apartment that wasn’t yours, with a man who barely knew the version of you that wasn’t still seventeen.

The name alone made your thoughts twist up a little. Bucky. Just Bucky, really. Your dad’s best friend. The guy who used to toss you in the pool when you were a kid, chase you around the yard with the grill fork, and ruffle your hair like you were one of the boys.

You thought about that for a while—until the all-familiar town beneath you started to disappear under the clouds. Fields of green came into view, sharp and endless. You pressed your forehead to the window and tried to imagine your life away from that skyline somehow. The sun had started to set, and the sky had started to fluctuate between hues of oranges and yellows.

Everyone on the plane looked like some version of home. Guys in faded baseball caps talking too loud, moms with bleached-blonde hair and dark roots flipping through gossip magazines, teenagers glued to their phones with chipped acrylics and chewed-up straws poking out of Styrofoam cups. You’d grown up surrounded by people like this—faces that blurred together in the same familiar way.

You sank into your window seat, pulling your hoodie tighter around you as the plane rumbled up into the clouds. The turbulence didn’t bother you much—what unsettled you was everything else. So you did what you could to tune it out.

You flagged down the flight attendant and ordered a drink— something fruity, a Coke, whatever... As she walked away, you pressed your forehead against the cool window and watched the sky melt into pale blue.

As you stepped out of your plane and walked through the boarding bridge, you felt a chilly breeze, a bit cooler than you were expecting. He was already leaning against the car when you finally reached the terminal, scrolling through his phone like he had nowhere to be—which, of course, made him look even more annoyingly cool.

Black jeans, dark coat, sunglasses hooked onto the front of his shirt like some effortless accessory. He looked older than you remembered—sharper, broader—but not in a tired way. More like someone who’d grown into himself. Owned it. He had a few specks of gray on his beard now, more than you remembered him having, even though, honestly, that was the only indicator of him having gotten older.

He glanced up and did a double-take, almost like he didn't recognize you. His brows lifted, and his mouth quirked into that crooked half-smile you vaguely remembered from years ago. You began walking to him, dragging your carry-on right behind you.

“Damn,” he said, pushing off the car, “you’re taller than I thought you’d be. These three years have obviously been long. When did you turn into an actual person?”

You snorted. “Nice to see you too.”

“I’m serious,” he said, even though his tone was anything but. “Last time I saw you, you had braces and were crying over one of the One Direction guys.”

“Okay—first of all, rude. And second, it was Harry, I had taste”

That earned you a soft laugh as he reached for your suitcase. “Alright, alright. Still dramatic, I see. Guess some things don’t change.”

He tossed the bag into the trunk like it weighed nothing and opened the passenger door for you with a mockingly formal gesture.

“Your ride awaits." He opened both of his arms, palms out, signaling to the car door he was opening for you.

You rolled your eyes and slid into the car. The inside was just as nice as it looked from the outside—clean, sleek, and smelling like leather and whatever cologne he used, clearly the same one he's always used.

He got in, started the engine, and glanced over at you. “Seatbelt. Not tryna get sued your first week in the city.”

As he pulled out of the parking lot, the silence in the car wasn’t awkward. Just... charged. Like the air between you hadn’t settled yet.

“So,” he said after a beat, “you nervous, or just pretending to be too cool for this?”

You shrugged, feeling taken aback that he had deciphered you so quickly. “Little of both.”

“Hm. Classic.” He smirked, eyes still on the road. “You know, I offered to let your dad send you to a nunnery, but he insisted college was the move.”

You burst out laughing. “Right, because that would’ve been way less awkward.”

“I don’t know,” he mused. “You and a bunch of nuns in New York? That’s a sitcom waiting to happen.”

The city rose around you in glowing towers, stretching high and endless into the night sky. Streetlights flickered over glossy pavement, casting everything in a wash of warm gold and cool silver. Neon signs buzzed quietly outside corner bodegas and late-night diners, while car headlights weaved in and out like fireflies in motion. The air itself seemed to hum—thick with life, noise, energy. It was all so alive. And you were right in the middle of it.

As Bucky’s car slipped deeper into the city, you pressed your hand against the window, eyes following the blur of strangers rushing past. A woman in heels and a power suit shouting into her phone. A group of teens laughing way too loudly on a corner. A man on a bike with a pizza box. Every single person looked like they belonged here—like they had somewhere to be, something to do. And they all moved with the kind of confidence that came from knowing how this city worked.

You sat there quietly, just watching, feeling the shift happen inside you. This wasn’t just a trip. It wasn’t summer vacation. This was real.

You were here. For good.

And in exactly 13 hours, at 10:00 AM sharp, you’d be sitting in your first college class.

You weren’t sure if the tight feeling in your chest was nerves or excitement. Maybe both. Everything felt huge—too big to grasp all at once. You wanted to slow it down, bottle it up, make sense of it all. But the city didn’t wait for you to catch up. It just kept moving.

“You’re quiet,” Bucky said, looking at you from the corner of his eye, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine and the soft, distant sounds of the city.

You blinked, pulling your gaze away from the window. He didn’t look at you—his eyes were fixed on the road, fingers tapping idly against the wheel. Casual, but not careless. Like he knew exactly what was going on in your head without needing to ask.

“I’m just… taking it all in,” you said.

He let out a low, amused breath. “Yeah? You’ve got the same look you used to get on the diving board—right before chickening out.”

You turned your head, incredulous. “I didn’t chicken out. I was calculating. And I'm not planning to chicken out now either...”

“That’s what you called it?” He smirked. “Standing there for fifteen minutes while every kid behind you prayed for patience?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

The light changed, and the car moved forward again, gliding through quieter streets now. The city still sparkled outside the window—still alive, still moving—but it didn’t feel as loud in this pocket of calm. Just you and Bucky, in his leather-scented car that felt safer than you expected it to.

After a moment, he spoke again—quieter this time.

“You’re gonna be alright, kid.”

You looked over at him.

He wasn't looking at you anymore, but his jaw ticked slightly, like he was thinking through every word before he said it. “You’re smart. Capable. You’ve got guts—Hell, you're a pretty girl too. You've got the whole world at the palm of your hand.”

You let out a soft laugh, but he kept going.

“And you’re not alone in this. I’m here,” he said simply. “I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was warm. Solid. Like something you could lean into.

You watched him for a second longer, the way the passing streetlights painted soft lines across his face, the way he looked so sure when you didn’t.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

The car pulled up to a sleek building tucked between a coffee shop and a high-end florist, all steel and glass and glowing lobby lights. It didn’t scream wealth, not in a flashy way—but everything about it whispered money. Subtle.

Bucky cut the engine and turned to you, one hand still on the wheel. “Alright, city girl. Welcome home.”

You blinked up at the building. “This place is… nice.”

He smirked, unbuckling his seatbelt. “That’s the least convincing ‘nice’ I’ve ever heard.”

“No, I mean it,” you said, stepping out. “It’s just... fancy. I didn’t think lawyers lived like this.”

He popped the trunk. “We don’t. But when you start working eighty-hour weeks and don’t have time for a life, you gotta spend your money somewhere. Might as well be rent.”

You followed him into the building, your suitcase rolling behind you on polished tile. The lobby smelled like eucalyptus and something vaguely citrusy. You tried not to stare at the concierge desk—or the massive chandelier above your head—but you caught Bucky glancing sideways at you anyway.

“Try to look like you’ve been somewhere before,” he muttered, grinning.

You elbowed him. “Says the guy who wore aviators at night.”

“Touché.”

The elevator ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Bucky leaned back against the wall with his hands in his coat pockets, glancing at you now and then like he was still trying to believe you were the same kid who used to sneak cookies off the grill during backyard cookouts.

The doors opened on the twelfth floor. His place was at the end of the hall—tall black door, a single matte number, no unnecessary frills.

When he let you in, the first thing you noticed was how him it felt. Everything in the apartment was clean and dark and structured—deep grays, worn leathers, low lighting—but there were warm things too. Books stacked unevenly on the coffee table. A vinyl player with an open sleeve beside it. A pair of reading glasses he’d never admit to needing resting near the counter.

“Home sweet home,” he said, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door. “Shoes off if you don’t wanna catch a lecture. Kitchen’s there, bathroom’s down the hall, you’re in the guest room.”

You stood there a moment, just taking it all in.

He gave you a look. “You good?”

You nodded quickly, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “Yeah. Yup!”

He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Don’t worry,” he added, that lopsided smirk creeping in again, “you’ve got me. You’ll be fine.”

The guest room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of the city slipping through the window. You didn’t bother turning on the overhead light—just opened your suitcase and started putting things away, slowly, like moving too fast would make it all feel too real.

Everything in the room felt untouched. Neutral. Like it had been prepped for someone who might never show up. The dresser drawers slid open without a sound, the bedding was crisp, and the closet smelled faintly of cedar. It was strange. Not cold, just unfamiliar. Like you were living in a showroom version of someone else's life.

You folded clothes into neat stacks and arranged your things on the nightstand—lip balm, your headphones, a paperback with a cracked spine. You paused at a photo of you and your parents, half-smiling at the way your mom’s hand was always in your dad’s back pocket. They’d driven you to the airport earlier today, pretending not to cry when you hugged them goodbye.

Now you were here.

You caught your reflection in the mirror for a second too long, pulled your hair up into a lazy bun, and put on some pajamas you had packed back at home with cats and dogs printed all over the fabric. As soon as you finished you you left your room and slipped into the living room quietly.

From the kitchen came the soft clink of silverware and the low simmer of something on the stove. Music played faintly from a speaker tucked somewhere, something very 80s sounding. Warm light pooled from under the cabinets, and Bucky stood over the stove, his back to you, sleeves pushed up and brow slightly furrowed as he stirred a pan.

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of your footsteps. “There she is.” He cooed excitedly.

You offered a half-smile. “There I am.”

He turned down the heat, grabbed two wine glasses from the cabinet, and poured a deep red into each without asking. He handed you one as you leaned against the counter beside him.

“You cook now?” you asked, taking the glass.

He shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s either this or takeout again, and I figured you deserve a proper meal on your first night.”

You took a sip, and the wine was smooth, expensive. Of course.

“Thanks,” you said.

He just nodded, lips tugging into something close to a smile before he walked toward the living room and sank into the corner of the couch with his own glass. You followed after a moment, curling into the opposite side, your legs folded under you.

The room was quiet, but not awkwardly so. You watched the steam rise from the kitchen, heard the occasional sizzle from the stove. The city lights flickered in through the windows behind him.

“You good? I feel like I've asked this 50 times just today,” he asked eventually with a soft laugh, not looking directly at you.

You paused, then nodded. “Getting there.”

“Good, that's a start. ‘Cause I meant what I said earlier. You don’t have to figure everything out in one night. Y'know, I haven't always lived here, when I got here it was also terrifying for me,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “You’ve got time. You’ve got space. And I’m here. Whatever you need, I’ve got you.”

You glanced at him, heart tightening at how casual he made it sound, like it was no big deal. But it was. No one had ever said something like that to you without needing anything in return.

“Thanks,” you said again, softer this time.

He smirked slightly. “You already said that.”

You gasp in feigned offense, clutching a hand to your chest, "Alright, well- You don't see me saying you've repeated your inspirational speech 30 times already, do you?"

He only squinted his eyes and tilted his glass towards you as if to point at you, "You've got a mouth on you, don't you? Calm down before I leave you to starve," He laughs, and just after that, he stands up to turn off the fire.

He moves with ease, like he’s done this a hundred times—turning knobs, checking the sauce, grabbing plates from a cabinet you wouldn’t have guessed held anything. You stay curled up on the couch, glass of wine resting on your thigh, watching him in the kitchen like you’re still not used to seeing him like this—domestic, relaxed, a little smug in the way he smirks to himself after a joke.

“You wouldn’t actually let me starve,” you call out as an attempt to not remain quiet.

“Wouldn’t I?” he shoots back over his shoulder, then opens the fridge with his hip. “I don’t know. You’re in my house now. Could be survival of the fittest.”

You snort into your wine. “Please. I’d eat half your pantry before you even noticed.”

He grins at that, setting a pan on a trivet and dishing out pasta onto two plates. “God, you sound like your dad.”

“That’s rude.”

“Hm, wouldn't say so. It's accurate.” His back was still turned to you as you watched the muscles in his back move after every scoop he set down onto both of the plates.

He walks over and sets one plate down in front of you on the coffee table, then hands you a fork. The pasta smells incredible—creamy, garlicky, with grilled chicken cut into perfect slices like he’s trying to impress someone. Maybe he is.

He drops down beside you with his own plate, elbows brushing for a second as he settles in. The couch dips beneath his weight, the apartment humming with soft music and the faint sounds of the city outside. It’s warm. Not just physically—though, yeah, the wine helps—but in a way that creeps in slow and stays there.

“Okay,” you murmur after a few bites. “This is actually good.”

He raises a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’ve only ever seen you drink black coffee, beer and eat beef jerky.”

He stabs a piece of pasta and shrugs. “People contain multitudes. Can't imagine you know much about that,” He laughs, aware that he's egging you on.

You look over at him, and he catches your eye just as he takes a bite. There’s something playful in his expression, but underneath it, something softer. Steady. You chew slowly, then ask, quieter this time, “Why are you being so nice to me?” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just sets his fork down and leans back slightly.

“Because I care about you,” he says simply. “You’re not just your dad’s kid. You’re... you. And I’ve known you your whole life. You think I’m gonna let you land here and not look after you?” You blink once, then again, unsure what to say.

So instead, you say, “You’re getting soft in your old age.”

He laughs—a real, warm, low laugh—and shakes his head. “You wish.”

Time had slipped away somewhere between the second glass and the lazy way Bucky laughed at his own stories. Now, with plates cleared and nothing but the low hum of the city beyond the windows, the two of you sat across from each other on the couch, your legs tucked under you, a little warmer than before. The wine had softened your limbs and whatever awkwardness that might’ve once existed between you had faded into something more… comfortable. Charged, maybe. But quiet.

It was easy like this. Easier than you’d expected. He asked questions. Real ones. Not just “how’s school” or “what’s your major,” but actual questions.

“What do you want from it all?” he’d asked earlier. “Like, when it’s all said and done—what’s the picture?”

You’d stared at him like he’d just unlocked a hidden door in your head. You didn’t answer that one. Not fully. It wasn't like you really knew how to answer it either. You said something about self-fulfilment, and he seemed happy enough with that answer.

Now, he was grinning behind the rim of his glass, eyes just a little more hooded than usual, and much more loose than the mysterious guy who picked you up from the airport earlier. “So,” he said, drawing out the word. “Boys.”

You groaned immediately, leaning your head back into the cushion. “God, no.”

“What?” he asked, all mock innocence. “You don’t want to talk about your tragic love life with good ol' Buck over overpriced wine and homemade pasta?”

“No,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You’re being nosy.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth but never quite reached both sides. “Guilty as charged,” he replied, his eyes warm as he looked at you. “But seriously, I’m curious. You’re smart, funny, sharp as hell—don’t tell me none of those boys ever tried anything.”

You shifted on the couch, feeling the heat in your cheeks, but you tried to play it off. “The problem is that they have. But, where is this coming from?”

Bucky shrugged, swirling his wine in his glass, but his gaze never left you. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice lowering a fraction. “I guess I’m just noticing... you’ve grown up. That’s all.”

His words and the way he enunciated the word 'grown' hit you more than you expected. You shook your head, trying to mask the way your chest tightened. “You make it sound like I used to be a troll.”

Bucky gave a low laugh, leaning back into the couch, but his eyes were still watching you closely, studying you. “Oh, but you were,” he teased, eyes crinkling at the edges. “You used to throw rocks at me.”

You huffed out a laugh, rolling your eyes. “That was once.”

“That was three summers in a row,” he corrected, his tone playful, like he was remembering a version of you that had changed in ways he hadn’t expected.

For a second, everything felt easy again. Familiar. The laughter felt like it bridged the gap between who you were now and who you used to be, and you let it fill the space between you. But then the conversation took a shift, and the air between you seemed to thicken with something else.

“So, no serious boyfriends?” he asked again, like he was trying to make sense of it.

You glanced down at your glass, your fingers tracing the rim absently. “Not really. Nothing that stuck.”

Bucky leaned forward a bit, his tone softening, like he was really trying to understand. “Let me guess—emotionally unavailable, talks in memes, and thinks texting you ‘wyd’ at 2 a.m. is romantic?”

You laughed, the sound catching in your throat, but he didn’t let up. “Don't forget the unsolicited Snapchat dickpics,” you sighed, remembering all the times you've had to endure opening Snapchat to see pubescent dicks on your screen.

Bucky’s lips curled into a half-smirk, his eyebrows raising just slightly. “Seriously?” he teased, leaning in a bit closer, the playful glint in his eyes growing sharper. “Do they think that’s supposed to impress you? What—suddenly, you're gonna be swept off your feet by a 20-year-old’s bad lighting picture of their dick?”

You scoffed, taking a sip of your wine. "Apparently... Either way, I'm not looking for a guy who decides to do that sort of thing for attention. It's so pathetic."

He smirked, taking another sip of his wine, but his gaze was more intense now, steady on you. “So what is it, then?” he asked, the words slow and deliberate. “What are you looking for?”

The question caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected it, and for a moment, you wondered if you even had an answer. But the wine made you brave enough to be honest, even if you didn’t want to be. You set your glass down, thinking carefully. “I don’t know. I guess... someone who makes me feel like I don’t have to try so hard all the time. Who doesn’t make me feel like I’m too much. Something that clearly guys my age are not willing to supply.” You didn't mean the last sentence like that, you didn't have some sort of underhanded motive.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, amused, and he took a slow sip of his wine. He set the glass down with a soft clink. “Guys your age, huh? Yeah, I get it. You’ve got that ‘too much’ vibe—guess it’s just a lot for them to handle.”

You raised an eyebrow, a little taken aback but not enough to let him off the hook. “You say guys my age can’t handle me? So, guys your age can?”

The smirk that spread across Bucky’s face made your stomach flutter in a way you didn’t quite understand. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass with casual confidence, his gaze never leaving you. “Oh, sweetheart,” he started, his voice dropping an octave, sincere, “I’ve handled a lot worse. And I think, personally, I would be able to keep up just fine.”

There was a long pause. You could feel the weight of his stare, but you couldn’t look away, not now. Bucky held your gaze without blinking, his expression softer now. As if he had just now noticed what he said, he quickly changed the topic. “Anyway...That thing you said about being too much. You're not, don't let anybody tell you that," he said, his voice quiet but sure. “You just haven’t been around the right people.”

Your breath hitched at the way he said it, and for a moment, it felt like everything shifted again, like something unspoken was hanging in the air. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond, but the warmth in your chest was a clear indication that maybe you didn’t need to say anything at all.

You laughed weakly, trying to regain some composure. “You always talk like that?”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin never faltering. “Only after two glasses.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle and leaned back against the couch, his arm brushing lightly against yours. He didn't pull away. The air between you felt like it was thickening, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. It was as if everything that had been left unsaid before had finally come to the surface, and there was no turning back.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough for it to feel like a secret shared only between the two of you. “You know, if I were your age, I’d be in real trouble.”

Your stomach twisted, your breath catching. “What do you mean?”

Bucky smirked, his eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. “Just saying,” he added, leaning back again, like he hadn’t just said something that made your heart race. “I’d be in real trouble.”

The quiet between you felt heavier now, more charged. You could feel the pull between you, the way he was still looking at you, waiting for you to say something. But then he cleared his throat, stood up with a stretch, and changed the subject like he hadn’t just set something off between you.

“Well, I better get dessert before I say something else I shouldn’t,” he said, his voice light but the way his eyes lingered on you made it hard to shake the feeling that the conversation wasn’t quite over. Not yet.

You watched him head toward the kitchen, your chest tight and your mind spinning. It wasn’t just the wine. It wasn’t just the long drive to New York. Something had shifted. Something was different now.

You stayed frozen for a moment, your fingers curled loosely around your glass as you tried to piece together what had just happened. His voice still echoed in your head—I’d be in real trouble. The way he said it, soft and low, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all. Like it slipped out before he could catch it.

You bit your lip and set the glass down, glancing toward the kitchen. You could hear him rustling through cabinets, the clink of plates, the hum of the fridge door opening. Just regular, domestic sounds. But they didn’t match the pace of your heartbeat.

You stood and walked over, slower than usual, like your legs had to catch up with your thoughts. He had a carton of ice cream out and was pretending like everything was normal. Too normal. His back was turned, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight stiffness in the way he moved. Like he was aware of your presence—too aware.

“You always do this?” you asked, leaning against the counter, trying to sound casual. “Fluster college girls with red wine and chocolate chip?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Fluster you?” he asked with a smirk, placing two bowls on the counter. “I’m just offering dessert, sweetheart. If that’s flustering you, I’m not sure you’re ready for this city.”

You gave him a look, but couldn’t stop your smile from forming. “Right. Of course. Just dessert.”

He turned fully then, slid one of the bowls toward you, the metal spoon clinking against the porcelain. “Eat before I say something worse than earlier.”

You took a bite, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel heavy again. Then, more quietly, you asked, “What would be worse, though?”

He paused with his own spoon halfway to his mouth. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he set the spoon down, leaned on the cushions with his arms crossed, and looked at you—really looked at you.

“Depends,” he said slowly. “Did it make you uncomfortable?”

You shook your head, a little too fast. “No. Just… caught me off guard.”

“Good,” he said, but the word came out softer than his usual snark. “Because I’d never want to make you uncomfortable. You being here—this whole thing—it matters to me.”

And there it was again. That shift. That soft, honest side of him was slipping through the cracks in his usual cool exterior. You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, eyes meeting his for a second longer than they probably should’ve. And you let him, even if your thoughts kept drifting right back to that quiet little thing he said earlier.

If I were your age, I’d be in real trouble.

It had been two weeks since that first night, and the quiet tension between you and Bucky hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten harder to ignore.

You’d settled into the apartment like you'd always belonged there. Your stuff was neatly unpacked, your laundry now mixed with his in the hamper, and his coffee order was memorized without him needing to say it out loud. There were toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your shoes by the front door, and the casual rhythm of living together had grown… intimate, in a way you couldn’t explain.

But you hadn’t touched it—the conversation, the weight of his stare that night, the words that left your heart skipping. Neither of you had. Instead, you danced around it, letting your comfort grow while pretending everything was still casual.

In the meantime, life had started to take on shape. You’d started to find a routine between classes, wandering the city, and spending way too much time with Sophia—your new friend who had quickly become your lifeline. You met during orientation and clicked almost instantly, like fate had decided you both needed each other. Now, you talked every day. She knew your class schedule better than you did, reminded you to eat, sent you Tiktoks at midnight, and picked up on your mood from just a single text. You told her everything.

You hadn’t planned on spilling it so quickly, but it all came out one night over FaceTime—his apartment, the wine, the flirting, the tension. You’d half-expected her to freak out, to say it was insane or inappropriate. But she didn’t. She’d just blinked at you, then grinned and said, “Girl, you’re living in a slow-burn, how the fuck are you managing?"

Now, she asked about Bucky daily. She teased you when he picked you up from class, rolled her eyes when you claimed things were “normal,” and insisted you start taking notes so she could read the novel version later.

Apart from Sophia, there was this other guy who had randomly started getting closer to you, Luke.

Luke was in one of your classes, and you'd started working on group projects together since the first week. He was a bit awkward but sweet, and his humor grew on you over time. You didn’t think much of it at first, but over the past couple of weeks, he had started texting you almost every day. At first, the texts were nothing special—"Hey, can you send me those notes?" or "How’s your day going?"—but they quickly became more frequent. He would text you random things during the day, asking how you were, what you were doing, and even what your weekend plans were.

It was innocent enough, but you had the feeling it wasn’t entirely platonic on his part. Sophia had certainly noticed it. "Girl, he’s into you. Stop being blind," she'd said one day when Luke had texted you again. “You two have been texting more than I’ve seen anyone text their boyfriend.” Something which made you feel a little weird about the whole situation, given that you never thought about it like that. If anything, you saw him as a little brother; he was too skittish, too sheepish, not really your type.

Today, though, you’d come home late from class, bag slung low on your shoulder, exhaustion in your limbs. Your makeup was worn off, your hair in a messy bun, and you hadn’t even had the energy to fake a smile when you stepped through the door.

Bucky was on the couch, already out of his button-down and in a gray t-shirt and sweats, reading something on his tablet with glasses on—glasses you hated how much you liked. He looked up the second you entered.

“Jesus,” he muttered, setting the tablet down. “You look like you just fought a war.”

“I am in college,” you grumbled, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Same thing.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “Rough day?”

You sighed, dragging yourself toward the kitchen. “Group project. Too much homework, I'm sweaty, I'm hungry... ”

He stood up. “Okay. Nope. We’re not doing this today.” He walked over and took your bag off your shoulder before you could argue. “Shoes off. Bag down. You’re officially off duty.”

“I wasn’t aware you were my manager,” you said with a small eye roll.

“I’m everything in this house,” he replied, guiding you gently toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll handle food. You like pad thai, right?”

You blinked at him. “Since when do you remember that?”

He smirked. “Since you ordered it three times last week, and I’m not blind.”

You laughed, melting a little as you collapsed into the cushions. “You’re dangerously close to being my favorite person.”

“I was hoping I’d at least make top three,” you saw him placing bowls and spices in the counter, with the concentration of a man on a mission.

You sank deeper into the couch, letting your eyes flutter closed. Ten minutes later, he returned with two glasses of wine, handing you one before sliding in beside you. He’d queued up a movie—something black and white, with dramatic jazz and smoky bars.

The movie flickered on in the background, casting black-and-white shadows across the apartment walls while you lounged on the couch, wine glass resting on your thigh. The soft sounds of rustling in the kitchen reminded you that he had stood up at some point and quietly made his way to the kitchen to check on the food—he was plating the pad thai.

Your phone buzzed.

Sophia: Still no kiss? Babe. What do I have to do? Fly up and knock your heads together?

You huffed a laugh and texted back quickly.

You: I am currently being forced to watch black-and-white murder mysteries. He remembered I like pad thai and also brought me wine. I hate him.

Sophia: Bitch he’s flirting. That’s flirting. That’s “I want to ruin you” flirting.

You snorted, quickly covering your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“What?” Bucky asked, glancing over at you.

“Nothing,” you said too fast, shaking your head.

He gave you a suspicious look. “Uh huh. That’s the ‘I’m talking shit about you’ face.”

“I would never,” you said, putting a hand to your heart in mock offense.

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Is it Sophia?”

You froze. “...Maybe.”

He grinned, shaking his head. “She’s the one that calls me Hot Lawyer, isn’t she?”

Your jaw dropped. “How did you—”

“You leave your phone around the apartment a lot. And well- she also texts you a whole lot, so it's been difficult to miss her messages," He said with an all-knowing grin, so proud that he's caught you.

Your face went red hot. “Okay, that’s—please shut up.”

At some point, he decided to stop and free you from the awkwardness of the whole situation and shut up. Bucky returned with the plates, carefully balancing two steaming bowls of homemade pad thai and a tray of carefully prepped sides. He set them down between you both, the aroma of toasted peanuts and lime cutting through the cold air of the apartment.

“Dinner’s served,” he said, quiet but composed, as if trying too hard to keep things light.

You dug in, grateful for the distraction. The food was, as always, perfect—just the right amount of heat, your noodles cooked to perfection, with bits of tofu and crushed peanuts that somehow made you feel cared for in ways he never outright said.

A buzz from your phone interrupted the moment. You glanced down. Luke.

Luke: You free to meet up later this week? I was thinking we could grab coffee or something.

You answered with a quick, noncommittal reply and set the phone aside, but not before Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the screen. The name must’ve registered. His jaw ticked, subtle but there. He didn’t say anything right away, but you felt it—the way his energy shifted.

“Luke? You've told me about him before...” he asked eventually, his voice mild. Too mild.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Group project guy. We’ve been working together a lot lately.”

Bucky nodded slowly, twirling his fork in his noodles. “Right. He’s the one who texts you every morning like he’s clocking in?”

You blinked. “What?”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “Just noticed he keeps showing up on your phone. Seems… consistent.”

There was no heat in his voice—no raised tone or sarcasm. But there was weight. Careful. Deliberate. Measured.

You tilted your head. “You seem jealous,” you joke for a second, thinking that's what that was.

Bucky let out a breath through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh, then leaned back on the couch, resting his arm along the top. “Not jealous. Just observant.”

You narrowed your eyes, not letting him off the hook that easily. “That’s not an answer.”

He looked at you then, fully—no grin, no playful smirk, just Bucky, guarded but honest. “I’ve seen how guys look at girls, okay? I know the difference between a group project text and a ‘hope she likes me’ one.” At that moment, you realized he really meant this and it was something that clearly, and very irrationally, bothered him.

You stared at him, heart stumbling in your chest. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t have to,” he said calmly. “He’s a guy. I’ve been that guy. And I know what it looks like when someone’s trying to edge into something that already feels full.”

You swallowed, not sure how to feel about what he just said. “And what does this feel full of, exactly?”

That question seemed to catch him off guard. His gaze dropped for a second, then he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s something. Isn’t it?”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The silence between you stretched, taut as wire. Then he muttered, almost too low for you to catch.

“I just don’t like seeing him try to take—” He cut himself off.

You blinked. “Take what?”

Bucky’s lips parted, but he shook his head quickly, eyes flicking away. “Nothing. Forget it.”

You stared at him, heart tightening. “No. Say it.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he said, quieter now. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The silence said enough. You stared at your plate, chewing slower now. The food was still good—of course it was—but something about the air between you had shifted. Bucky hadn’t looked at you since the text, but you could feel the weight of his silence pressing in.

“I don’t like how you’re talking about this,” you said quietly, setting your wine glass down. “You’re acting like you get a say in who I see.”

Bucky glanced up, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you implied it.” You leaned back, crossing your arms. “You’re making it sound like there's something wrong with someone texting me.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said, voice calm but tight. “I’m saying I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t even know him.” You shook your head, still not fully understanding what was happening. The words didn’t feel right, and the weight of his reaction hung in the air like an uncomfortable cloud. You could feel your heart beat a little faster, a mix of confusion and frustration welling up inside you.

Bucky was usually so easygoing, always the one to laugh and make light of things. But this—this tension, this defensiveness—was something completely different. It felt out of character, and you couldn’t make sense of it.

You swallowed hard, the silence stretching between you, and you wondered if you were overthinking it. Was this about more than just Luke? Was something else bothering him?

It hit you then—maybe it wasn’t just about Luke at all. Maybe it was about you.

For a second, a ridiculous thought crept into your mind—maybe your dad had warned him. Maybe, in some secret father-to-friend conversation, he'd told Bucky to keep an eye out, scare off any guy who got too close. It sounded absurd, but this wasn’t the Bucky you knew. It felt like he was trying to draw a line around you, to fence off a space he didn’t even have the right to claim.

“I don’t need to,” he replied, and now his voice carried more weight. “I know what it looks like when a guy’s circling someone he likes. I’ve been that guy. And if you don’t see it, fine. But don’t act like I’m crazy for pointing it out.”

You hesitated, letting the words settle. Then: “You’re not pointing it out. You’re warning me. That’s different.”

His jaw flexed, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, irritated. “I just don’t want you getting blindsided.”

“And what if I’m not?” you shot back. “What if I know what’s going on and I’m choosing to deal with it the way I want to?”

That made him go still.

You pressed on, voice softer now but more honest. “You say you’re not trying to control me, but you’ve got opinions about who I talk to, who I text, who I spend time with-" You stopped yourself, biting down on the words before they escaped.

Bucky’s eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. He let you finish.

“I moved into your space,” you said. “Your apartment, your routines, your everything. And I like being here, I do. But right now it’s like I’m getting smaller to fit.”

That hit something in him. His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked down at his hands, then back up at you, more careful now.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said finally. “I just—when I see someone getting close to you, it’s hard to stay neutral.”

“But you’re not supposed to be neutral, or territorial,” you replied, eyes searching his. “You’re supposed to be my friend, right?”

A beat of silence passed. His answer didn’t come. And that silence said more than anything else.

You’re supposed to be my friend

Bucky stood too, but slower, more cautious. “I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

You sighed, now aware of how regretful Bucky looked, and you believed it. You didn't doubt for a second that he had already come to his senses, but still, the conversation nestled deep within you. You begin again, voice steady and quiet. “Maybe I let you for a while because I liked being in your world. But I need to be in mine, too, Buck. With my own choices.”

He nodded slowly, jaw tight, but his eyes softer. “You’re right.”

You stood in the silence, feeling the heaviness of the moment, but the anger had faded, leaving something more fragile in its place. You were no longer upset, but you weren’t sure what to make of everything. You couldn’t stay in the living room with him right now—too many conflicting emotions swirling inside you.

“I’m going to head to bed,” you said softly, the words barely above a whisper. Your voice felt small, almost apologetic, but you needed this space. Bucky didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel his eyes on you, watching you carefully. “Okay,” he said, his voice quieter than before, though there was still an edge of concern in it.

You made your way toward the hallway, not looking back, needing to keep moving to escape the weight of the tension in the room. You didn’t slam the door when you entered your room, but you closed it quietly, the soft click of it echoing in the quiet of the apartment.

For a moment, you just stood there, the silence in your room enveloping you like a heavy blanket. You leaned against the door, closing your eyes and letting out a slow breath. Your heart was still racing, the aftermath of the conversation hitting you in waves. You didn’t feel mad anymore—just… tired. Tired of trying to make sense of things that didn’t feel like they made sense. You felt so conflicted about your feelings on Bucky. You didn't know if they actually did exist or if they were some conjuring of your imagination. You also didn't know what to do or whether to act upon them if they did truly exist.

You weren’t mad at him. If anything, the whole thing left you conflicted. Because the way he’d looked at you tonight, the way he’d spoken—it was raw, and messy, and real. And that meant something.

Sitting on your bed, you changed into more comfortable clothes and stared out the window for a while. The city lights outside twinkled like a million tiny stars. You could still hear Bucky moving around in the living room, but it didn’t feel like he was there with you anymore—not in the way he had been before.

The sound of Bucky moving around in the kitchen filtered through the walls, soft clinks of dishes being washed. You weren’t sure why it hit you so hard, but hearing him out there, alone, made you sad. You could’ve helped him, gone out and cleaned up together like you always did, but tonight, you didn't. You couldn’t shake off the distance, couldn’t pretend like things were normal when everything you felt right now was so confusing

The sound of water running in the kitchen stopped, followed by the quiet clink of a dish being set down. The last sound you heard was Bucky closing his own bedroom door—soft, almost like a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything left unsaid. The thud of the door closing made the space between you both feel even wider, and a knot tightened in your stomach. You knew he wasn’t angry, not like that. But the quiet felt like it was pulling you both into different corners of the apartment, away from each other. You sat there, listening to the silence after that. Even the space between you and Bucky seemed filled with things you couldn’t yet understand.

When you think about it, the situation is not that complicated. But there's something about it, the edge to his words, the tinge of jealousy that he tried to cover, the squint of his eyes every time he mentioned Luke's name… The argument never was about defending him. It wasn’t about whether Luke was a threat or whether he was trying to get too close—it wasn’t even really about the coffee or the texts or any of the small things that had set Bucky off. The fight had been about something deeper, something neither of you had the courage to fully voice.

It was about a fear that neither of you had fully understood or acknowledged. It was about Bucky’s fear of losing something—maybe losing you, or the closeness you shared—and in his own way, trying to hold on to you, to make sure he was still one of the most important people in your life. But in doing so, he crossed a line.

It felt strange to lie in the dark, the quiet of the apartment now overwhelming. You couldn’t hear him anymore, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that the two of you were in the same space, yet so far apart.

(NEXT CHAPTER)

380 notes · View notes

monzabee · 1 year ago

Text

partition - lh44 (+18)

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where you and Lewis are stuck in traffic in Paris, and decide to make the most of the situation.

Pairing: lewis hamilton x reader

Word Count: 4.0k

Warnings: smut!! sex in a car, unprotected sex (because when have i written something with condoms lol), pwp, cringey ass nickname (blame beyoncé), manhandling, took me a long time to write it so it doesn’t make sense most part, minors dni!!

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! this was a passion project for me and you have no idea how happy i am with the way it turned out. There’s only one slight issue and it is that i wanted lewis to call the reader something other than peaches, but it is in the song, therefore please if you don’t like it blame the mother, aka beyoncé. Also, i was very unsure of whether i wanted to drag it out, or leave it as it is, so any feedback is appreciated. i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

It took you forty five minutes to get ready – Lewis knows this because he’s been keeping time on his phone since the moment you’ve went into the bedroom side of your hotel room to get ready for the party he’s taking you to. You’ve always like to joke that he takes longer getting ready whenever the two of you have to go somewhere, but now that he is staring the timer on his phone, maybe he should use it as an evidence that you’re, in fact, wrong the next time you tease him about it. Not that he actually would do that, he is a gentleman, after all.

He’s just about to call out to you to hurry up when you beat him to it, “Baby, I need help, please!”

The nickname manages to bring the smallest of smiles to his face as he, without shouting anything back in response, gets up from his place on the couch and makes his way towards the bedroom. And that’s when his eyes land on you, in front of the full-sized mirror struggling to zip up your dress. In just a few more steps he’s right behind you, his fingers itching to dance against the smooth skin of your back. “I thought you were going to wear the suit you brought, Peaches,” his voice comes off muffled as he presses a few kisses to the expose skin on your shoulder.

“I forgot to bring the shirt that goes with it,” your voice comes off shaky as you feel his lips drag on your skin, and you can hear his soft chuckle. Craning your neck to give him a small smile, you join in his laughter, “Zip me?” With a yielding kiss, Lewis wordlessly grabs the small zipper between his fingers, and when the moves the zipper, it makes you shriek out another laugh, “Up, Lewis, zip me up please!”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, pulling the zipper upward with a swift motion. The dress seamlessly hugs your figure, and he makes a show of checking you out from the mirror in front of you before meeting your eyes. “There you go, all zipped up,” Lewis announces triumphantly, ignoring your disapproving headshake, giving you a gentle pat on the back. You turn around, facing him with a grateful smile, and he can't resist leaning in for a sweet kiss. The connection between your lips is brief but warm.

“You like my dress?” You ask him and his enthusiastic nod makes your smile widen in satisfaction, “You don’t think it’s too short?”

Instead of answering your question with words, instead Lewis tsks, letting his dissatisfaction with your question known. He gently takes one of your hands in his, threading his fingers through yours and prompts you to spin around to give him a better look of your dress. He wraps his arms around your middle, his hand still firmly intertwined with yours, and presses a kiss on your shoulder right where the strap of your dress meets your skin. “Wear any dress you want, Peaches, Miles and I can handle anyone who gives you trouble for it.”

Chucking at his protective, yet playful, response, you pat his arm around your middle with your free hand, “Speaking of the devil, we should probably get going if we don’t want him to kill us both for being late.” Lewis makes a sound of contest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he pulls you closer to himself. “Lu,” you let out a faux-exasperated sigh, “there is being late, and fashionably late, and I’m afraid we are way past the latter.

“Oh, darling,” you hear his breathy voice whisper against your skin as he places a couple of open mouthed kisses onto your exposed skin, “maybe we should stay back, hm? I can show you just how much I like your dress.” With one of his hands splayed on your stomach and his lips greeting your skin ever so often, you gasp when his lips find that one sweet spot he knows that makes your knees week. “Imagine how much fun we can have on our own, here, in our room.”

Throwing your head back to rest on his chest, a breathy chuckle falls from your lips, but you give him a stern look. “As much as I would love to stay back with you, we promised all of our friends we’ll be there.” As you rise up to your toes to give him a soft peck on the lips, you manage to break free from his arms, leaving him with a perpetual pout on his face. “When we get back, Mister Hamilton, you can do whatever you want to me.”

With your offer, the look on his face changes from a pout to a smirk. “Is that a promise, Peaches?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, darling,” you emphasise the word with an exaggerated version of his accent. “It’s a fact,” you return his look with a small smirk on your own as you add, “sir.”

Needless to say, the walk down to the lobby to get into your car is full of tension between the two of you. It’s not like Lewis can’t hold himself back, because he can. He has proven under many circumstances that he can withhold sex from you if he decides to do that. The most recent incident was when he caught you lurking around the Red Bull garage during the last race you’ve attended, which ended with you quite literally having to beg him to fuck you after a week of Lewis not even touching you. The walk down to the lobby is filled with stolen touches and knowing glances, with him trying to get you to kiss him every minute, not caring whether the people around you can hear him or not.

You give him a sideway look when the receptionist tells you that your limo for the night is waiting for you. “A limo?” You raise an eyebrow, looking at him for response.

He simply shrugs a shoulder, leaning down to mumble his response into your ear, “Miles was in charge of the car,” with his fingers giving your waist a firm squeeze, he manages to earn a silent shriek from you, “I’m sure we could do with the extra space, darling.”

“Behave, Lu.” You chastise him, but the corner of your mouth upturns nonetheless and you let Lewis guide you towards the car waiting for you.

Because he is the perfect gentleman he opens your door and helps you into the limo, pressing a lingering kiss on your hand before joining you. The inside of the limo is darker than you expected, but the city lights of Paris do a good enough job of illuminating the car. The condensation on the limo’s windows has your attention and Lewis watches and you trailing your finger along the glass, tracing the line a raindrop left behind. He contemplates, for a second, whether being jealous over a raindrop for commanding your attention could be considered weird or not, but he decides that he doesn’t really care.

He places a hand on your thigh, his touch is both reassuring and possessive, but when you turn your head towards him to look at him, the way he smiles at you and his thumb caresses your knee is incredibly sweet. He is a duality in himself, Lewis is. And you enjoy the way city lights illuminate his face, his smile soft as he leans over the middle of the seat to give you a sweet peck on your lips.

“What was that for?” you ask him, giggling as you place your hand over his on your thigh. He doesn’t answer, only shrugs his shoulders and grins as he pulls away from you, instantly making you seek him out again. You’re about to comment on his suddenly playful mood, when you realise the car is slowly coming to a stop, and you let out a breath of frustration when the driver informs you that you’ve hit traffic. And traffic in Paris on a Friday night? It’s safe to say that both of you know that you are not going anywhere fast.

The overall wait is not that bad, you think. Even though the traffic is crawling at a snail’s pace, you’re more than happy to be in the car where you can be with Lewis without the overwhelming sound of EDM music and sweaty bodies pushing you around in a crowded club. The same, however, cannot be said about your boyfriend.

As time passes and you’re, still, stuck in traffic, you can see Lewis getting more and more frustrated with the situation. You try not to comment on how annoyed he looks and let him have his silent moment of irritation. You gently squeeze his hand, offering a reassuring smile. “It's alright, Lewis. We'll get there eventually.”

He lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I know, I know. It's just... I hate being late.” He lets out another frustrated sigh as he gently pats the empty seat between the two of you. “Can you just come closer, please?”

“Why?” you ask, eyes narrowed down in suspicion as he somehow manages to pull you closer to himself, not that you would try to get out of the situation otherwise – with the amount of times you’ve found yourself suddenly sitting in Lewis’ lap, it’s almost as if you can’t get away from him when he’s next to you. “We can’t do anything,” you whisper in warning when you catch him giving you literal bedroom eyes.

Smirking at the anxious tone of your voice, he lets his hand wander down to your hip as he quickly manoeuvres you into his lap, despite all your warnings, and calls out to the driver loud enough for him to hear his voice, “Hey mate, can you pull up the partition, please?” You hear the sound of the partition going up as Lewis fiddles with the couple of the buttons on the door handle, and soon after you hear the faint sound of music playing in the car. He meets your eyes when you give him a funny look, silently asking him what he’s up to, but he responds with a faint smile as he rests his hand on your lower back.

Rolling your eyes at the antics of the driver sitting, literally, under you, you turn your attention back to the scenery outside the window. Going back to tracing the raindrops falling onto the glass window, you choose to focus on the outside view as best as you can, given the current position you’re in. Although you’ve warned him against it, Lewis’ hand on the lower of your back drawing circles into your skin gives you other ideas you would otherwise choose to ignore in a public setting.

“What are you up to, Lewis?” you ask, lips twitching in a need to smile as you do your best to supress it.

He grins, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark as he gives you an innocent shrug of his shoulder. “Just making the most of the situation, darling.”

Letting out a resigning sigh, you try to focus back on the rain outside, but with Lewis’ hand getting bolder on your lower back and the fact that you find yourself shuffling in your seat with every subtle movement of the car makes it almost impossible to focus on anything but him. Deciding to find out just how much you can get away with, you tilt your head back slightly, your lips hovering near his ear. “Are you trying to start a scandal, Mr. Hamilton?”

He chuckles, the vibrations from his laughter sending a delightful shiver down your spine. “I told you we'd make the most of it, didn't I?” Hid hand continues its teasing dance, eventually dipping lower and even under your dress, and you have to fight the urge to let out a moan at the feeling of his skin on yours. “We can make it into a challenge,” he offers, his voice low as he suggestively whispers on your skin, “see just how scandalous we can be in the back of a limo.”

“What if someone sees?” You mumble, biting the corner of your lip to stop yourself from smiling.

His lips graze the curve of your neck, sending another shiver down your spine. “I thought you liked being watched, Peaches.” You can feel his lips curling into a smirk and a gasp leaves your lips as his hand grabs your thigh, making you shuffle closer to him as a result. “Is that a yes?” Your eyes glance over at the closed up partition, but you nod your head nevertheless, though that doesn’t necessarily satisfy the man beside you. “Words, darling.”

“Yes, please.” The words escape your mouth and your hands slide down his body to work on the zipper of his dress pants. He gives you an amused look as you pull his zipper down, and kneel on the floor between his legs as elegantly as you can given the current situation you’re in. You hear him say your name in warning, giving you a way out, even though he was teasing you about your voyeuristic tendencies – and you might’ve considered taking it, if it weren’t for the fact that having him in your mouth is the only thing you can focus on at the moment. So, instead of pulling yourself up on Lewis’ lap and let him have his way with you, you carefully take his cock out, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on his during the whole process.

Giving him a few gentle strokes, you lean forward to lick the first few drops of precum that drips out of the head of his cock. The hiss he lets out when you take the head of his cock between your lips and suck on it gently makes you smirk, and so you swirl your tongue around the tip to get another reaction out of him. With the way his left hand grabs the door, you know Lewis is trying so hard not to just grab you by your hair and guide you the way he wants to. Humming at the taste of him, you widen your lips to fit more of him in your mouth and wrap both hands around his cock to pump the rest of his cock that you can’t fit into your mouth. As you slowly start bobbing your head up and down on his cock, the sounds leaving his mouth make you want to quicken up your pace, though you refrain from doing so. Maybe you shouldn’t be feeling so turned on by a mere sound of your boyfriend’s pleasure, but you can’t help yourself as you inadvertently rub your thigs together.

You continue the movements of your mouth, taking more of him every time you bob your head down, and Lewis gives in at some point, threading his hands through your hair and guiding you down until the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. “Fuck, Peaches,” his low groan sends tingles down your spine, “just like that.” He looks so beautiful, you think, with his head thrown back and eyes closed.

Your hands work together with your mouth, picking up speed when you realise you have him at your mercy like this – it even makes you wetter, and you feel the wetness between your legs. Your eyes water as a sudden move from Lewis thrusting his hips causes your gag reflex to remind you both that it is there, causing you to pull back with a huff and send a glare his way. But he apologises by caressing the apple of your cheek and easing you back onto his cock.

Your power move, however, doesn’t last long, as Lewis lets out a groan, pulling your head off of him and leaning forward to lift you onto his lap. It’s not necessarily intentional when you grind yourself against his cock, causing both of you to moan simultaneously. Your head is thrown back when you feel his lips gliding on your feverish skin, and you even let out a breathy laugh when your head lulls to the side and you see the handprints he’s left in the mirror. “Lewis,” you whisper, trying to keep your voice low, suddenly very aware of the driver sitting in the front of the car, “if you don’t fuck me now, I think I might explode.”

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs, his hands on your hips lifting you up to position you over his cock. But you have other plans in mind. He lets out a breathy chuckle as you drag your lips over the skin of his neck, tracing his tattoos as you leave feverish kisses along the way. “What are you doing?” He asks, hands busying themselves to get you out of your underwear.

Nipping at his skin, which earns you Lewis squeezing your hip in warning in return, but you give him a pout as you pull back. “You didn’t let me finish you off, you impatient brute.”

“Brute?” He echoes, not able to stop himself from laughing at your choice of words, “Are you going to be a brat, hm?” He is more than happy to play along when you get into these moods, though he also knows how you can get when you don’t get something you want. So when you fix him with a glare of your own, he lets out a deep sigh as he wraps your hair around one of his hands and pull your head back to bare your neck to him. “And to think I thought you were going to be a good girl, I guess that’s my fault.”

The whine that leaves you would’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t for the fact that he has you in the in the palm of his hand. “It’s not fair,” another whine leaves you, and you attempt rolling your hips against his erection resting against you in between your legs, but before you can find a rhythm, he halts your movements by tugging on your hair again. Curling your fingers around his shirt, you huff a breath of annoyance, whining out his name. “I’ll be good,” you promise, and let out a relieved sigh when he lets go of your hair to give you more freedom to move; you thank him with a few kisses.

“I know you will.” Lewis mumbles, hands finding your underwear again, but he quickly becomes frustrated when he realises the position you’re in will make it hard for him to get you out of them. So, taking an executive decision, he decides to rip them off your body. He gives you a look when you whine at the loss of your favourite pair, and he tries to salve the situation with a promise of buying you another pair. When you feel him between your legs, without any barriers this time, he is not surprised to see your immediate reaction. Though Lewis enjoys when you take control, he is impatient as he raises your hips, despite all your protest, and positions you over his cock.

You only have a few moments to adjust when he eventually lowers you onto his cock, and the initial stretch has you gasping out his name. He gives you a few minutes to adjust before slowly starting to move your hips, each move making you take him deeper until he’s buried to the hilt in you. One of your hands is pressed to the window for support out of reflex, trying to keep still as he uses the grip he has on your hips to move you in the rhythm he wants. It matches the mood pretty well, you think, everything is rushed and the sounds of the traffic and the music playing surrounding you becomes muffled as the pleasure takes over your body. You have to physically stop yourself from screaming every time he slams you down on his cock, faster and harder each time, relentless as he watches your face contort with pleasure.

Trying your best to match his thrusts, you grind your clit on every down stroke, making him somehow go even deeper, and making you moan even louder. There is an arrogant smirk on his face that you would love to wipe off, but with the way he’s making you feel, you decide to get him away with it. Dragging your hands down his shirt, you suddenly feel offended by the fact that he is covering his chest, and decide to get him out of it. This plan would’ve worked better if it weren’t for the fact that you end up ripping the buttons rather than being gentler with it. Not that Lewis complains about it, since this is most definitely not the first time something like this has happened. Your hands work on their own as you glide them through the smooth skin, slightly damp due to the warm temperature of the car, but every contact with his skin seems to make you roll your hips faster and harder.

He has to close one of his hands over your mouth since the moans that leave you get considerably higher in volume with every waking second. His lips curl up in a smile as you silently beg him with your eyes, your movements becoming sloppier with every down stroke. “I’m going to remove my hand and help you come, but you’re going to be a good girl and keep quiet, okay?” His voice carries a warning tone, and you frantically nod, assuring him that you’ll follow his instructions.

Keeping true to his word Lewis takes away his hand, making you take a deep breath as he grabs your hips. His hold on your hips is bruising, and you’re certain you’ll have marks to remember tonight for a while – especially with the way he uses his hold to move you on his cock in a rhythm he wants to. It doesn’t take you a long time to feel the overwhelming pleasure starting to build up in your lower stomach. “Please,” you whine, nails biting into his skin as your other hand is splayed over the window for support, “I’m so close.”

“Come on,” Lewis encourages you, hands working you over his cock even faster to get you where you need to be, “give it to me, I got you.” And with him looking at you like that, using your body however he wants to? It doesn’t take long for you to feel yourself coming around him, head thrown back and lips parted in a silent scream. With a last thrust, you feel him also spill himself into you, the act being greatly intimate despite the current predicament you’re both in at that moment.

A sound of surprise leaves the back of your throat when he begins to move under you, positioning you to stand on all fours as he positions himself behind you. “Wha– What are you doing?” You ask, craning your neck to look at him with hazy eyes.

“Oh, Peaches,” he coos, one of his hands caressing your skin down your thighs and up towards your hip again, “did you think we were done? We still have a long way back to the hotel.”

“But, the club?” You find yourself asking, cheeks burning when he uses his finger to push the wetness dripping out of you back in.

“We were never going to make it to that club anyway,” Lewis drags his lips up your spine until he reaches your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck before whispering, “what do you think? Should we make the most out of the way back?”

Your eyes slide towards the handprints left on the window, the Paris lights shining through the streaks both of your handprints have left behind. Maybe under different circumstances you would’ve insisted you go to the club to meet with your friends. But at that moment? You instinctively push your hips back onto his, and feel his smile on your skin as he runs his hands through your body, ready for another round simply because you two can’t keep away from each other.

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