#“its a different world / its deeper than its been” >>> “different blue”

[rindreamery]

it's just instinct, all i want is you.

how long it takes for the blue lock men to realize you’re the one. featuring: itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, michael kaiser, oliver aiku ─ content: fluff, suggestive

note. desperate and yearning hcs next??? who knows

it takes itoshi rin 6 months.

rin likes to think that he’s slow and deliberate with his relationships— that he’s not the type to have such decisive thoughts about someone so early on. he’s spent years building up a wall to protect his feelings, and he’s not about to let a (potentially fleeting) person ruin what he's worked so hard to maintain. he's only been with you for 6 months, and he has his doubts about whether you would want to stick around. but all it takes is, “i’m so proud of you, rin,” and his world is completely tilted off its axis.

he tries to tell himself that it's nothing; he's been complimented by other people before.

you probably didn't even think much of it when you told him. it’s just a simple phrase, one of many that people say without thinking. but it's different, it's special, when it's coming from you. your words repeat in his head, like some mantra. it's like his senses are overwhelmed by you. he finds himself focusing solely on your voice, the way you look at him with such gentle eyes, the sincerity behind your words— you. it’s scary how much it affects him. it rattles something deep inside of him, and it shakes him to his core.

he doesn't want to hear it from anyone else, he quickly realizes. those praises don't mean much when it's not coming from you. they don't make him feel unstoppable, like he’s on some high that he’ll never be able to get down from. and he's hit with a jarring realization—

“say it again,” he's standing in front of you, ignoring the incessant flashing of cameras that surrounds him and the deafening cheers of the crowd. he's only looking at you.

“i’m so proud of you,” your voice is quiet, but all he can hear is you, “rin.”

—he's fallen for you, much deeper than he thought he would. he’d be damned if he let you slip away.

it takes itoshi sae 1 year and 3 months.

sae had no intention of falling in love with you. needless to say, his affection for you wasn’t some calculated move. the thought of liking you hadn’t even crossed his mind, and he’s not even sure if he’d ever considered you as a friend. you’ve just been around for long enough that he’s stopped questioning it, that he’s grown to tolerate your presence. at least, that’s what he tells himself. he lets you come over when you want, eat all the snacks in his pantry, use his netflix account— to everyone else, you’re basically a couple. before he knows it, you’ve settled into his life the way a familiar song gets stuck in his head without him noticing.

it’s hard to deny the noticeable shift in sae’s behavior whenever he’s around you.

the way the frown on sae’s face vanishes to a more passive state whenever he’s talking to you, and he's much less irritated at the aspect of having to answer your random (but stupid, in his opinion) questions. he’s not aware, but a part of him subconsciously looks forward to it. “would you still love me if i was a worm?” comes another one of your stupid questions, and he answers without thinking.

“yeah.” the expression on his face remains the same, he’s as indifferent as he always is. but his answer takes both of you by surprise. under his cool facade, his mind is scrambling to make sense of his answer, as if he hadn’t expected himself to say such a thing.

you’re flustered, and it’s evident in the way you stumble over your words. a part of you begins to wonder if that was simply a figment of your imagination, like some hallucination from sleep deprivation. “what— huh?”

so he plays it off, he acts as if he meant to say it. “you heard what i said.” he realizes his heart had decided on you longer than he’d ever been aware of.

it takes nagi seishiro 3 months.

nagi’s used to being alone— he’s used to neglecting himself and every aspect of his life because no one is there to tell him not to do so. he’s not used to having someone be a constant in his life, to have someone who isn’t thrown off by his apathetic and lazy attitude. sometimes he wonders if he acts this way to keep people out, and he wonders why you choose to stay despite. but slowly, you color your way into his bleak routine.

at first, it’s subtle. you linger around him, but your presence isn’t demanding for his attention. you’re there, but you let him be.

and then your presence becomes something a little more prominent. he starts to notice the little post-it notes you leave in his locker, and how you remember to sneak in his favorite snacks. or how his pillows start to smell like your shampoo, and the way he becomes used to having you there in his living room as he plays video games. or even the fact that he finds himself waiting by the gate when classes end, and how he doesn’t mind being pushed around by the crowd as he searches for you in the endless sea of students so he could walk with you. so he could be with you.

he starts to feel like he’s truly living, like there’s something to look forward to every day.

when you say, “see you tomorrow,” he deflates at your words. it’s a weird feeling— he feels weird at the thought that he doesn’t like being alone anymore. that he misses you in the way he misses his phone. he feels bored without you there, and a part of him feels so empty when he doesn’t have you beside him.

when he drops you off at home that day, he realizes it feels strange to be alone again— “can you stay with me?”— he needs to be with you.

it takes michael kaiser 7 months.

kaiser lets his ego get in the way of his relationships. he thinks he can have anyone he wants, and that's why he wholeheartedly believes that he's above the idea of yearning for someone. the idea of wanting someone so much that his thoughts would be consumed by them, and only them? it’s unimaginable. he’s used to being admired, worshipped even, by others. he doesn’t need anyone— he doesn’t need you.

so the prick of irritation he feels, when he sees you laughing at another man’s jokes, catches him off-guard.

it shatters his pride, and he tries to ignore the heat that bubbles under his skin. but he can’t ignore the feeling of possessiveness that washes over him at the sight. you’ve always been his— the heated touches, the way you wear his cologne on your skin, the way you linger around him like it’s natural. you're mine, he always thinks to himself, but he never says it out loud. he’s above yearning— but the idea of you being with someone else makes him feel sick. and he’s not about to let another man take you away.

“come with me.” his voice is sharp and demanding, his mere presence filling the space with an unspoken challenge. but before you can speak, kaiser’s gripping your wrist, pulling you into him without another word of explanation. you don’t fight him, you don’t fight the excitement that it brings you. there’s something in his gaze, something so possessive and raw, that makes you follow him wordlessly. you’re mine, the thought echoes in his mind and for the first time in months, he can’t deny the feeling that has been brewing under the surface.

he yearns for you, and he’ll never let anyone strip this feeling away from him.

it takes oliver aiku 4 years and 2 months.

oliver would never deny the fact that he enjoys having you around. but you’re simply his friend— nothing less, and definitely nothing more than that. you’ve been in his life for years now, lingering in his orbit in a way that keeps you both close, but so far. you’re a constant in his life because he doesn’t need to act around you. he never needs to impress you, never needs to win you over with sugary words. you’ve never given him the typical attention he’s used to, the type of attention that he naturally demands. and that bothers him in a way he won’t admit. yet, it’s this disinterest that pulls at him like gravity. it keeps him coming back, keeps him by your side.

but he doesn’t want anything more from you— he doesn’t need it. it’s these words that keeps him from tainting you.

he doesn't like the dangerous and greedy feeling of wanting to have more of you, wanting to see you in ways that no one else has, and that dangerous feeling that makes him want to devote himself to you wholly. and that’s what gets to him. he’s used to being the one in control, the one who dictates the terms.

it's a futile attempt, he realizes. it's always been you who's had the upper hand.

he can no longer deny that he wants you, more than he’s ever wanted anyone. no one else has his heart racing ‘til he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, no one else has him hooked in the way you’ve been stringing him along. and suddenly, all those meaningless flings feel like distractions, like he’s been wasting time when what he really wants is right in front of him.

it’s not about lust, not about the chase—he just wants you. and this time, he’s not about to let fear or pride hold him back.

© rindreamery, 2024

[shouyuus]

18+, pitfighter!vi brainrot, bc its girl-dinner time tw: sorta smut, sorta obsessive!vi, codependent relationship, not quite yandere but the vibes r kinda there, but still fluffy bc im me duh

pitfighter!vi who fucks you like she's trying to leave a part of herself inside you, who holds you so hard that the next morning, you wake up to the blue-tinted ghosts of her fingers along your hips and thighs, the dull blossoming bruises littering your neck and shoulders, rings in the shape of her teeth like strange, demented flowers (or perhaps like footprints) the way they trail along your skin, inked there for all to see.

pitfighter!vi who fights like she's trying to break everyone else in the same way she wishes she were broken herself, all fevered, focused rage, and none of the restraint. no patience, only the blunted sting of a punch well-aimed, an elbow to the ribs, a knee to the groin, spit trailing out the edge of her mouth, a grin crooked and bloody hinged between her lips bc she knows when she looks up and scans the crowd, she'll inevitably find you there, watching her with your wide, alluring eyes.

pitfighter!vi who thinks she knows the depths and widths of hunger, has seen and felt it all, growing up in the lanes, and there are so many different kinds, aren't there? the kind that aches dull and deep in the stomach, the kind that claws and roars open in her chest, the kind that tingles like spider-poison all along the length of her spine. still, she's never quite felt a hunger like this -- the kind that threatens to consume her from the inside out the first time she sees you, and at first, it might've been a wholly vindictive thing -- perhaps its because there'd been something in the shadow of your smile that reminds her of -- well, it doesn't matter.

but the first time she kisses you (in the crush of bodies on a crowded dance floor, the music too loud, the bottom of her boots tacky with spilled drinks and blood and whatever else), you'd run your thumb along the line of her jaw so gently, traced the lines of her face with a touch so soft it ran a fissure through her car-alarm heart, and when she'd pulled away, you'd smiled as if she'd given you something other than just the jagged, broken bits of herself.

later, you'd told her that you still appreciated it then. bc it looked like that was all she could afford to give; and she gave it to you anyway.

pitfighter!vi who does not think she will ever get enough of you, and still, the more she gets, the more you give, the deeper the hunger grows. it yawns open inside her, huge and dark and cavernous, carving into her the more that it's fed, and by the gods do you feed it -- the way your head tilts back to allow her access to the smooth expanses of your throat, the darling, moon-lit landscape of your bare chest and shoulders, the way you're so pliant beneath her, your trust pouring from you like drink. and she drinks. and drinks. and drinks.

drinks till she's head-dizzy and heart-full. drinks till her vision blurs but for the sight of you, the shape of you so familiar to her waking moments it does not shock her in the least the first time she wakes up in the morning to the after-images of you in her dreams.

pitfighter!vi who, for the first time in her life thought she had lost all direction, but now -- she feels like at least there's still someone worth protecting, worth fighting for. and she knows, she knows it's not entirely healthy, how much and how hard she falls for you, knows that perhaps it is not the best thing for a woman like her to make someone like you the still-point of her turning universe, you, who manages to shine despite the grime that collects in the city around you. you, who is softness made into an act of defiance, who, one night, curled against her side, told her that there's a certain vindication to smiling in the face of a world who would love nothing more than to rip the joy, bleeding and raw from your throat.

"it's not always easy... actually," you laugh, the sound sweet as spring water as it trickles over her skin, "it's really fucking hard but... why not do it anyway?"

"what, be happy?" her own voice is low and cracked from the fight earlier that night. but you'd kissed a line down her throat and told her that you loved it when she moaned.

"yeah. if the whole world wants us sad and angry... what bigger fuck you is there than to be... happy?"

pitfighter!vi who lets you draw the dark lines down her cheeks, but they're neater than she'd done them herself, who kisses your fingertips when they're stained with the black of her hair-dye, who laughs fully for the first time in... she doesn't even remember how long, when you lean forward and trace a tiny mustache with the leftover ink on your fingers right over her mouth. who sinks into the sound of your laughter like a warm bath, letting it soak into her sore muscles, unspool the tension coiled in her shoulders, the rictus threatening to settle in the set of her knuckles.

she lets you sooth over the harms and hurts that had followed behind her, nipping at her heels like disobedient dogs her whole life, lets you kiss her brows and pull her behind you as you point at the new graffiti art that wasn't there the week before.

pitfighter!vi who has always had a fierce love for zaun because it's her home, but has never stopped to consider just how beautiful of a place it is until she meets you -- and it is beautiful, an angry, pulsing, rebellious beauty, raw and dripping with shimmer-soaked ichor. a beauty carved of disparate limbs and desperate parts, one that is hard-earned and well-fought, the same beauty found in the darkest hours of night, right before the morning dawns, the same beauty she finds reflected back at her when she sees her blurred reflection in a pool of spilt blood on the fighting pit's arena floor.

zaun hums to the tune of debauchery, and for the first time, she's with someone who allows her to be greedy, allows her the breadth and width of wanting so freely. and she thinks it might be spiraling into a full-blown obsession, the way she can't go three seconds without thinking about you, wondering where you are, what you're doing, what you're up to. and you always tell her, tell her about the flowers you saw growing from a crack in the sidewalk, the shaft of sunlight hitting a shard of broken glass in just the right way, how sometimes if you close your eyes and listen, the ticking and clicking noises that run like a baseline thrum through the entire city almost sounds like birdsong.

pitfighter!vi who can't say she's ever fallen properly in love (she thinks that perhaps, once, she got real close), but wonders if this is what it feels like, to feel the void of your physical absence like the itch of a phantom limb, so she does everything she can to keep you close, glares at people if their eyes linger too long on you as the pair of you walk down the street, doubles down on her training regime so that she can fend of anyone who even breathes wrong in your direction.

who can't help pouting every time you pull away to do anything -- to grab another bag of snacks, to ask the bartender for another drink, to listen to something loris is saying -- she has to tamp down the urge to pull you back, to meld you to her side and never let go.

pitfighter!vi who starts to get more strategic with her fights, who saves up money now bc she wants to take you out to dinner, or just buy you nice things once in a while. who spends way too many hexes and cogs on a bouquet of fresh flowers, ones that aren't tainted or bred with the faint, sickly shine of shimmer, and she thinks its all worth it to watch the smile break across your face like dawn over a brand new day -- brilliant, blinding.

she blinks, watching with a fond smile as you fuss over the flowers in your tiny apartment, the space small but cozy, everything neat and in its place. you put the flowers into a tall, slightly chipped glass mug and set them by the window, admiring them from this angle, then that.

"y'like them, angel?"

you nod, grinning as you throw your arms around her, "i love them, vi! i love them so much!"

"good. i'm glad you like 'em. just..." her voice trails off; you cock your head.

"just, what?"

she shrugs, "ah -- just, i always thought it was sad getting flowers cause... they'll wilt someday, right?"

but when she looks back at you, still caught up in her arms, you're still smiling. and there's a fox-fire glint in your eyes that makes something in her stomach twist hot.

"well, there's one kind of flower that won't wilt that i wouldn't mind having here all the time..."

vi blinks, a dry heat creeping up the back of her throat, her heart a wild, fluttering thing caught beneath her cage of ribs.

"yeah?" her voice is hoarse as she swallows around the hope pooling on her tongue like blood. "and what kinda flower is that?"

you lean in, your breath a whisper along her parted lips.

"violets."

pitfighter!vi who moves in three days later, with nothing but some old clothes and her punching bag, which you'd already made room for (somehow) hung up from one of the high rafters in the kitchen, next to the tiny dining table tucked into the corner. who spends the next three days fucking you on every available surface (and some unavailable ones, like against the fridge for instance), telling you that it's only right to christen things now that you're officially living together.

who doesn't bother to wonder if things are moving too fast, and dives in head first because that's the only ways she's ever known to how to do things. who thinks, blithely to herself one night, the warm shape of you curled next to her, sleeping so soundly it almost breaks her heart, that you're probably the first good thing she's ever gotten stuck on -- and she's gotten stuck on a lot of things (fighting, boxing, the guilt, the shame, the anger, the world-ending sorrow of losing it all). its one of the things vander had always warned her about.

"you get into things too hard, kiddo -- gotta learn to pace yourself."

but she doesn't care, because hard's what she was raised on, and it's how she plans on loving you, god, if it's the last thing she does, right or wrong, so be it.

pitfighter!vi who still has her bad nights, still drinks a bit too much sometimes, but at least you're always there to keep her from going too far. and you're the only one who can pull her back, the only one she'll listen to when you tug the drink away from her hands and slide it down the bar towards loris, who'll eye it for a second before downing it and settling up the tab, nodding towards you even as you sling an arm around vi's middle to lead her out of the bar.

who still wakes up screaming some nights, her eyes wide and unseeing, scrabbling at you, tugging you into her if only to bury her face in your shoulder, her whole body wracked with dry-heaving sobs.

"my sister used to think there were monsters under the bed, and make me check down there every night before going to bed," she murmurs, her face inches from yours, her words soft and ever so slightly slurred.

you brush your fingers against her cheek, a comforting, repetative motion -- back and forth, back and forth, till her lashes flutter shut.

"guess she was right... but the monsters never wanna stay under the bed, do they? it's like they always... wanna come out and play..."

you let out a breathy laugh, "or maybe," you offer, your voice low and soothing, "they're just as scared as you are. and they're just looking for someone to scare their own monsters away."

pitfighter!vi who is still not good at slow, but sometimes, when she kisses you, she wishes that had the power to hit pause on time, just so she could stretch out the moment and kiss you forever. she thinks that she'll never be good at patience, but sometimes, when you tell her just gimme a sec! when she's waiting for you to get ready before going out to dinner at jericho's or just for a round of drinks at the bar round the corner, her leaning against the doorway watching as you put the finishing touches of your makeup on yourself in the kitchen mirror -- she thinks she'd give you every last second of the rest of her life if you ever asked her to.

pitfighter!vi who, recently, has really, really started hoping that someday soon, you'll actually ask her to.

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[shortnfreaky]

y/n is also from the 1940s and was married or dating Bucky, but somehow also remains alive, just like Steve and Bucky in the 2010s. Takes place during CATWS where Steve sees Bucky on the bridge and y/n absolutely loses it

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a/n: super proud of this one, i think this is the longest fic i've ever wrote

warnings: angsty, mild violence

word count: 6.3k

masterlist ✶ requests are open!

Come Back To Me

You knew this city would eat you alive the second you stepped back into it. D.C. had changed — hell, the whole world had — but there were still echoes of the past hidden in its bones. Some days you swore you could feel them pressing against your skin like ghosts.

You were leaning against the passenger door of the black S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV, eyes scanning the bridge ahead where Steve had gone running. The mission had gone sideways fast — ambush, confusion, chaos — but Steve was locked in on someone, chasing after a man in a mask like he was seeing a ghost.

And then he stopped.

You saw it before he even said a word. The way his shoulders dropped. The disbelief frozen in his stance.

You shoved the door open, boots hitting pavement hard.

"Steve!" you called, sprinting toward him.

He didn’t look back, just stared.

You followed his gaze. That’s when the world tilted.

The man in black — the one who’d been throwing punches like a machine — turned just slightly, enough to catch the light. Enough for you to see his eyes.

Blue. Familiar. Devastating.

Your breath caught in your throat. No. No, it couldn’t be.

"Bucky?"

His name tore from your chest like it had been caged there for seventy years.

The masked man faltered. Only for a second, but you saw it — a hitch in his step, a tremor in his fingers.

"BUCKY!" you screamed this time, the sound cracking in the air like thunder.

Steve turned toward you, eyes wide, torn between fighting and disbelief. But all you could do was stare. The man with the metal arm paused, stared back at you with something like confusion — pain? — behind that cold expression.

Then he was gone.

You were running before Steve could stop you, heart in your throat, lungs burning, yelling his name like if you said it enough, the Winter Soldier would break and Bucky Barnes would come back to you.

You don’t remember how long you ran — only that your legs finally gave out when you reached the middle of the bridge, breath heaving like a dying engine.

He was gone.

Again.

Steve caught up moments later, his hand catching your elbow before you could collapse completely. His grip was steady, but you could feel the tremble in it.

“Y/N…” he said softly.

You shook him off.

“That was him,” you gasped. “That was Bucky, Steve. Tell me I’m not crazy.”

His eyes locked with yours, and that was all the confirmation you needed. He didn’t say it, didn’t have to. The guilt in his expression carved deeper than any words.

“I didn’t believe it either,” he said, voice rough. “Not at first. But it’s him.”

Your knees hit the pavement before you could stop them. Cold concrete bit through your jeans, but you didn’t care. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, trying to hold back the scream building in your chest.

“Seventy years,” you whispered. “We lost everything. And now—he’s here? He’s alive and he doesn’t even know me?”

Steve crouched beside you, his own face a mask of pain.

“I don’t think he knows anyone, Y/N. He’s… different. Changed.”

“Brainwashed?” you asked, the word feeling like glass in your mouth.

Steve nodded once. “He’s not doing this by choice.”

That didn’t help. If anything, it made your heart splinter further. You had dreamed about this moment — fantasized about finding him again, about his hands in yours, his laugh, his arms around you after so many cold years. But that man wasn’t Bucky Barnes. Not yet.

You wiped your face, standing slowly. The mission, the bridge, the chaos — none of it mattered now. Only one thing did.

“We have to get him back.”

Steve looked at you, determination flickering behind the grief in his eyes.

“We will.”

You turned toward the city skyline, the wind catching the hem of your coat. Somewhere out there, he was walking the streets. A ghost in black, carrying a name he no longer remembered.

But you’d never stopped remembering.

And you sure as hell weren’t going to lose him again.

Flashback – Brooklyn, 1943

The radio crackled in the corner, playing some Ella Fitzgerald tune you’d heard a dozen times but never tired of. It was soft, warm, the kind of sound that wrapped around your ribs like a lullaby. The tiny apartment smelled faintly of old books, coffee, and the cheap vanilla candle Bucky always teased you about.

He was on the couch, head resting in your lap, hair a mess from your fingers combing through it. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, mouth curled in the faintest smile.

“You keep doin’ that,” he murmured, voice low and lazy, “I might fall asleep and miss roll call.”

You arched a brow. “You saying I’m more dangerous than the Army?”

He chuckled, that warm, boyish sound that always made your heart stutter. “I’m saying if I had to choose between the two, I’d take this any day.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers didn’t stop moving. “They’d court-martial you for that, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Worth it,” he said simply, cracking one eye open to look at you.

And for a moment, the war didn’t exist. The headlines, the rations, the aching fear of tomorrow — it all faded under the weight of that look. You leaned down, brushing your nose against his, smiling when his arms instinctively looped around your waist.

“What are you thinking about?” you whispered.

He hesitated. That was new — Bucky Barnes didn’t usually hesitate.

Then, quieter than before: “You. The future. I keep picturing us in some house out in the country. Maybe a little dog. You’d grow tomatoes, or something equally wholesome. I’d build the porch swing.”

Your chest tightened. “Bucky…”

“I know it’s dumb,” he said quickly. “There’s a war. The world’s gone sideways. But it keeps me grounded, y’know? Thinking about it. About us.”

You kissed his forehead, your voice barely a breath. “It’s not dumb. It’s the only thing that makes any of this bearable.”

He sat up then, pulling you into his lap, arms strong and sure around you.

“I don’t care what happens out there,” he said. “You and me—we're real. That’s what I hold on to.”

Back to Present

You could still feel the ghost of his arms around you, the smell of that dusty apartment, the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

Now, all you had was silence.

But you weren’t going to let him stay a ghost.

Not again.

Flashback – 1945, After the Fall

The moment Steve walked into the room, you knew something was wrong.

He was covered in snow and soot, his eyes hollow, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might crack. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there in the doorway like a soldier who hadn’t quite made it back from the front.

You rose slowly from your chair, heart thudding like a war drum in your chest.

“Where’s Bucky?”

Steve didn’t answer.

“Steve,” you said again, louder this time. “Where is he?”

He looked at you then. And that was all it took.

The silence between you collapsed in on itself. The air left your lungs. Your knees buckled.

“No,” you whispered, backing away as if you could outrun the truth. “No. You’re wrong. He’s not—he’s not gone.”

Steve moved toward you, but you shook your head violently.

“He can’t be,” you choked. “I just saw him. You said you were going after Zola, not—he wasn’t even supposed to be there!”

“He came with us,” Steve said, his voice rough. “He volunteered. I tried to grab him. I swear to God, I tried—”

But the rest of his words dissolved into static. Your ears were ringing. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“He promised me,” you said, to no one in particular. “He said he’d come back. He said—he promised.”

You stumbled backward into the table, knocking over a mug of cold tea. The crash barely registered.

Steve was crying now too, silently, like a man who didn’t think he deserved to grieve.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You stared at the wall, the gray paint swimming behind your tears.

The world didn’t explode. It didn’t go silent. It just kept turning. And somehow, that was the worst part.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t collapse. You simply sat down, numb, and curled in on yourself like something fragile that had been dropped and hadn’t yet shattered.

Because if you let it in—if you really believed it—then it meant you’d never hear his voice again. Never feel his touch. Never get the life you’d both dreamed of in stolen moments between gunfire and whispered kisses.

And you weren’t ready for that.

You never would be.

Present Day – Safehouse

The safehouse was barely more than a rundown brownstone wedged between two abandoned row homes in the outskirts of the city, but after the bridge ambush, it might as well have been a fortress.

You sat curled up in the corner of the room, an old blanket draped over your shoulders even though the June air was thick and warm. The adrenaline had long since faded, but the tremors hadn't. You could still see him—Bucky—in your mind’s eye. The mask. The eyes. The second of hesitation when he heard your voice.

It had been real. Not a hallucination. Not some twisted dream.

He was alive.

Natasha stood at the window, eyes scanning the empty street below. Sam was at the table, cleaning a scratch on his cheek and stealing occasional glances at you like he wasn’t sure what to say.

Steve was pacing, arms crossed tight over his chest, his jaw locked.

“We need to figure out our next move,” Natasha said quietly. “Whoever he’s working for—they’re smart. They’ll move him again, fast.”

“He’s not a weapon,” you said, your voice hoarse. “He’s Bucky.”

Sam looked over. “You knew him before? Like—before all of this?”

You nodded, blinking hard. “Since I was nineteen. We were—” Your voice broke before you could say in love. You swallowed it. “We were together. Back in the ‘40s. Before the war took everything.”

Sam leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Damn.”

“I saw something in his eyes,” you continued, mostly to yourself. “Just for a second. He knew me. I don’t care how deep they’ve buried him—he’s still in there.”

Steve finally stopped pacing. “Then we’re going to get him back.”

You looked up. “How?”

“We start with the files Natasha pulled,” Steve said, already moving toward the duffel bag by the door. “There’s intel in there. Names. Patterns. Maybe even something on HYDRA’s hit list.”

“I want in,” you said, standing. “You’re not shutting me out of this, Steve. Not after everything.”

He gave you a look—protective, guilty, older somehow than the boy you remembered from the war. “I wasn’t going to.”

Natasha turned from the window, voice sharp. “Then we better move fast. Because if HYDRA knows Bucky flinched on that bridge, they’re going to double down on whatever control they have over him.”

You felt your pulse rise again. The idea of them punishing him for hesitating—because of you—made your stomach turn.

“No,” you said quietly. “We find him before they do.”

Steve gave a tight nod. “Then let’s get to work.”

Safehouse – Upstairs Hallway – 2:07 AM

The floorboards creaked as you stepped quietly out of the room. You hadn’t slept — you didn’t think you could — not with the image of Bucky’s face behind that mask burned into your eyelids.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the weak glow of a streetlamp filtering through the dusty window. You expected to be alone, but there he was — Steve — leaning against the far wall like a ghost out of time. Same as you.

He looked up when you approached. He didn’t speak, just motioned to the spot beside him. You sat.

Silence stretched between you. Not uncomfortable — just full. Heavy.

After a long moment, Steve finally spoke, his voice low. “Do you ever think about how different it should’ve been?”

You nodded slowly. “All the time.”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “I used to picture it sometimes. You and Buck, maybe a place up in Brooklyn. Me stopping by with pie or something. You’d make fun of my haircut. He’d pretend he wasn’t soft for you.”

Your throat tightened. “I pictured it, too. Holidays. Maybe a kid or two. Growing old together, instead of… whatever this is.”

Steve looked down at his hands. “I keep thinking—if I hadn’t let him come with me on that mission…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Steve.” You turned toward him, voice firmer than you felt. “You think I haven’t played that same tape a thousand times? Rewritten a hundred different versions of how it could’ve gone? None of them change what happened.”

He met your eyes, his own full of pain. “But maybe we can change what happens next.”

You nodded slowly. “We have to.”

The silence settled again, softer this time. The two of you — soldiers out of time, clinging to the memory of a boy who never stopped fighting.

After a while, Steve spoke again, barely above a whisper.

“You know, for what it’s worth… I think seeing you shook something loose in him.”

You blinked hard. “You really think so?”

“I know it. I saw it in his eyes. It wasn’t just confusion. It was recognition. You were always his anchor.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned your head gently against his shoulder, and he let you. The two of you stayed like that for a while — not speaking, not moving — just breathing, remembering, and hoping.

HYDRA Facility

The restraints were cold.

Not that he noticed anymore.

Bucky sat in the chair — no, The Chair — eyes glazed, muscles tight, jaw locked. His breathing was shallow, mechanical, like everything else they’d turned him into.

He could feel the blood drying on his knuckles. He wasn’t sure if it was from the fight or from scratching at his palm again.

They’d given him gloves once, to stop that. He’d taken them off.

Control, they said. Discipline.

But something was wrong. Ever since the bridge. Ever since—

A voice. A scream.

“Bucky!”

The name echoed like a bullet in a tunnel. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it did.

He’d flinched. He’d stopped.

And now he was here.

Footsteps echoed on the concrete. A familiar voice followed — cold, clinical.

“Subject has shown signs of destabilization. Memory drift triggered by auditory stimuli — code designation: Rogers, S. and y/l/n, y/n."

Y/l/n. y/n. That was you.

A flash of your face — eyes wide, voice cracking. That sound—his name on your lips—had cut deeper than any bullet ever could.

A memory surfaced before he could stop it.

Laughter. A candle burning low on a nightstand. Fingers running through his hair.

“Promise me you’ll come back to me, James.”

“I will.”

Then darkness.

Then screams.

He yanked at the restraints. Not like a soldier. Like an animal.

“Prep the wipe,” the technician said flatly.

“No,” Bucky growled — he growled, not the Soldier, not the ghost in the mirror — Bucky.

But they were already fitting the mouth guard in, already turning dials, already reciting numbers and codes that made his skin crawl.

“You’re going to forget again,” the man in the lab coat said. “You always do.”

Bucky thrashed once. “Don’t—please—don’t take her—”

Whirrrrrr-click.

The machine powered up.

Pain bloomed behind his eyes.

Then—

Silence.

His mind went white. Clean. Scrubbed.

Not gone. Just buried.

Deep.

Far beneath ice and steel and obedience.

Safehouse – Your POV

The table was a mess of files, cracked USB drives, and scattered coffee cups. The air was thick with tension, punctuated only by the rustling of papers and the soft click-click of Natasha’s keyboard as she sifted through encrypted files.

You stood behind Steve’s shoulder, scanning the contents of a mission dossier he held. Grainy photos. Redacted names. Cold-blooded precision.

All the missions Bucky had been sent on.

All the people he’d been turned loose on.

You hated this. Every word on every page felt like a betrayal of who he was — of the man who once brought you flowers after night patrol, who kissed your wrist when he thought you weren’t looking, who wrote you letters he never sent.

“He was in Odessa three years ago,” Natasha said, flipping her screen toward you. “This one… this was me.”

She didn’t say more. Didn’t have to. The silence that followed said enough.

Steve ran a hand through his hair. “They’ve used him all over the world. Every time someone steps out of line, HYDRA pulls the trigger through him.”

You leaned closer. “But he’s always pulled back after. They clean him up, lock him away, make him forget. That means they have a base nearby. Somewhere permanent.”

Sam tapped the edge of a folder. “These drop points. Vienna. Kiev. Casablanca. But then here—”

He pointed to a red circle on a faded map.

“D.C.”

You blinked. “That’s close.”

Natasha nodded. “Too close. If HYDRA’s rebuilding inside S.H.I.E.L.D., they don’t need to move him far. Especially not after that bridge screw-up.”

Steve stiffened. “They’ll punish him for it.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. You could feel it—somewhere out there, he was being torn apart again. Because he hesitated. Because he remembered you.

Because of you.

“Okay,” Sam said, pushing away from the table. “So we find the bunker, the lab, the facility—whatever they’re using. Get in, pull Barnes out, burn it to the ground.”

Steve looked at you. “You ready for that?”

You looked back at him, your voice steady. “I was ready the moment I saw his face.”

Natasha gave you a rare, flickering smirk. “Then let’s go wake up the Winter Soldier.”

Abandoned Warehouse – Edge of D.C. – Just Before Dawn

The sky outside was still dark, a heavy kind of silence hanging over the city like fog. Inside the warehouse, lit only by flickering fluorescent strips and the red glow of a heater in the corner, you moved through the room like a ghost.

The team was suiting up — each in their own rhythm.

Steve checked his shield with the precision of a surgeon. Natasha loaded her Widow’s Bites without a word, fingers dancing over the metal with silent grace. Sam adjusted his EXO pack and goggles, every movement efficient, methodical. No one spoke much.

Too much to say, too dangerous to let it out.

You sat on a bench beside the weapons case, your jacket unzipped, hands resting in your lap — steady, but only just. Your mind was already there, in that HYDRA facility. With him.

Bucky.

You didn’t know what version of him you’d find. The soldier. The shell. Or the man you remembered.

Steve walked over, crouching in front of you, elbows on his knees.

“You don’t have to do this.”

You gave him a sharp look. “I’m not sitting this out, Steve.”

“I know. That’s not what I meant.” He paused, searching your face. “I mean… if this goes wrong. If he doesn’t know you — or worse, if he does and can’t fight it…”

You swallowed hard. “Then I keep talking. I don’t stop. I’ll say his name a thousand times until something breaks through.”

Steve nodded slowly. “I believe you.”

Across the room, Natasha’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “We move in quiet. Small team. Sam takes the air, eyes on the perimeter. Steve and I draw them out at the front. You go in through the service tunnel. That’s where they bring assets in and out. If they’re hiding him — that’s your door.”

Your breath caught. “Alone?”

“Not alone,” Steve said, squeezing your hand. “But first. You’ll be the one he sees.”

Your heartbeat was thunder in your ears. Not from fear. From hope. Raw, wild, terrifying hope.

Sam gave you a small, encouraging smile. “You got this, soldier.”

You stood slowly, zipping up your jacket and checking your sidearm — more for show than necessity. If it came down to weapons, something had already gone wrong.

You were counting on words. Memory. Love.

The door groaned as it opened.

Steve looked at you, eyes clear, voice quiet. “Let’s bring him home.”

HYDRA Headquarters

The halls were metal and silence.

Your boots echoed against the floor as you slipped deeper into the belly of the beast, weaving through shadows and locked doors. The corridors were empty — too empty. As if they already knew you were coming.

You clutched the flash drive tight in your palm. Steve and Natasha were up top, getting ready to blow the lid off everything — HYDRA, Project Insight, Pierce’s plan. Sam was keeping the skies busy.

But this?

This part was yours.

According to Natasha’s intel, there was a holding bay just beyond the armory — where assets were kept between deployments. If they hadn’t moved him again…

Your stomach clenched. You reached the security door and pressed the override device she’d given you.

Beep. Click.

The door hissed open.

Dim lights flickered overhead. The room was cold. A wall of lockers lined one side, while a reinforced containment cell sat on the other. Inside, hunched on a bench, was him.

Bucky.

His hair was damp, face partially shadowed. The harness and black tactical gear clung to him like a second skin. He stared at the floor, hands braced on his knees. They hadn’t put the mask back on.

You stepped inside, slow. Careful. Like approaching a wounded animal.

He looked up.

Recognition flared across his face. Just for a second. Barely a breath. Then—

His expression snapped back to neutral. Blank. Cold.

“Don’t come any closer.”

The voice was his. Rough, deeper than it used to be, but still his.

You took one step forward anyway. “James.”

That made him flinch.

You softened your voice. “You know me. I know you do.”

He stood slowly, the mechanical arm whirring faintly. His hand curled into a fist.

“I don’t know you.”

“You do,” you whispered. “It’s me. From Brooklyn. From the war. From the train.”

Something cracked in his gaze. His breathing hitched.

“I…” His brow furrowed. “I had a train…”

“Yes. You fell. You nearly died.” Your voice broke. “And I lost you. I grieved you. But you’re here. You’re alive, and you are not their weapon.”

He shook his head, stepping back. “Stop talking.”

You stepped forward again. “I remember the letters you used to write me. The first time you kissed me. The way you held my hand like you were afraid to let go.”

“Stop it.”

His voice echoed, sharp, breaking — but his gun wasn’t raised. His body didn’t move to strike. He was shaking.

You were getting through.

“I never let go,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “Not even when they told me you were dead. I never stopped waiting for you.”

His arm twitched. His jaw clenched. His eyes locked on yours — and this time, they stayed.

“I don’t know who I am,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t know what’s real.”

You reached for him, hand trembling. “Then hold on to me. Just for now.”

He stared at your hand. Long. And then—

Alarms.

The moment shattered like glass.

Shouts echoed down the corridor. Gunfire in the distance. Sam’s voice crackling over comms. HYDRA had spotted them. Everything was falling apart.

Bucky’s head whipped toward the door. The conditioning kicked in like a switch being flipped — the vulnerability in his eyes vanished. The Soldier returned.

But his hand still hadn’t reached for his weapon.

You met his gaze one last time. “I’m not leaving you here. I’m going to come back for you.”

His eyes flickered — just for a heartbeat — and then you were gone, slipping back into the smoke and chaos, heart pounding.

HYDRA Headquarters – Holding Cell – Minutes Later

The door slammed shut behind you.

And still, he stood there.

Frozen. Shaking.

His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his fingers flexing restlessly at his sides — flesh and metal both twitching with phantom sensations. His shoulder ached. His head ached.

He didn’t know why.

He should have called for backup. Should have moved. Should have picked up the rifle at his feet.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He stared at the space where you had stood. The imprint of you still lingered in the air — your voice, soft and broken. Your scent, familiar in a way that made something deep inside him hurt.

“I remember the train…”

The words had come out before he understood them. And you — you had known.

You said his name like no one else did. Not a handler. Not a target. Like a person.

James.

He took a step back and hit the wall behind him. His legs gave out and he slid to the floor, head in his hands.

He could hear gunfire in the distance. Shouting. Explosions. Somewhere above, chaos reigned.

But down here, there was only silence.

And you.

The memory of you flooded in like water through a broken dam.

He saw flashes — fragmented and warped, like dreams:

You standing on a stoop in Brooklyn, arms crossed, calling him out for being late.

The feel of your fingers brushing his jaw after a bad mission.

Dancing. Just once. In the dark, to a song playing down the block.

A kiss before shipping out. Your lips trembling against his.

And then—

Snow. Ice. Screaming. The train. The fall.

He clutched his head tighter, nails digging into his scalp. He wanted it to stop. He wanted it to stay.

He didn’t know which.

For the first time in years, the Soldier didn’t know what to do.

He had been reset, reprogrammed, controlled.

But this… this wasn’t programming.

This was pain.

This was memory.

This was love.

And it scared the hell out of him.

He stayed on the floor for a long time, shaking, silent, still listening for your voice in the dark.

Time Skip - Insight Helicarrier

The air shook with gunfire and explosions as the helicarrier groaned beneath its own crumbling weight.

Smoke curled through the corridors. The floor pitched beneath your feet. You could barely hear Steve through the comms anymore — the signal kept cutting in and out — but you kept moving, ducking under broken beams and weaving through debris, trying to find him.

Trying to find him.

Steve.

Bucky.

You rounded the corner into the control deck just in time to see Steve thrown against a metal wall. The impact made you wince, but he was already scrambling back to his feet.

Bucky advanced slowly, methodically — like a machine. Rifle in one hand, blade in the other, the cold focus in his eyes lit only by the emergency strobes flashing red across the deck.

“Steve!” you shouted.

Bucky’s head jerked toward your voice.

Recognition. Confusion. Then the programming returned.

You ran toward them, but Steve threw a hand out to stop you — Don’t, his eyes pleaded. Let me try.

So you watched, your heart breaking, as Steve lowered his shield — again.

“I’m not going to fight you,” Steve said, breathless, bloodied, but standing tall. “You know me.”

The Soldier didn’t answer. Just raised his arm, mechanical fingers curling into a fist.

“I’m with you,” Steve said again, voice raw, “’til the end of the line.”

That was when it happened.

Bucky hesitated.

The words hit something in him. Broke something loose. His hand shook. His breath caught.

You stepped forward, voice trembling. “James. You said that to me too. Both of us. That night before the train — you said you’d come back.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

Flashes behind them. Of you. Of Steve. Of himself.

He staggered backward, like the memories physically struck him.

“No,” he whispered.

Then he screamed.

He lunged — not with calculation, but with desperation — and tackled Steve. The two crashed onto the catwalk as the helicarrier buckled again, sirens wailing, smoke thickening.

You ran after them, struggling to stay upright on the tilting metal.

Steve didn’t fight back. He didn’t raise his fists.

“Finish it,” he said.

Bucky straddled him, fists pounding — blood splattering — but Steve never moved to stop him.

“I’m with you…”

Punch.

“…’til the end…”

Punch.

“…of the line.”

The final blow didn’t land.

Bucky froze, fist raised, breathing hard.

Then his expression shattered.

His hand fell open.

He collapsed back off Steve, wide-eyed and shaking, staring at what he’d done — what he almost did.

You dropped to your knees beside them, one hand grabbing Bucky’s metal wrist, the other clutching Steve’s shoulder.

“James,” you whispered. “Come back. Come home.”

His eyes locked on yours. And this time…

They stayed.

Riverbank – Just After the Crash

Everything was quiet.

No sirens. No gunfire. Just the soft lapping of water and the distant hum of helicopters scanning the wreckage. The sky was overcast — muted gray, smeared with smoke and ash.

You coughed, crawling up onto the riverbank, soaked and shaking, every muscle aching. Mud clung to your hands as you pushed yourself upright, lungs burning.

The helicarrier was gone — sunken metal jutting out of the water behind you like the skeleton of a sea beast.

And then you saw him.

Steve.

Face-down, motionless, half in the shallows. Blood staining the water around him.

“Steve!” you gasped, dragging yourself across the bank.

You turned him over, hands trembling. His face was pale, lips blue at the edges — but his chest was rising. Barely.

“Come on, Rogers, don’t you dare check out now,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “You promised me.”

You didn't hear footsteps. Just the sound of water sloshing behind you.

And then—his shadow.

Bucky.

He stood there like a ghost, dripping wet, silent, staring down at the man he’d pulled from the wreckage.

At the man he’d nearly killed.

At the man he couldn’t let die.

You rose slowly, breath caught in your throat. He didn’t look like the Soldier now. He just looked… lost. Barefoot in the mud. Hair matted to his face. Still breathing hard.

His eyes locked on yours.

“I pulled him out,” he said. Quiet. Hollow. “I didn’t know why. But I… I couldn’t leave him.”

You nodded, voice thick. “That’s you, Bucky. That’s who you are.”

He blinked, like he was trying to believe it. Like it didn’t hurt just to hear his name.

You took a careful step forward. “Come with us. Please. Let us help.”

But he shook his head, stepping back.

“I don’t know who I am,” he said again, voice barely above a whisper. “But I need to find out. Away from all of this. Away from them.”

He looked down at Steve one more time. Then at you. Something soft flickered across his face — something familiar.

“I’ll find you,” he said. “When I’m ready.”

Then he turned.

And vanished into the trees.

You stood there in the stillness, watching him disappear, heart twisting in your chest.

Behind you, Steve stirred with a groan.

You dropped to your knees beside him. “Hey. Hey, don’t move. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His hand found yours, weak but solid.

“You saw him,” Steve rasped, eyes fluttering open. “Didn’t you?”

You nodded, tears slipping free. “Yeah. I did.”

“And?”

“He saved you,” you whispered. “He remembered. Not everything. But enough.”

Steve closed his eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Then we’ll find him again.”

You looked toward the woods where he’d disappeared.

And whispered back, “Yes. We will.”

Safehouse – Norfolk, Virginia – Two Weeks Later

The safehouse smelled like old wood and saltwater. It sat half-forgotten on a quiet pier, tucked between rusted fishing boats and a bait shack that hadn’t seen business in years. Just another ghost in a town full of them.

Inside, the afternoon light spilled through yellowing curtains, catching dust motes in the air. It was the first real sunlight you’d seen in days.

You stood by the small window in the kitchen, watching the gulls circle lazily above the marina. Your hand rested on the chipped windowsill, fingers drumming absently.

Behind you, Steve moved around the table. Slower than usual — the bruised ribs still made him wince if he twisted too far — but alive. Stubborn. Still getting up before sunrise to run circles around the dock even when you threatened to tie him to a chair.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was shared. Familiar.

He poured two mugs of coffee and set one gently beside you. You turned, nodded a quiet thanks, and wrapped your hands around the ceramic for warmth.

He leaned against the counter across from you. No shield. No uniform. Just sweatpants and a hoodie. Just Steve.

“You haven’t asked about him in a while,” he said softly.

You looked down at your cup. “Didn’t want to keep dragging it into the room like a ghost.”

“He’s not a ghost.”

You gave him a sad smile. “Feels like one.”

Steve’s gaze dropped. “I think about him every day. About what I could’ve said… what I didn’t.”

“You said what mattered.” Your voice cracked slightly. “And so did he.”

Steve studied you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “He remembered you.”

You froze.

“What?”

“After the crash. When you pulled me out — before he left. He didn’t say much, but…” Steve’s voice softened. “He said your name.”

You sank slowly into the nearest chair. “He did?”

Steve nodded. “Didn’t make sense to him, not all the way. But it meant something. I saw it in his eyes.”

Your chest ached with something sharp and sweet all at once.

“He’s out there,” Steve said, voice steady. “Trying to put the pieces together.”

“I just wish I could help him.” Your fingers traced the rim of your mug. “I wish I could be there when he wakes up in the middle of the night and doesn’t remember why he’s shaking. I want to sit next to him and say, ‘It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe now.’”

Steve’s eyes were gentle. “You’ll get the chance.”

You nodded, blinking fast.

He gave you a soft smile. “Until then, we keep going. We lay low. We heal. And when the time comes... we find him.”

You looked out the window again.

Somewhere out there — in the noise and quiet of the world — Bucky Barnes was walking through the wreckage of his own past.

And you would find him.

You had to.

Later That Evening

The sky outside burned in warm golds and soft pinks, the last rays of the day dipping below the horizon. A breeze rolled in from the water, stirring the gauzy curtains in the living room, carrying the scent of salt and coming rain.

You and Steve sat on the small, battered couch. Your knees were pulled up, a blanket draped over your legs. Steve sat beside you, one arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers idly brushing the fabric — or maybe just anchoring himself near you.

There was an old record player crackling softly in the corner. You’d found it in the storage closet earlier in the week and managed to get it working with some patience and stubbornness. Now it spun gently, filling the space with the low, dusky tones of Billie Holiday.

“God,” you said quietly, half-smiling, “how long has it been since we’ve just… sat?”

Steve gave a soft hum of agreement. “Too long.”

You sipped the tea he’d made. It was strong and plain, but warm. Familiar. Everything about this was — in some strange, bittersweet way. A world rebuilt out of remnants.

“I keep thinking about the 40s,” you said eventually, your voice barely more than a breath. “How simple things felt back then. Or maybe we just didn’t know enough yet to see the cracks.”

Steve leaned back, eyes unfocused on the far wall. “It was a different kind of war. And a different kind of hope. We thought if we just won it… the world would make sense again.”

You looked down. “And then we lost him.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

There was a silence.

Then, more quietly, you added, “Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we all made it home? You, me, Bucky. Just… Brooklyn. Late nights. Normal lives.”

He turned to you then. His expression was tired but warm, worn at the edges. “All the time.”

A small smile touched your lips. “We would’ve driven each other crazy, you know.”

“Oh, definitely,” Steve chuckled, his voice low. “You two would've ganged up on me.”

“Bucky would’ve insisted on double dates, I’d have burned the roast, you’d have tried to pretend it tasted fine.”

“You do burn roasts.”

You shot him a look. “I had one shot in 1943, Steve. One. You’re never letting it go?”

He grinned — and for a moment, he looked like the boy he used to be.

“I think…” he said, after a pause, “Bucky remembered that part of us. For a second. On the helicarrier. He wasn’t just reacting — he was feeling.”

You swallowed, heart aching. “And it scared him.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

Then you shifted, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. He tensed — just for a moment — then relaxed, his arm drawing around you gently.

“I miss him,” you whispered.

“I do too.”

And in the quiet that followed, the two of you just sat there — tangled in grief and memory, and something softer than either. You didn’t have answers. You didn’t know where Bucky was, or who he’d be when he came back.

But you would find him.

Together.

Just like always.

[alwayzadorbs]

Feeling faint?

Summary: The Devildom is no place for humans, aside from being riddled with bloodthirsty demons who crave your soul. There is no such thing as the sun in the Devildom; inky darkness paints the sky, and the moon is the only constant. Naturally, you don't receive the proper nutrients you would get from the sun, no matter how infrequently you went outside in the human realm; it pales in comparison to the Devildom. Alongside that, Devildom cuisine is quite different than Human world cuisine; many of the foods here can easily kill you, and they do not give you the required balance. And when your body is starved of its essential nutrients, it begins to shut down.

Pairing: Lucifer x GN! reader

Rating: fluff, romance, 15+

Warnings: Talk of not eating enough, malnourishment, and health complications. Fainting. May be triggering.

You rubbed your eyes, feeling extremely run down over the past few weeks. It only seemed to get worse; your skin didn't look as vibrant and bore a somewhat pale complexion, no matter how much you slept, you couldn't seem to get enough rest. You'd find yourself thinking about human food more often, craving foods you normally didn't enjoy. Things high in salt intake, red meats, high protein foods. Your grip strength started getting weaker too, and you started losing a bit of weight; in general, you weren't doing so hot.

That morning, you had been getting ready to go to school, and you noticed an abnormal amount of hair just falling out. You sat there for a moment, unable to put it together. You had never paid much attention to taking your vitamins or making a point of eating healthily. You didn't have time to deal with it, so you carried on. You started to undress to put on your uniform when you noticed a difference in the mirror, observing your body and lightly pinching some loose skin.

"Have I lost a few pounds?"

At breakfast, you prodded at the food on your plate, attempting to find an appetite. You just weren't used to the odd shapes of Devildom foods, their coloring was offputting, and sometimes the smells imminating from the dish was anything but appetizing. By all means, you were hungry. but you couldn't bring yourself to swallow, nasuea building up in you. It's not always like this; there are some foods that you do genuinely enjoy, but some of them you aren't able to stomach, even with your already limited palette. Devildom food just isn't for humans; Many of the foods are poisonous to humans, and ridiculously enough, some of them are cursed.

"Not hungry? I'll eat it if you're not gonna." Beel leaned over, looking at you with pleading eyes

"Sure, why not?" you said, sliding your dish towards him.

His eyes lit up when you said yes, it made you happy to see the brothers happy, it warmed your heart. You couldn't help but compare Beel to a happy puppy when he smiled, and that smile was infectious.

You stared at the moon; It never left the sky. It held unique coloring, managing to have blue and yellow undertones while being a crisp, dirty white hue. When you stopped to think about it, it really did look like it was made of cheese. You could stare up at the moon all day; its enchanting qualities drew you in deeper every time you saw it.

"Helllloooo?? Mc? HEYYY im talkin' to ya!" A familiar voice snapped you back to reality

"Huh...? oh, uh... Sorry, Mammon i didn't hear you. Say again?" You said somewhat groggily, your voice sounding raspy.

"Geez, like, whats wrong with ya' lately? I asked ya' if ya wanted ta skip 1st period and play hooky with me, whatdya' say?!" Mammon beamed, intertwining his fingers with each other to support the back of his head while he walked.

"Mammon. dont even THINK about it." Lucifer sighed, narrowing his eyebrows.

Your legs started feeling a bit weak as you walked along, and it felt like your head was tingling a bit. Your face twisted into a look of discomfort, just subtle enough for no one, including you, to notice.

"Come on! You're no fun, Lucifer!" Mammon frowned, walking ahead of the group.

Breathing felt just a bit harder, a small amount of resistance in your chest as your lungs expanded. You tried to ignore it, brushing it off as allergies or a lack of sleep.

"You idiot, I mean, what did you expect? You said that right in front of Lucifer." Satan smiled, rudely remarking.

You focused on breathing deeply. You weren't even at school yet, but you felt like you needed the day off. The laughs and bickering of the brothers faded into the background as your focus lingered on feeling better.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Sitting at your desk as the bell rang, you sigh in relief. You made it through the day; now, all you had to do was make it home.

Ding

You reached into your pockets, pulling out your D.D.D. to see who was messaging you. The bluelight of the screen strains your eyes

Lucifer:

Mc, I need extra help with Student council duties, and my brothers happen to be utterly incompetent.

Meet me in the student council room immediately.

You sighed before standing up and getting ready to tough out an extra hour of work at R.A.D. You gathered your items and walked through the halls, admiring the many portraits and paintings lining the walls.

When you arrived in the correct area, you opened the door. You weren't exactly thrilled to see the mountains of paperwork and forms on the desk; Lucifer was already hard at work.

"Hey, you need my help, Lucifer?" You rubbed your eyes, sitting down next to him

"Yes, I can't seem to break this constant stream of paperwork." He smiled. "It's quite helpful to have a capable asset around here. Thank you." he reached towards one of the multiple stacks of paperwork, sliding it towards you.

"I need you to review the expenses in the student council budget. It seems that there are a large number of unnecessary fines; Perhaps Mammon edited some things..."

"Alright, I think I can handle that. Is it always like this? you know, piles of paperwork building walls around you?" you asked, looking down at the numbers on the sheet, they jumbled in your mind.

"Mmm, unfortunately, yes. Thankfully, since you've picked up the slack my brothers won't, I'm not as swamped. This influx of paperwork has to do with an upcoming school event. Diavolo is looking forward to throwing an 'extravaganza' as he put it." He paused for a moment. "I suppose it worked out, though."

you looked up, "hm? how so?"

"Because I get to spend time with you without worrying about problem after problem. I value every second with you, even if we're doing all this paperwork."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head.

"I'm so glad we're done!" you yawned, sitting up. "Still can't believe you do this every day, Lucifer."

You both exited the building, leisurely walking along the trail towards home. "Me neither," he chuckled.

That tingly feeling hadn't left you; You felt resistance as your lungs expanded, and your knees felt weak with every step. You matched Lucifer's pace, trying to power through it once more.

You observed your surroundings, noting the flowers and how the color seemed to saturate the longer you looked. Blinking for a moment, you tried to readjust your vision when everything started to get blurry.

"Are you okay?" Or at least thats what you thought you heard; you just couldn't quite piece together the words. "Hey, Mc."

Darkness starts to creep in, and you feel lightheaded; your knees begin to give way. You start to stumble, you think you feel yourself falling but you cant see, its all dark.

"Mc!" was that a voice? maybe. It sounded more like buzzing to you. You drifted into unconsciousness.

Lucifer would catch you, of course. He had noticed that you looked a bit 'under the weather', but he would have no idea of the extent. He understood that Humans were very fragile creatures, but he couldn't understand why you just collapsed. He had a hard time not panicking; he didn't know very much about humans, and this was HIS human. He didn't waste time securing you and calling Solomon with his D.D.D.

He wouldn't admit it, but Lucifer was scared. He didn't know what was wrong with you or if you'd be okay. He but on a front, not just for his brothers who were definitely paniced aswell, but for himself. He needed to cling to something to be calm, and he's too prideful to let it show. You were the only person he was able to really unwind around, act in ways that would usually hurt his pride. He enjoyed being able to act that way with you. Even more, he loved you and didn't want you to leave him.

When he eventually learned that the root cause of your state was simply a lack of vitamins, he felt a bit dumb but was relieved nonetheless. You'd wake up a short amount of time later, surrounded by the brothers, the angels, and Solomon.

You blinked, groggily asking, "Um...Why are you all standing at my bedside...?"

"You don't remember?" Asmo said, looking concerned

"You fainted earlier. I gave you a checkup, and it looks like you're severely lacking in some of the essential vitamins. It looks like the big ones are vitamin D and Iron deficiency, which is why you fainted." Solomon explained

"Wait, really?! I fainted?!" you blushed, feeling a bit embarrassed of all the attention.

"Yeah, sorry, I can't help but feel this is [racially my fault for not informing you to take supplements while here. It's easy to forget something like that, so I don't blame you." he smiled

"I brought you some basic supplements. let me know when you run out; please don't forget to take them, we wouldn't wnt you fainting again."

You looked around the room, locking eyes with the man who carried you towards the house of lamentation. Noting his focus, he was studying you.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Later, you lay in your bed, still feeling quite terrible. A knock interrupted your thoughts, pulling you away from your la-la land.

"It's me, Lucifer. May I come in?"

"Yeah, come on in," you said, turning to see who was going to enter.

"Are you feeling any better, Mc?" Lucifer said, softly shutting the door behind him

"I still feel pretty crappy, sorry for making you carry me earlier," you said.

He sat on the mattress, "You say that as if it were a burden. I'm glad I was the one to catch you." he smirked, knowing what he does to you.

you felt your face heat up. "Thank you, Lucifer."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, reaching his hand to fix a stray strand of your hair that fell out of place near your bangs. "Can I get you water? Are you thirsty?"

"That's alright, you don't have to do that. You can just keep me company."

You shifted your position on the bed, scooting over towards the wall. "Will you hold me? I'm tired." You said, reaching your arms towards him.

Lucifer paused before saying, "I suppose, if that'll make you feel better."

He'd embrace you with a firm grip, the scent of his soft cologne infiltrating your nose. He smelled a bit like brandy, a warm scent that lulled you into safety. You practically melted into his touch, not daring to break the moment's bliss by opening your eyes. You shifted toward the bed, pulling Lucifer down with you.

He laughed, freeing his top arm from the hug to stroke your hair. "I'm glad that you're alright," Lucifer uttered.

You opened your eyes, peering into Lucifer's handsome ruby eyes. Youd stare into them often, but this time his face was flush. He seemed to be a bit embarrassed. "Hm? Were you worried about me?"

He looked away for a moment, "Do I really have to spell it out for you?"

"Spell what out...?" you grinned, hoping to make him say it.

Lucifer scoffed. "Since you want me to say it so badly..." he paused "I was worried. I didn't want to lose you. Because I love you."

"I love you too!" You said, nuzzling your head into his chest

"But you don't have to worry about me. I'll be okay."

"I'll always worry about you, as long as you're my little lamb."

[haerenven]

Hiii! Can you do the ideal dates of (ace, sabo, law, shanks) and any characters you want pleaseee 😽🥹 I love the way you portray the characters so much I just need this

Pairings. P.D.Ace - Sabo - T.Law - Shanks - R.Zoro

summary. Typical date? Nope!

— (a/n): thank you so much for your request, honey. And y’all keep reminding that request are open!

𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐠𝐚𝐬 𝐃. 𝐀𝐜𝐞

Love with Ace is not meant to be held in delicate hands; it is wild, untamed—a flame that dances in the wind yet never extinguishes. His idea of a date is not a candlelit dinner nor a leisurely stroll under the moonlight. No, Ace does not love like a gentleman; he loves like a storm.

The night is restless, much like him. He takes you where the sea is rough, where the stars are brighter than the lanterns of any town, where the sand is warm from the lingering kiss of the sun. A bonfire roars between you, its flames flickering in his dark, smoldering eyes.

“You like it, right?” he grins, resting on his elbows, the fire casting wild shadows across his face. He’s not asking about the setting. He’s asking about this—about him.

The night tastes of salt and smoke as he pulls you close. His kisses are urgent, searing, the kind that make the world tilt. And when the fire dwindles to embers, when the waves murmur secrets to the shore, he whispers, “You make me feel alive.” His voice, low and hushed, carries the weight of something deeper than the ocean itself.

𝐒𝐚𝐛𝐨

For Sabo, love is not grand gestures nor extravagant affairs—it is a soft undercurrent, the quiet knowing of two souls woven together over time. You have been with him since youth, sharing stolen moments in the Revolutionary Army, moments he now calls dates.

A peaceful evening in a secluded town, far from the eyes of the world, far from the weight of revolution. He finds you waiting under a streetlamp, his footsteps light, as if afraid to disturb the silence wrapped around you both.

“I got you something,” he says, holding out a small trinket—a delicate charm, a polished stone, something simple yet precious. He has always given you little gifts, but tonight, there is something different in his gaze.

“You really count this as a date?” you tease.

He chuckles, running a hand through his golden hair. “I always did.” And just like that, the unspoken words between you both unravel. His touch is soft, hesitant at first, but when he kisses you, it is with the quiet conviction of someone who has always been yours.

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃. 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐚𝐰 

Law does not take you on dates—not in the way most would. There are no extravagant gestures, no flowers or candlelit dinners. He is not a man of unnecessary words or wasted moments. And yet, tonight, he takes you somewhere no one else has ever been.

The silence of the ocean hums through the metal walls of the Polar Tang, his submarine drifting far beneath the waves, cradled in the deep where the world above is forgotten. The control room is dimly lit, glowing in soft golds and deep blues, monitors flickering like fireflies in the dark. He has shut off all unnecessary noise, leaving only the steady rhythm of the sea, the quiet murmur of water pressing against steel.

“You always sit here alone,” you muse, watching the way the light from the panels casts sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the depth in his tired eyes.

He leans against the railing near the observation window, the vast abyss stretching before you both. “Not alone anymore.”

That is his confession—not spoken in poetic declarations, but in the way he allows you into this space, into the solitude he has never shared with another. He hands you a warm drink, the steam curling between you, and when his fingers brush against yours, he does not pull away.

Law loves in the spaces between words, in the quiet moments where his walls are lowered, where his touch lingers just a second too long. And when he finally tilts his head down, his lips barely grazing yours, it is not hesitant—it is deliberate. A slow, lingering kiss that speaks of everything he has never said.

𝐑𝐞𝐝-𝐇𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬

Shanks is a man who has seen the world, but no treasure, no adventure, no distant land holds his gaze the way you do. And so, when he takes you on a “date,” it is not extravagant, nor is it planned—it is simply being with you.

A lively tavern hums with music, the air thick with the scent of ale and laughter. He drapes an arm around you, pulling you into the center of it all, where life moves like a whirlwind, and you are at the heart of it.

“You having fun?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. His grin is infectious, the kind that makes your heart skip.

The night is a blur of stolen kisses, of him twirling you in his arms, of whispered jokes that make you both laugh until your stomach hurts. And when the crowd fades, when it is just the two of you under the night sky, he cups your face with a tenderness that contradicts his usual carefree nature.

“I’d give up the sea if you asked,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. And though you would never ask such a thing, the promise lingers in the air—you are the only thing that could ever make him hesitate.

𝐑𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐚 𝐙𝐨𝐫𝐨

Zoro does not ask you on a date. He never would. Instead, it happens like this—

“Oi. You wanna go shopping?” His voice is steady, casual, almost careless—but beneath it, there’s something else, something subtle. A pause between his words, a slight edge to his tone, as if he’s already bracing himself.

You blink at him. Shopping isn’t something he ever shows interest in, much less suggests. You study him, searching for a tell, but his face remains unreadable, expression set in that usual half-bored, half-impatient look. If there’s any tension, he hides it well. “…Sure.”

The word leaves your lips without much thought, and the moment you agree, something shifts in him. It’s slight—so slight you almost miss it. His shoulders relax just a fraction, his stance loosening, as if he’s just released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

And so, you go.

He walks beside you in his usual, unhurried stride, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes lazily scanning the streets. He doesn’t say much—he never does—but his presence is steady, unwavering. He watches as you browse, his gaze lingering when you pause to examine something. He never comments, never interferes, but when you pick something up, there’s a quiet acknowledgment—a slow, approving nod, the barest twitch of his lips. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but you see it.

And when you buy something, his eyes flicker—not with amusement, not with disinterest, but with something softer, something that lingers for only a moment before he turns away.

The sky is beginning to darken by the time he walks you back to the ship. The air is thick with the scent of the sea, the low murmur of the crew carrying in the distance. Just as you step toward the deck, he moves.

It’s so natural, so unhurried, that you don’t realize what he’s doing until he’s close—so close you can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of steel and earth and something distinctly Zoro. His head dips slightly, his breath grazing your skin—

You stop him.

“Woah.”

His whole body goes rigid. He pulls back immediately, eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to gauge your reaction. Then, just as quickly, he schools his face into something unreadable, exhaling sharply as he rubs the back of his neck. 

“Shitty cook said that’s how you end a date.” His voice is lower now, gruffer—like he’s already regretting saying it. His fingers flex against his neck, his shoulders tightening just slightly, as if he expects you to laugh.

“…Date?”

You can hear the way his breath catches, the way his jaw tightens before he speaks again.

“Yeah.” His voice is quieter now, but firm, like he’s forcing himself to say it. He doesn’t look at you at first, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, anywhere but at you.

Then, after a beat, as if the words are being dragged out of him—

“I meant for this to be a date.”

Silence.

You watch him carefully. His face is calm, composed, but there’s something betraying him—the deepening flush that creeps up his neck, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the way his jaw tenses as he waits.

“You like me?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You don’t ask it teasingly, don’t mock him—but something about the way you say it makes his brows twitch, his lips pressing into a firm line.

“…Tch.” He clicks his tongue, looking away. The muscle in his jaw jumps. And then, after a moment—“Yeah.” It’s grumbled, begrudging, but it’s there, raw and unfiltered.

You tilt your head, letting the weight of it settle between you. He stands stiffly, tense in a way you rarely see, like he’s preparing for something he can’t fight his way out of. “So what now?”

His fingers flex again. His throat bobs as he swallows. Then, in a voice rough with something unspoken— “…Go on a date with me. A real one.”

His eyes flicker to yours, guarded but waiting, and for the first time tonight, you let your expression soften.

And this time, when he leans in, you don’t stop him.

[aeralux]

"Spellbound" - Daemon Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen x Witch!Reader

Summary: A witch doesn't cower to anyone... except maybe a dragon. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Harrenhal seems to be riddled with darkness and mysteries, after all.

Warnings: SMUT (18+); rough sex; oral (f!receiving); fingering; foul language; talks of magick and its use; technically infidelity on Daemon's part; loss of virginity; mention of blood

Words: 8.3k

Notes: No description of the reader, except for dark hair. Takes place in Harrenhal when Daemon is staying there. I tried to be as accurate to Westeros lore as I could, I literally spent hours on their wiki, so I hope it shows through :)

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Harrenhal was a ghastly place. It had the biggest castle of all of Westeros. The castle had five dizzying towers, with equally monstrous curtain walls. The walls were incredibly thick, and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans—said to be haunted and eerie.

Perfect for sorceresses and sorcerers alike, the city had a coven of Witches who collectively went by the name "Wives of the Gods Eye." The name was an ode to Gods Eye, the largest lake of the Seven Kingdoms, located south of Harrenhal.

In the embrace of warm sunlight, the water of the Gods Eye shimmers in vibrant shades of blue and green, casting a magical glow. Yet, as winter blankets the land, its surface transforms into a steely grey, reminiscent of the coldest metal. Majestic black swans glide gracefully across the water. Just a short distance away, a winding lake road meanders near the storied Harrenhal, leading through a patchwork of rolling hills, sparkling streams, and golden sunlit fields. As one journeys further south, the landscape gives way to dense, shadowy forests, creating a clear contrast.

The lake, with its murky depths, bore a name of divine beings, yet here, amidst the towering pines and shivering mists, there existed no gods. Only monsters lurked in the shadows, and witches wove their secrets beneath the pale moonlight. As for you, you were a bastard of Pinkmaiden, an unwelcome child of a place that should have offered a home. At the young age of six, you were sent to Harrenhal, a castle steeped in blood and betrayal, to serve the lords and ladies of House Strong as one of the laundresses. The ancient stones watched over you with cold indifference, whispering the secrets of many who had come before.

Your raven-black hair flowed like a dark river down your back, framing your face and matching nicely with your unsettling eyes, which shimmered like a stormy sea. These features marked you as different, a reminder of your uncertain heritage. It was not long before the Lady of Harrenhal, with her porcelain skin and sharp gaze, grew wary of your presence. On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, she cast you out, her disdain cutting deeper than any blade.

Alone and bereft, you wandered the wilderness, uncertainty gnawing at your heart. But fortune smiled upon you when the coven of witches found you, their cloaks billowing like dark wings against the whispering wind. They took you in, offering a refuge far removed from the stone walls of Harrenhal. In their hidden glen, where wildflowers crowded beneath the trees, they made you feel cherished for the first time. 

Nowadays, for most, magic is a little-understood force in the world. It has been so long since magic was truly potent that most understanding now exists only in superstition and rituals of questionable validity. But with them, you understood, the doubts of others have no claim.

"You are special," they insisted, words dripping with ancient wisdom. "You possess something otherworldly." Their voices wrapped around you like a warm embrace. For the first time, you believed there was a purpose to your existence—a spark that set you apart from common folk, a thread woven from the fabric of something otherworldly.

Under their solemn guidance, you began to practice the mysterious arts. You learned to mix herbs and roots, crafting potions that glinted with promise and danger. Each incantation you whispered held power, resonating with the essence of the world around you. The witching nights became your solace, and as you delved deeper into their teachings, the women of the coven began to call you their newest daughter—their black swan. In that embrace, you found your wings, soaring above the harsh reality that had sought to bind you.

There, in the shadows of Harrenhal, you discovered your true calling and uncovered your hidden talent: Glamour magic. The few ladies of the coven from Asshai welcomed you into their fold. Asshai, a mysterious and ancient port city nestled in the far southeast of Essos, was unlike any place in Westeros, you gathered from their stories. There, the Ash River wound its way through the land, flowing into the vast expanse of the Jade Sea, where the waters sparkled under the sun like jewels.

As you sat among the flickering candles in their dimly lit chamber, they taught you ancient spells in their native tongue. Words danced on your lips like whispers in the wind, each incantation holding power and mystique. They guided you in prayer, teaching you how to bow your head before the Red God, channelling your intentions through sacred rituals. The air was thick with incense, and the flickering shadows brought to life the stories of ages past, filling your heart with a sense of wonder and purpose.

When the wise ladies of the coven, cloaked in shadows and steeped in ancient lore, deemed you ready to embrace your destiny, they presented you with a striking necklace carved from deep black obsidian. Its surface shimmered like a starless night sky, reflecting the flickering flames of the hearth where your journey began. Though the obsidian was traditionally used to forge weapons of war, the coven believed it resonated with your spirit, a perfect talisman for what lay ahead.  

As you clasped the necklace around your neck, it transformed into your glamor, an enchanting charm that bestowed upon you the power to weave illusions. With it, the magic could shift the perceptions of those around you, allowing you to appear as someone—or something—entirely different. While the shape of the necklace remained unchanged, the world could see whatever you wished it to see, bending reality to your will.  

The true strength of glamors lies in their connection to the wearer. Each illusion from the obsidian was ingrained with a piece of you, making them far more potent than mere tricks of light. As you wore the necklace, you felt it pulse gently against your skin, a current of magic entwining your fate with ancient spells. The coven’s trust in you burned bright like the embers of a dying fire.  

In the realm where shadows danced and whispers echoed, the obsidian necklace became more than just an accessory; it was an extension of your very being, a bridge between the world you knew and the numerous possibilities.

Through the fogs surrounding Harrenhal and its haunting towers, a figure emerged one day that would change the course of history. Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, found himself in the ancient fortress where magic lingered in the air, where witches snarled their secrets beneath the pale moonlight, and where even the strongest of men lost their minds to visions that tormented them.

The arrival of the Targaryen prince foreshadowed the beginning of the violent conflict known as the Dance of the Dragons, igniting the flames of war. The first target being Harrenhal. Daemon Targaryen, fierce and determined, led the charge to seize this shadowy castle for his wife, Rhaenyra. In his mind, it would become a stronghold for loyal supporters rising in the Riverlands.

Chaos erupted in the region, the air thick with tension and fear hanging heavily over the lords and common folk. Yet amidst this turmoil, you stood resolute, encouraged by the words of an elder from your coven, whose foresight promised their safety in these troubled times.

With unwavering determination, you journeyed to the godswood of Harrenhal, walking along the clear, winding stream that wandered gently through the emerald shrubberies. The ancient weirwood, with its deformed roots and an angry face carved into its bark, awaited you at the heart of the woods. Its pale leaves trembled softly in the breeze, whispering secrets of generations past.

Above you, birds flitted through the branches, their songs mingling with the rustling leaves, while bats emerged as shadows against the dusky sky, patrolling for their evening meal. A sly cat sneaked near the godswood's stone wall, its eyes glinting like lanterns in the twilight. In this serene moment, you felt a peculiar kinship with the creatures of the wood, convinced that you were not alone.

With reverence, you placed your offering between the twisted roots of the ancient tree, murmuring a quick prayer. You believed in many deities, each an important part of your life, hoping that at least one would consider your call. After all, in these dark times, hope was a precious thing.

Before your journey back, you felt a tug in your heart to pay a quick visit to Alys. The kind healer lady was one of the rare souls who did not cast disdainful glances at you during your time in the castle. Known by others as the “witch queen,” Alys saw past the uncanny aura that surrounded you. She had grown fond of you, despite the brooding darkness that seemed to dance in your eyes, and she understood that your best path was far from these stone walls. You stood out too much among the lords and ladies, a vision amidst the living.

Like a creeping shadow, you slipped through the secret passage, the cool air brushing against your skin as you navigated the hidden corridors. The echoes of your footsteps were muffled by the cold, damp stones, as you moved with practised ease to avoid the lurking guards. You knew better than to provoke their watchful eyes.

Upon entering Alys's chamber, you were greeted by a familiar sight—her collection of potions and drying herbs adorned the shelves, a simple yet charming chaos that spoke of her craft. The room held a soft scent of lavender and something earthy, an aroma that always brought you comfort. You wandered over to the table, intrigued by the array of glass bottles filled with vivid liquids.

But the serenity shattered in an instant, as a cold steel blade pressed against your throat, sending a chill cascading down your spine. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the tension in the air. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as panic surged. Who could it be, a figure lurking in the shadows, ready to end your life? The world around you faded into silence, but your senses heightened, honed by years of uncertainty. At that moment, you wondered if your last moments would be in the castle that had been both shelter and prison.

You couldn't see the face of your attacker, but you could feel the presence looming over you, the weight of their body pressing you forward. The blade dug into your skin, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down your neck. You swallowed hard, fighting back the fear that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Who are you?" a low and menacing voice demanded. And what are you doing here?"

The voice was unfamiliar to you, but there was a certain authority in it that sent a chill down your spine. You knew that whoever this person was, they meant business.

You tried to turn your head, to catch a glimpse of your attacker, but the blade pressed harder against your throat, making you wince in pain. "Please," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean no harm."

The figure behind you let out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "No harm? You sneak into the healer's chambers like a thief in the night, and you claim to mean no harm?"

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, mingling with the blood on your skin. "I'm not a thief," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm a friend of Alys. I came to see her, to...to say hello."

The blade pressed harder against your throat, making you gasp in pain. "Hello?" the voice repeated, a note of suspicion in it. "Somehow I doubt you, little witch."

You knew then that your attacker was well aware of your true nature, of the magic that coursed through your veins. You thought of the obsidian necklace around your neck, the glamor that disguised you as a simple servant girl. But you knew that even that powerful magic would be no match for the Valyrian steel pressed against your throat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you struggled to steady your breathing. The cold steel pressed harder against your throat, sending a jolt of pain through your body. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

"I swear, it's true," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling with fear. "I didn't know anyone would be here. I thought...I thought Alys would be alone."

You could feel your attacker's warm breath on the back of your neck, their presence looming over you like a dark shadow. You wanted to turn and face them, to see the face of the one who held your life in their hands, but the blade kept you still.

"Please," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "Don't hurt me. I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just...I just wanted to see her"

Your hands shook at your sides, the obsidian necklace hidden beneath your simple servant's gown a cold weight against your skin. You knew that your glamor was useless now, that your true nature had been discovered. But you couldn't let them know about the coven, about the power that you possessed.

You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the pain that was sure to come. You had survived so much in your short life and had endured so much hardship and betrayal. But in that moment, faced with the cold steel of a stranger's blade, you felt more vulnerable than ever.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean any harm."

You waited for the blade to slice through your skin, for the blood to pour from the wound. But it never came. Instead, you felt the pressure of the blade lessen, the cold steel sliding away from your throat.

Slowly, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw the face of the one who had held your life in their hands. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the colour of spun silver and eyes as violet as an iris. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a legend, a true son of Valyria.

Daemon's violet eyes narrowed as he studied the young woman before him, his gaze sharp and piercing. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way your body trembled beneath his touch, but he also sensed something else—a flicker of something dark and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface. He knew a witch when he saw one, and you were no ordinary servant.

"A friend of Alys's, you say?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "And yet you seem to know your way around this castle better than most. Tell me, little witch, what exactly are you doing here?"

He kept the blade pressed against your throat, not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep you still. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath the cold steel and could see the way your pulse fluttered. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've dealt with your kind before," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I know the tricks you play, the illusions you weave. But trust me, little one, you'll find no mercy here."

Daemon's eyes flicked down to the necklace hidden beneath your gown, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. He had seen such trinkets before. But this one was different—there was a power to it that even he could sense, a dark and ancient magic that thrummed through the air like a heartbeat.

"What's this?" he demanded, his fingers brushing against the hidden amulet. "Some kind of charm, is it? A trinket to hide your true face from the world?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "I can smell the magic on you, little witch. It clings to your skin like perfume. The same foul odour that clings to the healer."

Daemon's hand slid down from your throat to your collarbone, his fingers tracing the curve of your flesh beneath the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the trembling of your hands as you met Daemon's piercing violet gaze. With a steady motion, you reached behind your neck and unclasped the necklace, letting the heavy amulet drop into your palm. There was no point in trying to hide your identity any longer. Your true face coming to light.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as you revealed the truth of your identity, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. He could see the fear in your eyes, but also the aggressiveness, the spark of something wild and untamed that called to him like a siren's song.

"I am a witch, yes," you admitted in a hushed whisper, your heart pounding so hard you feared he could hear it. "But I speak the truth, your grace. I did not know anyone would be here."

You couldn't help but notice his rugged handsomeness as you spoke, the strong lines of his jaw and the way his muscles rippled beneath the thin linen of his tunic. You quickly averted your gaze, not wanting him to see the effect he was having on you.

"I'm from the coven called the Wives of the Gods Eye," you continued, voice barely above a whisper. "We practice the old ways, the magic that was once forbidden. I simply came here seeking some herbs."

You met his eyes once more, defiance mingling with the apprehension. "I meant you no harm, my lord. I swear it on my life."

"A witch of the old ways, are you?" he purred, his hand sliding up from your collarbone to cup your chin, tilting your face towards his. "How very interesting. And here I thought Alys was the only one in this godforsaken castle who dabbled in the dark arts."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "You say you seek herbs, little witch, but what say you to a bargain? Your secrets for my protection."

Daemon's hand slid down to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a loose grip. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

"I could use a witch of your talents in my service," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You stepped back, your hand brushing against the dagger beneath your skirts. "I am not some whore," you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. "I do not offer my services to any man, least of all one who would threaten me with a blade."

You met his gaze, your own eyes blazing with defiance. "You would be wise to let me leave at once, your grace. I have no quarrel with you, but I will not be cowed by threats or promises of power."

Turning on your heel, you strode to the shelves, your movements quick and precise. You grabbed a bottle of dried hemlock, the bitter scent filling your nostrils. You turned back to face him, the vial clutched in your hand like a weapon.

"I a daughter of the Gods Eye. I bow to no man, not even a prince of the realm."

You lifted your chin, your dark hair falling in waves around your face. "Now, I will ask you once more. Let me pass, or face the consequences of crossing a witch."

Your hand tightened on the hemlock, the glass cold against your skin. You could feel the rage thrumming through your veins.

"Choose wisely, your grace."

He had dealt with witches before and had watched as they danced and writhed beneath his touch. In pain and pleasure.

But this one was different. This one had a fire in her eyes that couldn't be tamed, a defiance that only fuelled his dark desires.

"A daughter of the Gods Eye, are you?" he growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger. "How very bold of you, little witch. To stand before a prince of the realm and threaten him with your petty magic."

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on the vial of hemlock clutched in your hand. "You think that trinket will save you? That your gods will protect you from the wrath of a dragon?"

Your breath hitched as Daemon closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming your senses. The threats rolling off his tongue made your head spin, a dizzying combination of fear and thrill coursing through your veins. You had never met a man who could match the fire in your blood, his very existence seems to challenge you at every turn.

Daemon's lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "I have seen the faces of men and women as they begged for mercy, only to be denied. And I have drunk the blood of my enemies, their cries of agony echoing in my ears like a symphony."

"I could hurt you," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I could crack you like this vial in my hand, leaving you a broken shell of the proud sorceress you once were."

"What do you want?" You gritted out through clenched teeth, hating the way your body reacted to his proximity. Your legs felt weak, your knees threatening to buckle as he loomed over you, his eyes burning into yours.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin at the challenge in your voice, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger that made your blood run cold. He could see the way your body trembled beneath his gaze, could feel the heat of your skin even from a distance.

Stop it, you scolded yourself. He's just a man. Don't let him get under your skin.

But even as you tried to regain your composure, you could feel the power emanating from him like a physical force. It was intoxicating and dangerous, and you knew that if you weren't careful, you could easily lose yourself in the reckless temptation.

"What do I want?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Why, I want what all men want, little witch. Power. Control. To bend others to my will."

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch searing your skin like a brand.

"But with you, I want something more," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to break you. To shatter that defiant spirit of yours and make you mine."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, could smell the musk of his scent, and for a moment, you were tempted to give in to the desire coursing through your veins.

But you were not some simpering maiden to be seduced by a pretty face and a silver tongue.

Daemon's hand slid down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck in a loose grip.

"I could take you now," he growled, his lips brushing against your jawline. "I could pin you to the floor and claim you, make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse."

His other hand slid down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your gown. "But where's the fun in that? No, I'll take my time with you, little witch. I'll make you beg for my touch, for the sweet release only I can give you."

Daemon's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what will it be, my sweet? Will you submit to me willingly, or will I have to break you first?"

"You think you can break me?" You said, my voice steady and clear. "That you can tame my soul with your pretty words and your empty promises?"

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "I have faced far worse than you, Daemon Targaryen. I have stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. Your threats mean nothing to me."

Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers curling around the chain of the dragon necklace that hung from his neck. You could feel the heat of the metal against your skin, looking at him with a scowl on your face.

"But if you truly want to test yourself against me, my lord," you teased, your voice low and enchanting. "If you think you have what it takes to claim me as your own... by all means, try."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your challenge, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He could feel the heat of your body against his, could smell the scent of your skin, sweet and intoxicating.

"You play a dangerous game, little witch," he purred, his hand tightening around your throat. "To challenge a dragon is to invite its wrath."

His other hand slid down your back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He could feel the heat of your body, could sense the power that coursed through your veins.

"But I like a woman with spirit," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "It makes the eventual submission all the sweeter."

Daemon's hand slid up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel your nipple harden beneath his touch, could see the way your body responded to his ministrations.

"I will have you, little witch," he growled, his voice low and seductive. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul. And when I am done with you, you will beg for more."

You roll your eyes at Daemon's sweet words, his attempts at seduction falling flat. He thinks he can have you with just a few pretty lies? How naive.

"You tempt me, my prince," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm no easy conquest. Besides, Alys will be back soon. I bet she won't be happy to see an old man taking advantage of her friend." You smirk cruelly, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at your words.

You try to pull away from him, but his grip on your throat tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I could seriously hurt you, you know," you snarl, your eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Don't underestimate me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. In one swift motion, he slammed you against the wall, his body pinning you in place.

"Enough of your games, little witch," he snarled, his hand tightening around your throat. "You think you can toy with me, challenge me, and walk away unscathed?"

His free hand slid down your body, his fingers tearing at the fabric of your gown with a sharp, ripping sound. Buttons scattered across the floor as he bared your skin to his hungry gaze.

Shock and fury flash through you as Daemon rips open your dress, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze. You stare at him, completely still as a statue from utter disbelief, your breath coming in heavy gasps that make your breasts heave with each inhale.

"I will have you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul."

Daemon's hand slid down your body, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, teasing your nipple into a hardened peak. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his touch.

"I can feel your desire, little witch," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. "Your body betrays you, even as you try to resist. I will make you mine, in every way possible."

"W-wait," you try to say, but your voice comes out breathy and weak as his fingers roll your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your eyes roll back and a soft moan escapes your parted lips.

What is happening? How did this get so out of control? You think to yourself, your mind spinning from the onslaught of sensation. You can't believe this is happening, that you are letting a man you barely know take such liberties with your body.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the effect his touch was having on you, your body arching into his hand like a cat in heat. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

His hand slid down to your thigh, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your ripped gown to caress the soft skin of your leg. He could feel the heat of your body.

"But first, I think I'll taste you," he growled, his hand sliding higher, higher until his fingers brushed against the slick, heated flesh of your core.

Even as you try to formulate a protest, your body betrays you, arching into his touch, craving more of the delicious pleasure he's igniting within you. No, I can't let this happen. I have to stop him.

But the words never leave your lips, lost in a moan as Daemon's hand slides lower, teasing you in places you have only touched in secret, in the dark of night. You are lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding to his touch despite your mind's protests.

"That's it, little witch," he purred, his fingers pinching and tugging at your nipple. "Give in to the pleasure. Let yourself feel the ecstasy only I can give you."

He could feel the wetness of your arousal, could smell the musky scent of your desire.

"You're already so wet for me," he growled, his fingers brushing against your slick folds. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind tries to deny it."

Daemon's fingers slid higher, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch. Your walls clenched around his fingers, begging for more.

You couldn't think straight, your mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. It was wrong to crave a man you had just met, especially one who had threatened your life moments ago. But the way his fingers teased your most intimate places sent waves of pleasure through your body.

You had heard the other women of your coven speak of lovemaking, their descriptions painting it as a powerful form of magic. Perhaps you could harness this power, and use it to your advantage as Daemon desired to use you for his own pleasure.

Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more friction. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your lips, determined to maintain some facade of control. But deep down, you knew you were in danger of losing yourself to the sensations he was eliciting.

Daemon's eyes glinted with triumph as he felt your hips roll against his hand, your body betraying your true desires. He could see the conflict in your eyes, the way you bit your lip to stifle your moans, and it only served to fuel his own dark lust.

"You can't hide from me, little witch," he growled, his fingers teasing your slick folds. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you crave my touch."

He pressed two fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

You let out a loud, uncontrollable moan as Daemon's fingers delved deep into your untouched walls, his touch igniting a fire within you. Your juices flowed freely, coating his hand as ecstasy consumed your entire being.

Your body writhed against the cold stone wall, your hips bucking shamelessly against his skilled fingers as he finger-fucked you with reckless abandon. Waves of pleasure crashed over you with each thrust, your breasts heaving as he groped and kneaded them roughly.

"Your body is mine now," Daemon snarled, plunging his fingers deeper into your slick heat. He curled them just right, stroking that sensitive spot within you that made your vision go white. "You'll scream my name until your throat is raw. You'll beg for my cock like a bitch in heat."

His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he finger-fucked you with ruthless intensity. Your cries of pleasure echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers pounding into your drenched cunt.

"That's it, take it," Daemon growled, his lips latching onto a pert nipple. He sucked hard, grazing the bud with his teeth as his fingers ruthlessly stroked your g-spot. "Come for me, little witch. Let me feel you spasm on my fingers."

He could feel your walls fluttering around his digits, your body teetering on the brink of climax. With a final, brutal thrust, he sent you careening over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy filled the room as your pussy clenched down on his fingers, your release dripping down his fingers.

Daemon lapped at your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He continued pumping his fingers through your climax, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and mewling.

"Good girl," he purred, finally withdrawing his soaked fingers. He brought them to your lips, smearing your essence across them. "Clean them."

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. You hesitated only a moment before parting your lips, allowing him to push his fingers into your mouth. The musky taste of your arousal coated your tongue, and you couldn't help but moan around his digits.

He grins wickedly as you lap at his fingers provocatively, cleaning your essence from them. As his fingers are clean, he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling before you, as to worship you.

You gasp as Daemon sinks to his knees before you, his dark eyes fuming with raw desire. Your heart races, your pulse pounding in your ears as he settles between your trembling thighs. The heat of his breath on your most sensitive flesh sends electric shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

Dazed and off-balance, you instinctively reach out, fisting your hands in his hair for support. Your legs still feel like jelly from your earth-shattering climax moments before.

A bewildered expression crosses your face as he grins up at you, his tongue snaking out to drag along your dripping slit. You cry out, your head slamming back against the cold stone wall as ecstasy crashes over you in relentless waves.

"Mmmm, you taste divine," Daemon purrs, his hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He laps at your essence like a man starved, his tongue delving deep to drink from your most intimate well.

You can only moan brokenly, your head thrashing from side to side as he feasts upon your quivering flesh. His tongue is pure sin, licking and suckling at your clit with unholy skill.

"Good girl," he growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. "Ride my face. Grind that pretty cunt against my tongue."

Lost to the all-consuming pleasure, you do as he commands, rolling your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Your thighs clench around his head, trapping him in place as you fuck his face with feral ease.

His lips close around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud as he thrusts two fingers into your dripping channel. They curl just right, stroking that secret spot within you that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Daemon groans, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering walls.

You can only whimper in response, your body tensing as another climax builds at the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

Daemon's tongue delved deep, lapping at your dripping essence with a hunger that bordered on feral. He groaned against your slick flesh, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure racing through your body.

He focused his attention on your clit, the tip of his tongue flicking the sensitive bud with rapid, teasing strokes. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. The public nature of your coupling only served to heighten the forbidden thrill, the rush of being taken in a place where anyone could stumble upon you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his probing tongue as he brought you to the brink of climax once more.

With one final, hard suck, he sent you spiralling over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy echoed off the stone walls as your pussy clenched around his tongue, your release gushing into his eager mouth.

Daemon lapped at your spasming cunt, prolonging your pleasure as he drank down every last drop of your sweet nectar. He continued his ministrations until your body went limp, your cries turning to whimpers as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. He stood, a wicked grin on his face as he towered over your prone form.

"You taste divine, little witch," he purred, his hand sliding up your body to cup your breast. He pinched your nipple, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. "I could feast on your cunt for hours and never grow tired."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "But I'm not nearly done with you yet..."

Lifting you up with ease, Daemon tosses you onto the creaky bed, your body bouncing on the worn mattress. You cry out in surprise, your heart pounding as you take in his towering form looming over you. His eyes burn with a hunger that gives you chills.

"Daemon, please," you plead, your voice trembling. Your core aches, still throbbing from the intense climaxes he's wrought from your untouched body. You are no experienced harlot, but an untouched maiden, and you fear you are not ready for the sheer size of him.

Daemon's large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs wide as he settles between your thighs.

Daemon's eyes raked over your trembling form, taking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. His cock throbbed with need, straining against the confines of his breeches as he drank in the sight of your swollen, glistening folds.

His hands moved with urgent purpose, his fingers making quick work of the laces of his breeches. He shoved the garment down his legs, kicking it aside with a careless motion. His cock sprang free, the thick shaft jutting out proudly from a nest of dark curls.

He rubbed his cock against your slick entrance, teasing you with the promise of his hard length. You could feel it throbbing against your sensitive flesh, hot and hard and ready to claim you utterly.

"Please," you whimpered, your body trembling with need. "I... I've never... I don't know if I can take you."

A cruel smile twisted Daemon's lips as he heard your plea.

"Please be gentle," you whisper, looking up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Daemon's expression softens for a moment, a flicker of something akin to tenderness crossing his features. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip.

"Shh, little witch," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly mild. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

With that, he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, claiming you, staking his claim over you.

As he kisses you deeply, you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he begins to push forward, stretching you open around his thick girth.

A sharp gasp escapes you, breaking the kiss as he breaches your barrier. Pain and pleasure mingle together, your untouched walls struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust, his hands roaming your body possessively. "Such a perfect little cunt, made just for me."

He starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. The rhythm is brutal, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as pain and pleasure crashed over you in equal measure. He stretched you wide, his thick length filling you in a way you never thought possible. Your walls stretched and clenched around him, your slick arousal easing the way as he claimed you over and over again.

"Fuck!" Daemon snarls, his eyes rolling back at the tight, wet heat of your virgin walls. 

Daemon sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with animalistic hunger. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he ruts into your willing body.

"Take it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure, his hips snapping against yours with ruthless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your moans and his grunts as he took you, his cock sawing in and out of your dripping cunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving red marks and bloody imprints.

Daemon's brutal thrusts tore through you, each one sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. You screamed, your voice hoarse and ragged as he pounded into your virgin cunt. Tears streamed down your face, your nails raking down his back as you clung to him desperately.

He had taken something sacred from you, your maidenhead, and you knew your souls were now tied. The ritual of first blood, unplanned as it was, had sealed your fates together. And with a dragon as your first, the power you could now wield...

You threw your head back, your moans echoing off the stone walls as he fucked you with complete disregard. Your hips bucked to meet his thrusts, the pain giving way to a pleasure you had never known before. You were lost to the sensation, your body consumed by the feel of him inside you.

Daemon's eyes darkened at the sight of your tears, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He could feel your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock like a vice as he claimed you over and over again.

He angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with each brutal thrust. His hands roamed your body, groping and squeezing, leaving bruises in their wake.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with pleasure. "Take my cock like the little slut you are. Fucking mine now, aren't you? Your cunt belongs to me."

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet him as he drove into you over and over again. The bed groaned beneath you, the frame creaking threateningly as he took you with unrestrained lust.

You felt your peak nearing, your entire body on fire as Daemon pounded into you with unrestrained fury. You brought his neck to your teeth, biting down hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. The copper taste flooded your mouth, bitter and metallic as you licked the crimson liquid from your lips.

"Now you have bled for me too," you whispered ominously, your voice thick with lust and dark magic.

But before you could reach your peak, you quickly reached for your enchanted necklace, clutching it in your hand. The ancient magics within pulsed to life, amplifying the power of this ritual tenfold.

Power surged through you, your cunt squeezing tight around Daemon's cock as you came. Your eyes rolled back, your body convulsing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Dark energy swirled around you, the air crackling with stifled energy.

"Mine," you whispered, your voice echoing with unexpected dominance. "You are mine now, Daemon Targaryen. Entwined by blood and pleasure."

Daemon's eyes flew open in surprise, his mouth falling open as he felt the surge of dark witchcraft. But it was too late - the ritual was complete.

Daemon froze, his cock buried deep inside your still-spasming cunt. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as your cunt clenched around him like a vice. The dark magic amplified every sensation, every touch, every thrust. It was overwhelming and intoxicating, and he never wanted it to end.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained with anger and pleasure. "What did you do?"

But even as he asked, he knew. You had bound him to you, claimed him in a way that went beyond the physical.

He thrust into you one last time, his cock erupting deep inside you as he came.

He tried to pull out, to break the connection, but your walls clenched around him, refusing to let him go. Panic flashed across his face as he realized the implications of what you'd done.

"You... you she-devil," he snarled, his hands tightening on your hips. "Did you plan this? To trick me, to bind me to you?"

You just grinned, a vicious, seductive curve of your lips. You could feel his fear, his anger, but beneath it all was a flicker of arousal. The power you now held over him was intoxicating.

"Shh," you cooed, your fingers trailing down his chest. "Don't fight it. We are one now."

You roll your hips, your walls clenching around his softening cock. He groans, his hips bucking unconsciously into yours.

You gasped as the obsidian stone of your necklace pulsed warmly against your throat. The maleficent force surged through your veins, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "Yes!" You cried out, the power exhilarating in your veins.

Your eyes, nearly black now, held his gaze as you sneered cruelly.

Daemon collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His softening cock slipped from your abused cunt, a trickle of his seed leaking out to pool on the tattered sheets beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still intertwined as you both tried to process what had just happened. The energy that had swirled around you during your climax still lingered in the air, making the hairs on Daemon's arms stand on end.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes searching your face. He looked confused as he took in your triumphant grin and the blackness of your eyes.

"What... what did you do to me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming with malice. "I didn't do anything to you. I had no desire to harm you, as I stated before," you answered truthfully. "Did you know that the moment when one reaches orgasm is the most intense and the most powerful experience a human can have in life? For in that moment, the soul suddenly opens to the divine realm and the breath of God is infused. I needed another to reach divinity."

You rose from the bed, slipping your ripped dress back on and throwing a cloak over yourself. "I simply used you... as you have done to many women in your life, I'm sure. Do not fret, my prince," you smirked.

Daemon stared up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and a hint of grudging admiration. He pushed himself up to sit, his naked body on full display as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"Used me?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "I've never been used like this before."

He stood, his cock already starting to harden again at the sight of you, despite his anger. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out as if to grab you, but he stopped himself.

"What are you?" he demanded, his eyes raking over your form. "What kind of witch are you?"

He snatched up his discarded breeches, roughly pulling them on, his mind reeling from the events of the past hour.

"I should kill you for this," he growled, but there was no real heat behind his words. He knew he couldn't, not now. Not with the bond between you, however unexpected it may be.

"What do you want from me now?" He asked, rage clearly visible in his eyes.

You sauntered over to Daemon, your hips swaying seductively. The rip in your dress left little to the imagination, your full breasts on display for his hungry gaze. You could see the desire warring with the anger in his eyes as you approached.

"Nothing anymore, my prince," you purred, your voice like honey. "My powers have been amplified. I owe you a debt of gratitude for that."

You traced a finger along his jawline, feeling the prickle of his stubble. "Though I wouldn't mind having you take me again. I doubt I'll find another man as virile as you in all of Westeros."

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "You've awakened something in me, Daemon Targaryen. A hunger I never knew I could satisfy."

Your hand slid down his chest, your nails raking lightly over his skin. "I am yours. And I suspect you are mine as well."

You pulled back, your eyes locking with his. "What say you, my dragon?"

Daemon's breath hitched as you touched him, his body responding instantly to your proximity despite his anger. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise as he glared down at you.

He pulled you closer, his other hand gripping your hip. "You want to be taken again?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll fucking ruin you."

[luvleyshif4]

ALWAYS COMES BACK

Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: reader just loves Rafe so much she has to fight her anger issues…

Warnings: fluff, argument, very little angst, reader has anger issues, happy ending, hurt/comfort, reader is clingy kinda…

Word count: 1.23k words

Authors note: I wasn’t getting any ideas or motivation. And I also just love reading other people’s work more than making my own. But here’s something I thought of which I found kinda cute. Hope you guys like it😘😘

Rafe wasn’t the kind of person you’d ever pictured yourself with. On paper, the two of you couldn’t be more different. You were deliberate, composed, and fiercely independent. a far cry from the impulsive and turbulent life Rafe had once led. But by the time you crossed paths, he was already working on becoming someone better, someone worthy of a second chance.

The relationship didn’t start as a whirlwind romance. it was slow, careful, and built on countless hours of guarded conversations. Rafe had a way of disarming you, not with grand gestures but with quiet vulnerability. He let you in, into his world, his mind, his heart, and before you knew it, you couldn’t imagine life without him.

Being with Rafe wasn’t always easy, though. He had his moments of doubt, moments where his past tried to claw its way back. But you stood by him, matching his stubbornness with your own. Despite the occasional clash of temperaments, his protectiveness versus your independence. you found a rhythm. A messy, imperfect rhythm that somehow worked.

…..

The argument started in the kitchen of Tanneyhill, where you had been putting away washed dishes.

Rafe leaned against the counter, his expression hard and unreadable, while you paced across the tiled floor, your arms crossed defensively. What began as a small disagreement had escalated, both of you too proud and too stubborn to back down.

He was protective. too protective, in your eyes. His insistence on involving himself in matters you thought you could handle felt suffocating at times. And your frustration only fueled his need to assert himself, to convince you that he was right.

“You just don’t listen, Rafe!!” you snapped, your voice rising despite your attempts to stay calm.

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his blue eyes narrowing. “And you don’t think about the consequences!” he shot back.

The argument snowballed from there, sharp words exchanged like blows, each one cutting deeper than the last. Your anger flared, your own temper spiraling out of control as you felt the familiar heat rise in your chest. Rafe wasn’t backing down, and neither were you.

Finally, you’d had enough.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the house, grabbing your car keys on the way. The heavy slam of the front door echoed behind you, a punctuation to your exit.

……

Sitting in the driver’s seat, your hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, your chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing. You hated when things got like this, heated, messy, unresolved. But your anger always had a way of clouding your judgment, making it hard to see beyond the moment.

The engine hummed as you started the car, but you didn’t move. Your thoughts swirled, fragments of the argument replaying in your mind. His frustration, your defensiveness, the sharp edge in his voice when he told you to “just let him protect you.”

You hated the way he said it. But you hated the way it made you feel even more. hated how you had reacted.

Because beneath your frustration was a truth you couldn’t ignore: Rafe’s actions, however misguided, always came from a place of love. And you hated being at odds with him.

With a sigh, you shut off the car and climbed out, the cool night air prickling your skin as you walked back toward the house. Each step felt heavier than the last, doubt creeping into your mind. What if he didn’t want to talk? What if you’d hurt him too much this time?

But then the door opened before you could knock.

Rafe stood in the doorway, keys being shoved in his pocket, his expression unreadable, though his furrowed brow and the tension in his shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil. His blue eyes met yours, searching, waiting.

For a moment, You just stood there with your arms crossed, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. But when your gaze met his, the resolve in your expression faltered.

You let out a small huff, your lips pressing together in a pout as you glanced down at the ground, suddenly unsure of what to say. You hated this, the awkwardness, the weight of the argument still hanging between you.

“I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

Rafe’s gaze softened, though he didn’t move. He simply stood there, waiting, giving you the space you needed.

Your arms dropped to your sides, your expression softening further, and without another thought, you took a step forward, closing the distance between you. Your hands found their way around his waist, your head resting against his chest as you hugged him tightly.

At first, he didn’t respond, his body stiff with surprise. But then his arms wrapped around you, his hold firm and steady, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

“I hate fighting with you,” you mumbled against his chest, your voice low, cracking, the words muffled but no less sincere.

Rafe let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair in a soothing gesture. “I know,” he said quietly into the hair on top of your head. “Me too.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt your head and look up at him. The edges of his lips curved faintly, though his gaze remained serious, searching yours.

“Do you forgive me?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, your lips quivered into a sad pout.

His lips twitched into a small smile, and he brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “Always,” he murmured.

His hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb trailing down to your bottom lip, brushing softly against it, his voice low. “Though I can’t stay mad at you. Not when you look like this.”

A small laugh escaped your lips, the tension in the air momentarily easing. But the way he looked at you—the intensity, the raw tenderness—made your chest ache. You bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. Without thinking, you leaned up on your toes, closing the distance.

Rafe met you halfway, his lips brushing against yours with a gentleness that contrasted the tension from earlier. The kiss was slow, deliberate, and filled with an unspoken apology.

When you pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against yours. The silence stretched for a beat before he spoke, his voice low and steady.

“I love you,” he said, the words falling from his lips with quiet certainty, like they’d been waiting for the right moment.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding in your chest as his words sank in. A slow, shy smile spread across your face as you hide your face in his chest. “I love you, too,” you whispered, the confession falling from your lips just as easily.

For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not the fight, not the frustration—just this. Just him.

Because in the end, no matter what, you’d always come back to him.

[meltinglatte]

My Brother's Culprit

When Mingyu’s older brother is found dead in his Seoul apartment, the world calls it suicide. But Mingyu knows better. For Mingyu it was Kim Y/N — the mysterious girlfriend his brother once called suffocating. With nothing but a gut feeling and a name, Mingyu leaves Jeju for Seoul to uncover the truth. But the deeper he digs, the more twisted the story becomes.

pairing : Mingyu x female reader

genre : romantic thriller

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ﾟ｡⋆

Chapter 01

Mingyu had always looked up to his elder brother, Minwoo. The quiet protector, the peacemaker in the family. Minwoo never raised his voice, never once complained about life—even when it was clearly unfair. That’s why, when the authorities declared Minwoo’s death a suicide due to work pressure, Mingyu couldn’t accept it.

Not even for a second.

Minwoo wasn’t weak. If anything, he was the strongest person Mingyu had ever known. So when the words "suicide" and "work stress" were thrown at the family like some pre-packaged excuse, Mingyu felt something twist inside him—anger, disbelief, and a whisper of guilt.

And then came the name he couldn't ignore: y/n

Minwoo’s girlfriend.

The girl Mingyu had never met, never spoken to, but always heard about in fragmented sentences and awkward silences. y/n lived in Seoul. Minwoo had moved there a year ago to live with her—left the calm shores of Jeju and his family behind. At first, it seemed like he was happy. His texts were short but sweet. “She makes good gimbap,” “We watched a movie last night,” “I think I could live here forever.”

But then something changed.

Two weeks before Minwoo’s death, Mingyu received a call he couldn’t stop playing over in his mind.

“Y/n gives me a hard time,” Minwoo had said, his voice unusually low, tired. “I don’t know what her problem is. She’s… different lately.”

Mingyu remembered brushing it off, joking about couples fighting all the time. But now, those words sat heavy in his gut. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Every instinct screamed that there was more to Minwoo’s death—something no one wanted to talk about. And at the center of it was a girl he had never even met.

Determined, Mingyu packed his bag and took the first flight to Seoul. During the flight, Mingyu remembers how he sent y/n a message on the day of his brother's funeral.

“Hey, I’m Minwoo’s brother. I wanted to ask you about my brother’s suicide. Can you please tell me what really happened?”

He watched the message get delivered. Then, watched the two blue ticks appear.

Seen.

But no reply. Not that day. Not the next. Not ever.

Y/n saw it—and ignored it.

To Mingyu, silence was worse than lies. It meant one of two things: either she had something to hide… or she didn’t care that the man she once lived with was now ashes in an urn.

Mingyu knew confronting y/n directly won't work.

He could already imagine the door slamming in his face, her calling the police, or worse—pretending to cry.

So he decided to do something risky. Something dangerous.

He would enter her life. Not as Mingyu… but as Han Jisung.

The name belonged to his friend—an old classmate who now lived abroad and owed Mingyu more than a few favours. He gave Mingyu his identity: ID, background story, even a social media presence.

A new name.

A new game.

Mingyu's next step was to infiltrate into the company y/n worked at.

It took him two weeks of fake resumes, polished interviews, and careful manipulation before he finally got the message:

"Congratulations. You have been selected for the position at Varo Pharmaceuticals. Please report to the Seoul HQ Monday, 9:00 AM sharp."

His heart thudded. Step one: complete.

The next morning, Mingyu wore a clean, professional look — not too flashy, not too dull. Just enough to blend in. He stood before the gleaming glass building of Varo Pharmaceuticals, its towering presence reflecting ambition and secrets.

Inside, he was directed to the third floor — the trainee department. Y/n, of course, was far above that. She worked in a private office on the top floor, a place reserved for people with real power.

Mingyu kept a low profile but watched her whenever he could.

She always arrived early. Always left early. Never once ate in the cafeteria. Didn’t talk unless it was work-related. Skipped every company dinner.

One morning, while he sipped bitter coffee with the other new hires in the break area, Y/n walked in — black fitted coat, cream blouse, minimal makeup, and a luxury handbag that easily cost more than Mingyu’s entire wardrobe.

“Look at her,” someone muttered, “she’s so pretty and expensive. She smells like money.”

“I heard she’s not even from a rich family,” another said. “So how’s she affording that car, those clothes, that bag? Unless she’s deep in debt or—”

A sharp voice cut through.

“So what? You think women can’t afford nice things unless they’re doing something shady?” A female employee stood, arms crossed. “Maybe she’s just better at her job than you.”

The room fell into a tense silence as she walked out, leaving the others quietly sipping their drinks, guilt and resentment mixing in the air.

But Mingyu wasn’t focused on the argument.

His eyes remained fixed on Y/n’s retreating figure.

How was she affording it all? Where did this money come from? Was Minwoo’s death somehow connected to this wealth?

A few more days passed, and Mingyu’s patience sharpened into focus. He remained in the background — unnoticed, ordinary — but his eyes were always on Y/n.

That morning, a company-wide meeting was held in the main conference hall. Executives and managers sat near the front. The new hires, including Mingyu, filled the back rows.

Y/n was already there, seated beside the CEO. Polished as always. Untouchable. But something was different today. Her posture was stiff, eyes a little dull. When it was her turn to present, she stood up and walked to the front of the room.

The lights dimmed. The projector hummed to life.

Y/n began speaking — clear, confident — but soon, she faltered.

A slip of the tongue. The wrong slide. A slight shake in her voice.

The room noticed.

And so did the CEO.

He chuckled, breaking the silence with a teasing tone.

“Looks like even the flawless Miss Y/n can have an off day.”

Y/n managed a tight smile, but the CEO continued, clearly amused.

“Maybe it’s time you considered getting a secretary, Y/n.”

She turned, ready to respond.

“I don’t—”

But the CEO cut her off before she could finish.

“Don’t say no. You work too hard. Just take one of the new recruits under your wing. Give them some real experience.”

He glanced toward the back rows, eyes scanning.

“Any volunteers?”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Mingyu stood.

“Sir, I’d like to.”

The room shifted. A few heads turned.

“And you are?” the CEO asked.

“Han Jisung,” Mingyu said with a calm, practiced smile.

Y/n’s gaze landed on him. Sharp. Curious. Slightly unsettled.

He held her stare — steady, unreadable.

She didn’t recognize him. Not yet.

But she would.

-----------

After the meeting, Mingyu was summoned to Y/n’s office.

Office 17B was cold, sleek, and intimidating — much like the woman who occupied it. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast long streaks of sunlight across the marble floor. Everything was quiet except the faint hum of the city below.

Y/n sat at her desk, flipping through his resume.

She didn’t look up when she spoke.

“Impressive qualifications.”

Mingyu stood still, hands loosely clasped behind him, a calm smile on his lips.

She finally raised her eyes.

“A PhD in Pharmacy from Hankuk University. Published research. Boston internship. You could be in a lab at Harvard… or making six figures consulting for biotech firms.”

A pause. Her gaze narrowed slightly.

“So why here? Why Varo? And why start at the bottom, as a new recruit, when you could be earning ten times more with this background?”

give a note for part 2! thank you for reading

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

you wrote a fanfic the other day about Sebastian gaining some weight but I’d love to see a fanfic where MC gains some weight + Sebastian’s reassurance <3

Pool Side | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Anon! I want to apologize for the very long wait (like... two months...) for this fic! It has been a WIP since you submitted this request but the story took on a life of its own and it took a hot minute for me to finish. I hope it was worth the wait!

Also I promised some more fluff/smut on the blog so enjoy everyone💚

Words: ~16,100

Tags: Smut, Modern AU, Reader Insert, Female MC, Plus Sized MC, No Y/N, Post Hogwarts, Fluff, Actually Unrequited Love, Romance

Beta: @newdreamlove95 💚

The coastline stretched before you, the sea a glimmering expanse of blue beneath the midday sun. White limestone cliffs loomed in the distance, dramatic and weathered by time, framing the golden sand of Durdle Door Beach. It was the kind of place people romanticized—secluded, picturesque, the perfect setting for a group of old friends to escape their busy lives for a single, carefree afternoon.

Except, you hadn’t felt carefree all day.

The sound of crashing waves filled the spaces between laughter, between playful shouts and splashes as your friends waded deeper into the water. The air smelled of sea salt and sunscreen, the sand warm and fine beneath your towel. It should have felt perfect. But as you sat beneath the wide shade of your umbrella, the book in your hands barely touched, all you could think about was how different you felt—how different you were.

Time had shaped all of you in its own way—careers, travels, lessons learned, heartbreaks and triumphs, all of it leaving its mark. Garreth had finally cut his hair, and his once-boyish face was now set with sharper features. Imelda had somehow managed to look even more athletic than she had in school, toned and lean, her features even more fierce. Natty had grown taller, even more poised, carrying herself with quiet confidence. Even Ominis, who you’d always considered the most put-together of the group, had softened somewhat, the weight of his family name no longer pressing so heavily on his shoulders.

And Sebastian—He wasn’t the same as he had been at eighteen, either.

You let your gaze drift toward him, tracking him where he stood near the water’s edge, talking with Ominis. His once-boyish face had sharpened, the angles of his jawline more pronounced, the shadow of scruff darkening his face where smooth skin had once been. Even his curls had changed—longer now, though the wind still toyed with them the same way it always had.

And his body—

He had always been strong, lean from Quidditch and dueling, but now he had filled out, broader in the shoulders, thicker in the arms and chest. Not as sharply cut as he had been at eighteen, no longer carved from restless youth and constant training, but something better—something balanced, something solid—not chiseled, not sculpted, just strong, in a way that felt effortless. Comfortable.

Yet while everyone had changed, you had changed the most.

You adjusted the loose cover-up draped over your shoulders, tugging it down to make sure it hid as much of you as possible. Not that anyone in this group would say anything—but that didn’t mean they hadn’t noticed. Because people always noticed. In fact, people commented. Not cruelly, not always, but enough. Enough that when you saw someone again for the first time in years, you had learned to brace yourself, waiting for the inevitable remark, whether it was an aunt’s offhanded, Oh, you were always such a slip of a thing before! or the faux-concerned, Are you taking care of yourself?

The world never let you forget that you used to be different, better.

At least, that’s how it felt.

You had been confident in your teenage years, running through the halls of Hogwarts with reckless energy, sharp-tongued and sharp-witted, always ready to challenge someone in a duel or throw yourself into something new without hesitation. Back then, your body had never been something you thought about—it had just been yours.

You weren’t sure when that had changed.

Somewhere along the way, your body had shifted, weight settling onto you in ways you couldn’t ignore, in ways other people refused to ignore. It didn’t matter that you were still you, still clever and kind and capable—it was as if the world had collectively decided that none of that mattered as much as the shape of you.

It wasn’t fair, but fairness had never been a rule the world followed. So even though your friends never said anything, you knew they had noticed. How could they not?

The weight of your thoughts pressed down heavier than the sun, hotter than the sand beneath your towel.

You felt guilty.

This weekend had been planned for months—a rare break in everyone’s busy schedules, a chance to reconnect without the distractions of work, responsibilities, or the sheer exhaustion of adulthood. It had taken forever to arrange, largely because of them.

Imelda and Natty were impossible to pin down.

Imelda, who had thrown herself headfirst into professional Quidditch after Hogwarts, had spent the last several years building a name for herself as one of the fiercest Beaters in the league.

And Natty—Natty had never stayed still. She had left the Ministry years ago for international work, teaching and training young witches and wizards abroad. If she wasn’t in Africa, she was in Asia, and if she wasn’t in Asia, she was in Australia.

Getting both of them in the same place at the same time, on holiday no less, had been a miracle.

You should have been thrilled. You were thrilled.

And yet all you could think about was how different you felt—how different you were.

You had tried to prepare. You had tried.

Dieting. Exercising. Starving yourself. Hyping yourself up by buying a new bikini, thinking that maybe—maybe—if it was flattering enough, if you just forced yourself into the right mindset, you’d be okay.

But stepping into it today had made you feel sick.

You had stood in front of the mirror in the beach house bathroom that morning, stomach churning, as you studied the reflection that didn’t match the version of yourself in your memories.

You had stared at your body, turning slightly, tugging at the waistband of the bottoms, at the straps over your shoulders. No matter how you adjusted them, you still looked like this.

So, instead of running into the water, instead of being the girl you wanted to be, the girl used to be, you had thrown on your cover-up and settled under the umbrella, staying there like an anchor while the others ran free.

You watched as Imelda and Poppy tossed a beach ball back and forth, their laughter carrying over the sound of the waves. Imelda, ever the athlete, barely had to move to intercept each pass, her sharp reflexes making it look effortless. Poppy, for all her gentleness, was surprisingly competitive, her playful smirk clear even from where you sat under the umbrella.

A little farther out, Natty floated on her back, arms stretched, face tilted toward the sky. She looked serene, perfectly at ease in the water, her dark braids fanning out around her like a halo.

A little closer to shore, Garreth waded through the shallows, carrying a handful of bottles, the brown glass glinting in the sunlight. He trudged toward Ominis and Sebastian, where they stood in the the surf, the waves lapping lazily at their calves.

Sebastian popped off the cap and lifted the bottle to his lips without a care, his other hand raking through his hair. The sunlight made the water droplets on his skin glisten, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his arms, the long stretch of his back where his swim trunks sat low on his hips. You hated how easy it was to look at him, how easy it had always been.

You wrenched your gaze away, but you heard Garreth open his own bottle with a sharp hiss before sighing dramatically.

“Merlin’s balls,” he laughed. “I forgot to tell you. I finally took Eloise out last weekend.”

Sebastian, already a few swallows into his drink, raised a brow. “That sounds promising. Do tell.”

"It went brilliantly," Garreth continued. "Dinner, drinks, and by the end of the night—" He took a swig of his beer, then grinned wolfishly. "Let’s just say I made quite the impression."

"Spare us the details, Weasley," Ominis huffed, tipping his head back.

"Oh, come on, mate. Don’t pretend you’re not interested."

"I assure you, I am not."

Garreth rolled his eyes before continuing anyway. "She’s gorgeous. You know, tall, really fit, amazing legs. I mean she plays for the Falcons, and bloody hell, you can tell." He whistled low, shaking his head in admiration.

Sebastian made a knowing sound, half a chuckle, half a sigh. “Of course. Tall, leggy, tiny waist. Garreth Weasley’s classic type.”

“Right, well, can you blame me? She's something else,” Garreth pointed at him with his bottle.

Sebastian hummed appreciatively. “I get it. Hard to argue with a body like that.”

Garreth nodded firmly. “Of course you get it, you're a man of taste.”

Your grip on your book tightened, the pages bending beneath your fingers. Of course, Sebastian understood. Of course, he got it.

Because women like that were meant to be wanted.

Women like Poppy, who was soft in the way that was delicate, the kind of pretty that made people want to protect her.

Women like Natty, who carried herself with effortless grace, whose body was carved from strength and discipline.

Women like Imelda, who was lean, fit, sharp-edged and powerful.

Women, apparently, like Eloise, whose body was a gift, something to be admired, appreciated, worshiped.

It made sense. Of course it made sense. But it didn’t stop the ache that settled deep in your ribs, the quiet, sinking certainty that you would never be the kind of woman men spoke about like that.

And then—

“Well,” Ominis drawled, tipping his bottle toward Garreth, “not all of us are so visually inclined, I suppose.”

Garreth snorted. “Are you calling me shallow?”

Sebastian let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Knowing what you like isn’t shallow.”

“Perhaps,” Ominis allowed, tilting his head. “But I still think I have better taste.”

Garreth groaned. “Here we go.”

Ominis smirked, lazy and self-assured. “Forgive me for thinking there’s more to a woman than her legs, Garreth.”

Sebastian snorted. “Alright, we get it, you’re enlightened.”

Ominis only hummed, amused. “It’s just that I, personally, prefer someone with a bit of substance—quite literally.” He tapped his own ribs lightly with a knowing smirk. “I’ve already got enough bone for the both of us. A bit of cushion is good for a man.”

You froze.

Ominis' words hung in the air, settling between the easy laughter and the rhythmic pull of the tide.

On one hand, it was almost comforting in a way, hearing Ominis brush aside such narrow ideals. At least someone—someone you respected, someone you trusted—didn’t think a woman’s worth was measured by how well she fit into a neat little mold.

But at the same time his words didn’t fix anything. Not really. Because it wasn’t him you needed reassurance from.

It was Sebastian.

Garreth laughed, raising his bottle. “Well, cheers to that, then,” he said, clearly unbothered. “Honestly, better for both of us. I’d rather not compete with you, mate. If I had to go up against you and your good looks? I’d be doomed.”

Ominis rolled his eyes but clinked his bottle against Garreth’s all the same.

Sebastian made a sound—low, amused, noncommittal.

And that was it.

No teasing rebuttal. No agreement, but no disagreement either. Just a simple, easy acknowledgment that meant nothing.

Or maybe it meant everything.

Because Sebastian had spoken up earlier, when he’d defended Garreth’s tastes. But now? Now, he said nothing.

He didn’t joke with Ominis. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree. He just let the conversation move on, unbothered, unthinking.

And that was your answer. The truth you had known somewhere deep down but had tried so hard to ignore.

Sebastian got it. Sebastian agreed. Because of course he did. Because why wouldn’t he?

Hard to argue with a body like that.

A sudden burst of splashing pulled you from your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked up just in time to see Natty emerging from the water, droplets rolling down her sun-warmed skin as she pushed her braids back from her face. She was beaming, looking as effortlessly radiant as ever, and you felt a twinge of guilt when your first instinct was to shrink further into the shade.

She cupped her hands around her mouth, calling toward the shore. "I am going for ice cream. Who’s coming?"

The response was instant.

“Ooh, absolutely,” Poppy chirped, catching the beach ball Imelda had just tossed her before jogging toward Natty.

“I could go for something,” Imelda agreed, squeezing the seawater from her ponytail. “Haven’t had a proper cone in ages.”

Sebastian tipped his beer back for a final sip, then turned to Ominis. "You coming?"

Ominis scoffed. "Do you even have to ask?"

You didn’t have time to react before the whole group was moving, heading toward the shore in a mess of dripping bodies and sun-warmed skin, shaking the saltwater from their limbs as they made their way toward you.

"That book must be fascinating if you’re still at it," Garreth teased as he approached your umbrella.

You forced a smile, gripping the novel a little tighter. "Riveting."

Sebastian was right behind him, running a hand through his damp curls as he reached for the towel he’d left beside his bag. "What’s it about?"

You hesitated. You had no idea. You hadn’t read a single word in—how long had it even been?

"It's romance-mystery-crossover," you lied offhandedly, hoping the vague genre mashup would be enough to satisfy him.

Sebastian gave you a slow, amused look, clearly unconvinced. "Sounds made up."

"Of course it is, it's a fiction novel, Sebastian," you countered, flipping the book closed and setting it aside, hoping the conversation would move on.

It did.

Garreth reached for his t-shirt, shaking off the sand before pulling it over his head. "You going to join us in the water after we get ice cream?"

You hesitated.

The question was casual, easy, but you could feel the weight of expectation behind it. Not just from Garreth, but from the others too. Poppy was already looking at you with hopeful anticipation, Natty giving you a small, encouraging nod.

They wanted you to say yes.

And for a second, you wanted to say it too. To be the girl you used to be, the one who wouldn’t have thought twice before running headfirst into the waves, salt-stung and laughing, sand stuck to her legs and hair damp with seawater.

But that wasn’t you anymore.

So you mustered up a small, apologetic smile and said, “Maybe later.”

Garreth groaned. “Oh, come on. You said that last time."

But before he could complain further, Natty had already tossed on her sunhat and pulled her dress over her swimsuit, slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. She didn’t waste time waiting for further debate.

"Come on," she called over her shoulder, already walking down the beach toward the path leading up to the ice cream stand. "Before the ice cream all melts."

That was enough to get the others moving.

Poppy hurried after her, still wringing the seawater from the ends of her hair, Imelda not far behind. Garreth quickly followed, dragging Ominis along with him, still grumbling about how one day you’d actually keep your word and join them in the water.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

You could have followed. You should have followed. But you didn’t.

You stayed put beneath the shade of your umbrella, hands clenched in your lap, your book abandoned beside you.

Because you didn’t need ice cream. You certainly didn’t need the extra sugar, nor the extra calories.

Then a shadow fell over you. You knew who it was before you even looked up.

Sebastian.

His presence was unmistakable—always had been. Something about him was too big, too bold, to ignore.

For a few beats, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there. And then—

"You’re not coming?"

His voice was casual, but there was something beneath it. Something pointed.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes fixed on the page in front of you as if that would be enough to make him move on. "I’m not really in the mood for ice cream."

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave. Didn’t let the conversation drop like you needed him to.

"You were in the mood for it last summer," he pointed out. "And the summer before that. And the one before that. And before that."

"Well, people change, Sebastian."

You hoped that would be enough. That he’d just let it go. But you’d been friends with Sebastian Sallow for over a decade, and Sebastian Sallow never let anything go. Not when it came to you. He would poke and prod, just like he always did, the way he had when you were fifteen, sixteen, eighteen—always tugging at you, always unraveling you.

You heard a heavy sigh, followed by the soft sound of shifting sand as he sat down beside you, uninvited but entirely unsurprising.

His skin was warm from the sun, his shoulders still glistening from the water. He didn’t crowd you, but he was close, the scent of salt and sun-bleached fabric clinging to him as he leaned back on his hands, his gaze now trained fully on you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, brows pulling together slightly, head tilting the way it always did when he was trying to figure something out.

"Are you okay?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

Sebastian hummed, tilting his head toward the horizon, pretending—pretending—like he wasn’t watching you carefully, like he wasn’t studying you the way he always did when he knew you were lying.

"You’ve been avoiding the water all day," he mused. "Didn’t eat much at lunch." He nodded toward your book. "And I’d bet my wand you haven’t actually read a single page of that."

You gritted your teeth. "What’s your point?"

Sebastian turned his head then, looking at you fully. "My point is that you’re clearly not okay," he said, voice steady, measured.

"Sebastian," you sighed, voice tired, "just drop it."

For a second, he actually looked like he might. But then his gaze flickered, his expression shifting with realization.

"Is it because of what Garreth said? I know how much you hate when guys objectify—"

“No.” The word left you quickly, too quickly, your chest lurching at the assumption—not because it was wrong, but because it was almost right.

Because Garreth’s words did matter. Just not in the way Sebastian thought.

He assumed you were bothered on principle, that this was about your usual distaste for men reducing women to their bodies. Because that was who you were to him—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, never one to let careless words slide.

And in a way, it felt good that he saw you like that. It meant he wasn’t thinking about your body. It meant that, in Sebastian’s mind, at least, you weren’t standing on the outside of their conversation, trying to pretend the words didn’t sting.

That was… a relief.

But it didn’t loosen the tight, twisting knot in your stomach, because even though Sebastian hadn’t thought of it that way—you had.

And it wasn’t about Garreth having a type. It wasn’t even about Eloise specifically. You didn’t care who Garreth found attractive—everyone had their preferences.

It was Sebastian. Because he had agreed with Garreth.

And it was stupid, really, that it should hurt at all. You had no claim to Sebastian. No right to expect him to think of you that way. He had never given you any reason to believe he did. The only person who had spent the last ten years hopelessly in love with an idea—with him—was you.

But it still hurt.

"I'm sure you overheard him," Sebastian continued, "I know you like to eavesdrop," he added teasingly.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, please. I wasn’t eavesdropping. You lot were talking loud enough for the entire beach to hear."

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh, but it lacked any real amusement. “Fair enough. But for the record, I don’t think Garreth meant anything by what he said.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I know that.”

And you did know. Garreth didn't have a single mean-spirited bone in his body.

Sebastian was still watching you carefully. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong."

“Right,” he said, stretching the word out and leaning back on his hands. “So you’re sitting here, sulking under this umbrella, avoiding the water, avoiding ice cream, barely speaking to anyone—all because nothing is wrong?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Sebastian—”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the book, your nails pressing into the cover. “You are wrong.”

Sebastian let out a dry, knowing laugh. “Yeah, no, see—that’s the thing about lying. You’re shit at it. Always have been.”

Your jaw clenched. “I swear to Merlin—”

“What?” He turned to you fully, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll hex me? Go on, then. Should be entertaining for the rest of the beach.”

You exhaled harshly, fingers flexing against the cover of your book. “Look, Sebastian, it—” You shook your head, forcing out a small, humorless laugh. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sebastian made a sound in the back of his throat—somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. "You’re not even arguing properly.”

That made you glance at him, brow furrowing. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sebastian gave you a pointed look. “It means when you actually don’t care about something, you normally fight back with something biting, something clever. You roll your eyes, you call me an idiot, you tell me to piss off.” His gaze flickered over your face, sharp and assessing. “You’re not doing that now.”

Your stomach twisted. Damn him. Damn him for knowing you this well.

Sebastian sighed, shaking his head. "Just tell me the truth."

You clenched your jaw, looking out at the waves instead of at him. "Sebastian—"

"No, really." His voice was steady, firm. "What’s the point of this? Of going around in circles when we both know I won’t let up?" He gave you a pointed look, eyes sharp. "You’re wasting your breath trying to lie to me. I see right through it, and you know I do. I’ve got a decade of experience, love."

His voice was light, teasing, but you could hear the weight beneath it. The concern. The care.

And maybe that was what did it. Maybe that was what made something in you snap.

Because you were so tired. Tired of pretending, of swallowing things down, of trying to act like it didn’t hurt.

So you turned to him, something bitter curling in your chest.

“Sebastian, you know why I don’t want to go in the water. Why I don’t want to eat in front of everyone. Why I haven’t taken off my cover-up. Why I don’t want ice cream.”

Your breath was heavy, uneven, your fingers curling into the fabric draped over your shoulders.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

So you shook your head, voice quieter but no less raw.

"You know." Your chest tightened. "And I know that you know, because you have eyes."

Sebastian just stared at you. It seemed, for once, you had managed to stun him into silence. A difficult feat. And yet, here you were.

The weight of his gaze pressed into you like an iron brand, unrelenting, burning. His lips parted slightly, his brows furrowing, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Hurt. Frustration. Anger.

“That’s what this is about?” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “That’s what it’s been about this whole time?”

And when he said this whole time, you knew he didn’t just mean today. He meant the past few years.

The slow retreat. The way you had pulled away, little by little, until the girl he had grown up with—the one who had been fearless, the one who had laughed loudly and took up space without hesitation—had hidden herself away.

His jaw clenched.

“Who?” His voice was rough, barely more than a growl. “Who made you feel like this?”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Who?” You shook your head, gripping the edge of your towel like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Everyone, Sebastian.” Your voice wavered, bitter and exhausted. “The whole fucking world.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his whole body tense like he was barely holding something back. And then his voice came low, simmering with something dangerous.

“Just give me names.”

You let out a shaky laugh, running a hand over your face. “And what, exactly, are you going to do?”

Sebastian’s jaw was tight, his entire body radiating tension. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted, voice clipped. “But I’d very much like the opportunity to find out.”

Your stomach twisted, a mess of emotions you didn’t have the energy to untangle. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “It’s not just one person, Sebastian. It’s in the looks, the comments, the offhand remarks. It’s in the way people notice, the way they always notice, the way they feel entitled to remind you, like maybe you hadn’t already noticed yourself.” Your breath hitched, throat closing up. “It’s in the way people talk about women like me—if they even bother talking about us at all.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face, dragging it down to his mouth like he needed to physically stop himself from doing something. "Merlin, you—why have you never said anything?"

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. "And say what, exactly?" Your voice wavered, edged with exhaustion and bitterness. "That every time I see someone after a long time, I can feel them sizing me up, silently comparing me to who I used to be? That I can’t eat in front of people without obsessing over every bite?" A humorless scoff escaped you. "Or maybe I should’ve told you that whenever people talk about a ‘real woman,’ it never seems to include someone like me—because to them, we’re always just a consolation prize?"

Sebastian stood abruptly, sending a small spray of sand scattering as he pushed to his feet. The suddenness of it startled you, your breath still uneven in your chest, your body tense from the weight of the conversation that had just unraveled between you.

"Come on."

"...What?"

He rolled his eyes, but there was something determined in his stance, something resolute in the way he held his hand out to you.

"Don’t ask questions. Just get up."

You hesitated, glancing from his open palm to his face—his stubborn, determined face, the one you knew far too well. The one that meant arguing would be pointless.

Still, you narrowed your eyes, skepticism thick in your voice. "Sebastian—"

He exhaled sharply, already exasperated, and before you could pull away, he reached down, grasping your wrist with a careful but firm grip. His fingers were warm, rough from years of dueling, calloused in that way you knew too well.

"Just come with me," he murmured, voice softer now, quieter.

You let out a sharp breath but after a long, weighted pause—you let him pull you to your feet.

Sebastian's grip remained steady as he led you away—away from the crashing waves, away from the shade of your umbrella, away from the book you had never actually been reading. Away from the water that had once felt like freedom but now felt like something else entirely.

Instead, he walked you back toward the beach house your group had rented, his pace unrelenting.

You followed reluctantly, the damp sand clinging to your feet as the distant sounds of laughter and crashing waves softened behind you, replaced by the rustling of palm fronds and the creak of wooden steps as the two of you moved past the deck.

"Seriously—what are we doing?"

"Patience."

You scowled. "You’re not exactly known for patience."

"Yeah, well, I’m trying something new," he muttered.

The two of you rounded the deck, past the side gate, until you stepped onto the lush grass of the backyard to where the pool remained untouched.

Because why would anyone use the pool when the ocean was right there? When the horizon stretched endlessly, inviting and vast?

But Sebastian didn’t hesitate. He walked straight to the edge, dropping his towel onto a chair before turning back to you and he reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Your brain barely had time to catch up before he pulled the fabric over his head, revealing his sun-warmed skin, broad shoulders, and sun kissed freckles.

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

"...What are you doing?"

"Getting in the pool."

"Why?"

Sebastian shot you a flat look. "Because you won’t go in the ocean. And if you don’t want to swim in front of the whole world—fine. But you’re not allowed to hide from me."

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. "Sebastian—"

"You love swimming." His said, low and steady, like he was stating an irrefutable truth. "I know you do. And back here, it's just me and you."

You swallowed, your throat tightening.

"Sebastian, it’s not that simple—"

"Why not?"

You inhaled sharply, feeling the words clog in your throat. Because I don’t want you to look at me like everyone else does.

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to keep your gaze locked on his. "Because it just isn’t."

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was barely holding something back.

"That’s not an answer."

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "It’s the only one I’ve got."

For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes dark, searching, unreadable. Then, before you could react, before you could argue or stop him, he stepped closer, reaching for your wrist again.

"Could you, for once in your life, not argue with me?"

He said it with his usual teasing tone, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You sighed.

"Fine."

Sebastian blinked, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to agree.

You barely expected it yourself.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence between you stretching taut.

Then slowly, reluctantly, he let go before finally turning toward the pool and lowering himself into it. The water lapped around his waist as he submerged himself, stretching his arms out with a satisfied sigh.

"The temperature is perfect," he announced. "Trust me, you’re going to love it."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, stomach churning as you reached for the tie at your waist.

This was a mistake.

Your fingers fumbled with the knot, hesitating. Your pulse pounded in your ears. You regretted this already. The bikini—the one you had somehow convinced yourself was a good idea when you bought it—was bright fucking yellow.

Unmissable. Unavoidable. A beacon of self-inflicted torment.

What the hell had you been thinking?

You should have picked something darker, something less obnoxious, something that wouldn’t make you feel like every single part of you was on display.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, floating lazily on his back, watching you. "You’re thinking too hard again."

You clenched your jaw. Your fingers curled around the fabric, tight, hesitant. This was stupid. This was so, so stupid.

But he was watching you. Not impatiently. Not expectantly.

Just waiting.

And that was the only reason you finally, finally pulled at the knot.

The cover-up slipped from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. Immediately, your stomach flipped, your arms twitching with the immediate urge to cover yourself, to retreat, to run—

But then, slowly, deliberately, Sebastian let his feet drop beneath him, standing fully in the water. His gaze dragged over you. Slow. Lingering.

"Sebastian—"

"Yellow."

"What?"

His lips curled slightly, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Your swimsuit. It’s yellow."

Your face burned. "No shit."

Sebastian hummed, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. "It suits you."

Your breath caught.

"Are you coming in or what?" he murmured.

Your throat felt tight.

"Yes."

You forced your legs to move, stepping toward the pool’s edge as if you were approaching a cliff, bracing for the drop.

Every sensation was amplified—the way your thighs brushed together, the curve of your stomach, the stretch marks etched across it. The way your skin dimpled, the way your body moved, the way there was no concealing any of it.

Sebastian was still watching. You felt the weight of his gaze, and it took everything in you not to cross your arms over yourself as you stepped onto the first stair.

The cool water lapped at your ankles. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move faster, descending step by step, letting the water claim you inch by inch.

By the time it reached your waist, you exhaled, relief flooding through you.

Safe. At least partially.

Sebastian had shifted slightly, leaning back against the edge of the pool, elbows braced along the tiled rim.

"See?" he drawled, tilting his head slightly. "Not so bad, is it?"

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus on the water instead of the fact that you were sitting in a bright fucking yellow bikini with Sebastian watching you like you were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Easy for you to say," you muttered. "You’re not the one out here feeling like a goddamn highlighter."

Sebastian’s laugh was quiet, warm. "I don’t know," he mused. "I think you make a pretty good highlighter."

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. "Shut up."

"I’m serious."

"You’re messing with me," you muttered, dragging your fingers through the water, watching as the ripples lapped against his arm.

"I’m not," he said, and something about the quiet certainty in his voice made you hesitate.

Your breath hitched as you lifted your gaze to his.

The teasing was gone. His expression was steady, unreadable, but there was something beneath it—something weighty, something real.

Heat crept up your neck, prickling despite the cool water surrounding you. The moment felt too heavy, too close, pressing in on you in a way you weren’t ready for. So, you did what you always did when you felt yourself slipping—deflected.

"Stop looking at me like that," you scoffed.

Sebastian didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady, focused in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then, finally, he asked, “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

“About... feeling like a consolation prize?”

Your stomach lurched. “Sebastian—”

“Did you mean it?”

You let out a breath, gaze flicking away as you trailed your fingertips absently through the water. “It’s not exactly something I pulled out of thin air.”

He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening where his arms braced along the pool's edge.

“So that’s a yes."

You glanced back at him, at the tight set of his jaw, at the way his fingers flexed against the tiles, like he was reining something in.

“Why does it matter?” you asked.

Sebastian let out a short, humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair before tipping his head back against the pool's rim. “Because it’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

You blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

Sebastian huffed, shaking his head, his eyes sliding back to yours, darker now. “I mean, do you honestly think no one looks at you like... like you're all they bloody want?”

You frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “Sebastian—”

“I’m serious.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “You think no one’s wanted you? No one’s looked at you and thought about what it’d be like to have you under them, or against them, or—”

“Sebastian!” Your face burned, heat spreading like wildfire from your chest to the very tips of your ears.

It wasn’t like you and Sebastian had never talked about sex before—you’d been best friends for over ten years. You’d sat beside him while he’d swapped crude jokes with Garreth, rolled your eyes at his commentary when Imelda complained about whatever hopeless bloke she was entertaining that week, even endured drunken late-night conversations about past flings and failed dates when the two of you had stayed out too long at the pub.

But never—not once—had you talked about it so blatantly.

Because discussing sex in general was one thing. Listening to Sebastian drunkenly mock some disastrous one-night stand was one thing. But this—this was him, talking about you, saying your name in the same breath as under them, against them—

The thought too much, too impossible, too close to something you’d spent the last decade trying to bury so deep it could never surface.

It was unbearable. Unthinkable. Because you knew if you let yourself really hear him, if you let yourself linger on those words, on that voice murmuring them so low and rough, then you would—

You would implode.

So instead, you reacted, your body moving on instinct, on sheer mortified desperation.

Your hand shot forward, cutting through the water as you splashed hard in his direction, your heart slamming against your ribs as you tried to drown out the image of Sebastian's mouth, the sound of his voice, the way he had said it—

The water hit him square in the face, droplets clinging to his dark hair, his skin glistening beneath the late afternoon sun.

Sebastian blinked, expression shifting from intense to something unreadable as he wiped a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“What the hell was that?”

Your breath came out shaky, your skin too hot, your arms twitching with the urge to cover yourself, to disappear.

“You can’t—you can’t just say shit like that!” you managed, your voice bordering on frantic, your pulse hammering so violently you thought it might shake you apart.

Sebastian’s brows lifted, his face still dripping. “Why not?”

“Because!"

“Look, ’m just saying,” he said, voice rougher now, lower, “that you might want to reconsider your stance.”

Your mouth opened, then closed, because Sebastian wasn't done.

“I hear the things guys say about you.” His gaze flickered over your face, then lower—just for a moment, just enough to make your stomach flip. “I hear the things they want to say to you all the fucking time."

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like you were sinking despite being fully buoyant in the water.

“...What are you talking about?”

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. "At work. When we go out. The pubs, the shops, wherever we are. Doesn’t matter." His gaze flickered over you, something simmering behind it. "I hear it."

Your pulse spiked.

“The only reason you don’t hear the shit they say about you is either because they know better,” he said, voice almost bitter. “Because they know you’d hex them into next week if they ever let you hear it. Or—”

Sebastian let out another low laugh, shaking his head.

“Because I scare them off.”

“You... what?”

Sebastian gave you a look, like it was obvious. “I scare them off.”

You just stared at him.

“You think it’s a coincidence no one approaches you when we go out?”

You felt your breath falter, your hands balling into fists at your side. "You’re making that up."

"I promise you," he asked, tipping his head slightly. " I’m not."

You swallowed thickly, your pulse hammering. “That can't be true—”

Sebastian’s jaw ticked. "I know it for a fact. And I can tell you exactly what they say, if you really want to know.”

You clenched your jaw, pressing your lips together, but it didn’t matter—because Sebastian kept going.

“They talk about your ass, how it moves when you walk, how they’d kill to get their hands on it, the kind marks they'd leave if they got the chance.”

You felt burning heat creep up your spine.

“They talk about your tits,” he went on, his eyes flickering over you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “How full they are, how they sit just right, how fucking soft they look, how they’d kill to watch them move if you rode them."

His voice dipped lower, rougher. “They talk about the way your stomach curves when you sit, how they know you’d feel so fucking good under their hands, under their weight.” His jaw ticked, his fists tightening until his knuckles went white. “How they’d bury their face between your legs and press their hands against your waist and feel all of you.”

You felt your pulse hammering, your entire body caught somewhere between stunned disbelief and mortification.

“And your mouth,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Merlin, they talk about your mouth—that sharp fucking wit of yours that makes them either want to win you or get on their knees for you.”

You made a strangled noise in the back of your throat. Your arms twitched with the immediate, desperate urge to cover yourself, to run, to deny, deny, deny—

“I know the world is fucked,” he admitted. “And it sure as hell isn’t fair to women like you. But just because you’re not plastered across a fucking Quidditch magazine doesn’t mean you’re not wanted.” His voice was softer now, but no less intense. “Doesn’t mean men don’t look at you and think about fucking you senseless."

Your breath came out uneven, your heart hammering against your ribs as Sebastian’s words settled around you like something heavy, something undeniable.

But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You refused to believe it.

You shook your head, forcing your voice to come out.

“You’re just—” You exhaled sharply. “You’re just trying to make a point.”

“A point?”

“Yes,” you insisted shakily. “Because you’re frustrated with me, and you hate when I don’t believe you, so you’re just—” You shook your head, your throat tightening. “You’re making a point!"

Sebastian’s jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring slightly. “You really think I’d make all this up?”

You swallowed thickly, your stomach twisting into itself. “Okay, maybe you’re not making it up entirely,” you admitted, voice quieter now, unsure, searching. “Maybe they do say those things, but that doesn’t mean I’m what they want.”

Sebastian frowned, his brows drawing together like he couldn’t believe you were still pushing this.

“I’m what they go for when what they really want isn’t available,” you pressed, voice bitter, thick with something sharp and worn down. “I’m the one they settle for.”

Sebastian stilled. The air changed. His expression darkened, a muscle jumping in his jaw as something sharp flashed behind his eyes. Then he moved—

Closer. Slow. Deliberate.

The water shifted around you, rippling, the cool contrast of it doing nothing to temper the heat pressing into the space between you, heat that came from him.

He loomed, his shadow blocking out the sun, his presence so much heavier now.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice low, tight. “You want to argue? Let's argue."

Sebastian’s brown eyes flickered over you, intent, his focus sharp, almost cutting. “If that were true,” he continued, voice rough, firm, “if guys were only settling for you, then why have I spent years scaring them off?”

“You—” You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding, forcing yourself to lift your chin, to meet his stare head-on. “Because you’re... territorial.”

Sebastian snorted, something dark and frustrated flickering across his face. “Why do you think that is?”

“Because you’re my best friend,” you shot back, shaking your head, like that explained everything. “Because you're you!”

Sebastian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “If you really think that’s all it is,” he muttered, voice thick with exasperation, “that it's because I'm your friend, then you’re fucking delusional.”

Your stomach flipped, something deep in your ribs twisting, recoiling.

“Then maybe it’s because you don’t trust them,” you argued, voice more desperate now, more pleading. “Men can be pricks, Sebastian, you know that.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, they can,” he agreed, his voice rougher now. “But that’s not why.”

“Sebastian—”

“You really think I’d waste my time running off blokes if I thought they weren’t serious?” His voice was incredulous now, like he was talking to someone being insufferable. “For Merlin's sake, I know the things they say about you, and I know they fucking mean it because I’ve said the same shit!”

The world tilted. Your heart stopped. Something in your chest lurched, your breath coming out too shallow, too thin, like your lungs had forgotten how to work, like your ribs had locked up, trapping something inside of you that was too big, too impossible to comprehend.

Sebastian just looked at you. Unwavering. Unshaken. Like he hadn’t just ripped open the very fabric of your reality and upended a decade’s worth of carefully constructed walls, of every defense mechanism you had ever built to keep this exact thing from happening.

“No.”

The word was instant, instinctive, ripped from you like it had been lodged in your throat, an immediate act of defense, of self-preservation.

Sebastian’s brows furrowed, the muscle in his jaw twitching slightly.

“No?” he repeated, his voice edged with something that almost sounded offended.

Your head shook before you could even stop it, panic rising fast, too fast, crashing through you like a wave you hadn’t braced for.

“No,” you repeated, voice higher, tighter, desperate. “That’s not true, it can't be true, you—”

Sebastian let out a sharp breath, his jaw tight, his nostrils flaring slightly as he shook his head. Then he laughed—a short, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes, a huff of sheer disbelief as stared down at you.

“Do you really think I would say this if it weren’t true?”

His voice was low, unwavering—something dangerous simmering beneath the surface, something unyielding, something that said enough.

You could see it in the way his fingers curled into fists beneath the water, in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his throat bobbed like he was forcing the words out, pushing past something that had been buried for too long.

“You’re just—” You swallowed. “You’re just saying that—”

"—No. I have always wanted you."

Sebastian’s voice was rough, edged with something aching, something raw, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth, like he couldn’t believe you were making him say this.

"For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, "I was in love with you at sixteen, and I have been every damn day since.”

Your breath came out uneven, barely a whisper. “Sebastian—”

"I don’t know where you got it in your head that you’re supposed to look like you did when we were kids, but yeah," His jaw clenched. "We’ve changed. And I, as you so aptly pointed out, have eyes—so yeah, you’re right." His brown eyes flickered over you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I do see it. I know you don’t weigh 130 fucking pounds anymore," he continued, voice rougher now, firmer. "And I am fucking thrilled."

You stiffened. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs had shrunk around your lungs.

"Do you want to know why?" His voice dropped lower, something dark flickering behind his eyes.

Your mouth was too dry to answer, but it didn’t matter. Because he kept going.

"Because every single thing you seem to hate about yourself ruins me," he bit out, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was physically restraining himself. "You have no fucking idea how many nights I’ve spent thinking about this," he admitted, voice rough. "Thinking about you."

You were so hot now it felt like you were burning alive, fire coursing through your veins and settling low in your stomach, thick and dangerous.

“I’ve thought about your thighs around my waist.” Sebastian's voice was lower now, almost reverent. “How you’d taste when I spread them apart. How you’d feel pressed against me.”

Your legs clenched instinctively beneath the water.

“I’ve thought about your ass in my hands.” Sebastian shifted, his brown eyes flickering lower, dark and intense. “How it’d feel to have you in my lap, to make you ride me until you forget your own fucking name.”

“And your tits.” He licked his lips, tiling his head back slightly. “They fucking kill me. I mean, god, you were pretty before, but now? Now, they’re full and heavy and fucking perfect, and all I’ve ever wanted is to get my mouth on them."

Your breath came out shaky, your arms twitching like you needed to hold yourself together.

“Merlin, I have spent years trying to behave,” His voice turned almost gritted, like the words were physically pulling something out of him. Hhe muttered, his voice lower now, darker. “But you—fuck, you have no idea how hard it is when you’re standing here looking like this—”

His gaze dragged over you, hungry, slow, like he was devouring every inch of exposed skin, every soft curve, every part of you, like he had spent years looking and wanting, and now that the words were out in the open, he refused to hold back.

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” he admitted, voice lower now, rougher. “I’ve really fucking tried to keep this in. To pretend I don’t notice, to keep my mouth shut, to respect that you don’t see me that way, that you don’t want me that way.”

Sebastian’s brown eyes flickered over you, dark and certain. “But now I find out that you won’t even step in the water because you think you don’t look good enough?” His voice was sharper now, like the words were physically pulled out of him. “That you think you need to hide?! When you look this fucking good?! It's a crime."

The world wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

Not when Sebastian was standing there, saying these things. Not when the same voice you had spent years aching over, pining for, was suddenly confessing all the things you had only ever dared to dream about in your weakest, most hopeless moments.

It was impossible. It was wrong. Not because you didn’t want it to be true, but because it couldn’t be. Because you had spent years overhearing men talk about other women like this.

Women they wanted. Women who fit the mold of desirable, women they admired, lusted after, fantasized about.

You had listened to Garreth wax poetic about Quidditch players, about girls with long legs and sharp features. You had heard Imelda talk about the men who trailed after her, about how they couldn’t help themselves, about how they looked at her like she was something worth having.

But never you. Never you.

So hearing it now—like this, in Sebastian’s voice, in Sebastian’s gaze, in the way his words hit you like a blow straight to the chest—

You felt dizzy, lightheaded, the words pressing against you, into you, wrapping around your ribs, curling low in your stomach, twisting and knotting and refusing to let go.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, his voice hoarse, desperate in a way you had never heard before. “Say something,” he muttered, “Please."

You couldn’t. You couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your lungs squeezing tight as your mind raced, as your body fought to catch up to what was happening.

How could you accept that the same boy who had haunted your every dream, every stupid little fantasy, every sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling with want pressed into your bones— How could you accept that he had been living through the same thing?

Sebastian let out another low, frustrated breath.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice gritted, dark. “Let me make this absolutely clear.”

Then, suddenly, he moved, fast. Aand deliberate.

The water swelled around you as he closed the distance in an instant, surging forward with a force that sent ripples crashing against your skin. Before you could react, his hands were on you—gripping your waist, anchoring you in place. His fingers pressed firm and unyielding against the soft curve of your sides, holding you steady, pulling you closer until there was nothing left between you.

Every inch of him was flush against you—solid, warm, inescapable. You could feel the tension in his body, the quiet strength beneath the water, the way his fingers dug in, pressing, gripping—possessive in a way that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Sebastian’s breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling hard against yours. His jaw was clenched tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin, and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but gravel and heat.

“You feel that?”

"Feel wha—oh."

Oh.

Oh.

Heat flooded your face, your pulse hammering, your skin burning. Because fuck, he was hard. Right there—there—pressed against your stomach, undeniable proof that every word he had just said wasn’t just frustration, wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment reassurance, wasn’t just a desperate attempt to make you see.

It was real.

It was real.

It was so fucking real.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, strained. “That.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Your thoughts tangled, scrambled, lost somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, deeper—something that made your fingers twitch against his shoulders, your breath come quicker, your body suddenly hyperaware of every single point where you touched.

But then he went rigid. And suddenly—too suddenly—his hands dropped from your waist.

The moment he stepped back, the absence of him was like a shock to your system, your body instantly missing the heat, the weight, the certainty of him pressed against you.

Sebastian ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, his jaw clenching.

"I—fuck. I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Sebastian let out a sharp, humorless laugh, but it sounded frustrated, almost self-loathing, his expression twisting like he was kicking himself for losing control.

“That was—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head again. “That was out of line. I’m sorry.”

Your pulse pounded, your skin still burning where he had touched you, still hyperaware of every place your bodies had been pressed together.

He was still so close. You could still feel the ghost of him. But Sebastian wouldn’t look at you.

His brown eyes flickered away, somewhere over your shoulder, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you again but was physically forcing himself not to.

“I know you don’t feel the same,” he said, his voice gritted, like he was forcing the words out despite the fact that they physically hurt him. “I know you never have.”

Your heart lurched in your chest, but he kept going.

“I mean, how could you?” His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you again. “It’s been ten years, for fuck’s sake. You’ve never—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t expect you to just, just change your mind.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your mind was reeling. Because what the fuck was he talking about?

You didn’t feel the same? You had never felt the same?

It was so absurd, so absolutely mad, that you actually laughed—a short, startled sound of pure disbelief, because he could not be serious.

Sebastian’s head snapped up at the sound, his eyes narrowing, his entire body going tense. "What?"

You shook your head, still breathless, still dizzy, heat and disbelief and something else—something sharp—twisting in your chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you demanded, voice thin, incredulous. “You think I don’t want you back?!”

Sebastian stiffened then rolled his eyes, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were even trying to argue this. “Oh, come on.”

“No—no, you come on,” you shot back, your hands lifting out of the water, gesturing sharply. “Do you hear yourself right now? Do you actually believe that? You think I—” You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Merlin’s sake, Sebastian, are you insane?”

Sebastian’s nostrils flared, frustration flashing across his face. “I don’t know, am I? Because for years, you—”

“For years, I have been in love with you, you dolt,” you snapped, cutting him off.

The words rang between you, loud and final.

Sebastian froze. His breath stopped. His brown eyes went wide.

For a long, weighted beat, neither of you moved. The only sound was the water lapping gently around you, the distant crash of the waves against the shore, the sharp thud of your pulse in your ears.

Sebastian’s mouth parted slightly, his breath coming out uneven. His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse. “...are you serious?”

With a surge of boldness that felt almost foreign, you stepped forward, closing the space between you. Your hands found his waist, fingers curling tight, anchoring him in place as if daring him to move, to run, to deny what was right in front of him.

You tilted your chin up, locking onto his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“Sebastian, for ten fucking years, I have been in love with you.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in, grasping, clinging, and Sebastian let out a low, desperate sound against your lips. His grip shifted, one hand sliding up your spine, pressing against your bare skin, holding you there, anchoring you to him.

And the other—fuck.

His fingers skimmed down your hip, tracing the soft curve of your side before sliding lower, gripping your ass with a reverence that made your stomach flip. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of you beneath his hands. Like he had dreamed of this—fantasized about this—but never allowed himself to take it.

A quiet, breathless whimper slipped from your lips, and the moment it reached him, Sebastian groaned into your mouth. His hands tightened, his hold possessive, his body pressing against yours, solid and burning and real. You could feel everything—the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his body, the tension coiling beneath every touch, every breath.

He was shaking. Like he was barely holding himself together. Like he was one second away from losing control.

And honestly—

So were you.

Your fingers slid into his wet hair, tangling, tugging just slightly, and Sebastian moaned. His grip flexed, his breath hitched—and then he moved.

In one swift motion, his hands pressed against the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly as he backed you against the edge of the pool, pinning you there, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild as he hovered over you.

“Fuck.” His voice was low, rough, like it had been dragged over gravel.

Those dark, hungry brown eyes locked onto yours, burning with something thick and dangerous, something that sent heat licking up your spine and pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers flexed against your skin.

“Do you want to get out of this bloody pool?”

Your breath hitched. The weight of the question slammed into you, wrapping tight around your ribs and squeezing. Because this wasn’t about getting out of the water. This was about what came next.

Sebastian knew exactly what he was asking. And, Merlin help you, you knew exactly what you were answering.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering, fingers twitching against the bare skin of his shoulders.

“Yes,” you murmured.

Sebastian inhaled sharply. His grip tightened. And then he was lifting you, strong hands braced beneath your thighs, guiding you up onto the ledge. The water sluiced off your skin, the cool air shocking against the heat burning through you.

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling, heart slamming against your ribs.

He stayed in the water, hands still on you, grip firm, unwavering.

His gaze roamed.

You knew exactly what he saw.

Your thighs, still slick from the water, parted where he had positioned you. Droplets clung to the soft curve of your stomach, catching in the dimming sunlight, tracing slow, deliberate paths down to the plush flesh of your hips, slipping lower—between your legs. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the thin, taut fabric of your bikini stretching over the swell of your breasts, highlighting every dip, every line, every part of you he had spent years trying not to look at.

His hands left your thighs for only a second. Just long enough for him to hoist himself out of the water in one fluid motion, muscles flexing, skin dripping, water cascading down his chest and stomach—catching on the waistband of his swim trunks, pooling at his feet.

And fuck, he was beautiful.

You barely had time to process before he was reaching for you again—one hand extended, palm open, waiting.

You placed your hand in his and then he pulled. Not gentle. Not soft. Claiming.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled forward, but before you could find your footing, his grip shifted, and before you could think, before you could question, he was dragging you across the deck—his grip firm, his pace unforgiving. Like he had already decided. Like nothing—not a single fucking thing—was going to get in his way.

Your heart pounded as he led you straight to the lounge chairs, his breathing heavy, uneven.

Your thighs hit the edge of the lounge, and suddenly, there was nowhere left to go. Nowhere but down.

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse hammered. Because—fuck—this was happening.

You sank onto the chair. Sebastian followed. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No pause to let you catch up.

He just moved.

Climbing over you. Caging you in. Settling between your legs, his hands braced on either side of you, thighs pressing against yours—the weight of him hovering just above, heavy, consuming.

Dripping water.

Dripping heat.

Dripping desperation.

His gaze dropped, drinking you in—your parted lips, your heaving chest, your bare stomach, the mess of your thighs spread open beneath him, the fabric of your bikini clinging to wet skin.

"Tell me you want this." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper, his fingers pressing into your waist, grounding himself in you. "Because if you don’t, if I’m wrong, I need to fucking stop before I—"

"You’re not wrong," you interrupted, breathless. "You have never been more right about anything in your entire life."

Sebastian huffed a laugh, and in the next breath, his lips crashed against yours, claiming, taking, devouring. It was rough, messy, all instinct. All heat.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers flying up to his hair, tangling in the damp curls, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing more. Sebastian groaned, low and wrecked, shifting his weight, pressing against you, forcing you to sink further into the lounge chair.

His hands were everywhere, hot and demanding, tracing the dips and curves of your body like he was mapping them out after years of pretending they weren’t his to touch. His fingers pressed into your waist, sliding over the soft curve of your stomach, his grip firm, reverent, like he needed to feel every inch of you beneath him.

“God,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, strained. “You feel so fucking good.”

You let out a quiet, desperate sound, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging slightly, and Sebastian growled, low and wrecked, pressing his hips harder against you, grinding down just enough to let you feel exactly what you were doing to him.

Your head tipped back, a gasp breaking free, and Sebastian wasted no time, his lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat, hot and wet.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, voice dark. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your stomach clenched, your entire body burning, too hot, too much, and you didn’t even realize you were saying his name until his teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath your ear and you whimpered it, breathless and wanting.

Sebastian groaned, his hands flying to your thighs, gripping tight, spreading them wider beneath him, pressing himself between them, flush against you. His lips dragged lower, down the slope of your shoulder, his hands skimming higher, fingers teasing at the strings of your bikini top.

"Please," he muttered, voice thick, unsteady. "Let me see you."

You nodded.

Sebastian sat back on his knees. His breath came out heavy, uneven, as his eyes dragged over you—taking in the way you looked beneath him, sprawled out, wet, wanting.

His jaw tensed, and then slowly, carefully, his fingers found the ties of your bikini top.

Your breath hitched as he tugged at the strings, the knot loosening, the damp fabric clinging stubbornly for a moment before slipping, before baring you completely to him.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his throat working, his hands freezing where they had been resting against your ribs.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked.

And—Merlin help you—the way he looked at you was like you were something to be worshiped. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you were here, that you were his.

His hands twitched.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, like the words had been ripped straight from his chest.

Heat flooded your face, your entire body burning beneath his gaze. “Sebastian—”

But then his hands were on you, and you couldn’t breathe.

Fingertips, warm and reverent, traced over the breadth of newly exposed skin, slow, unhurried. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, featherlight, teasing, making your breath stutter, making heat coil low in your stomach, before he pressed more insistently, fingers disappearing into the plushness of your breasts.

Sebastian exhaled hard, his pupils blown wide, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he was barely holding himself back.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You’re so soft."

Sebastian cursed again, leaning in to kiss you again, deeper, rougher, his hips pressing into yours, his hands gripping, exploring, memorizing.

Your mind was spinning, your pulse erratic, heat licking at every inch of your body, and fuck, this was happening. This was really happening.

Sebastian’s hands trailed lower, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, gripping them tight before sliding to the ties of your bottoms. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled at them, loosening the fabric with each tug.

They clung stubbornly to your skin for a second before he slid it away, baring you completely beneath him.

Sebastian inhaled sharply.

His eyes traced the soft curve of your stomach, the way the dimming sunlight caught the droplets still clinging to your skin, rolling in slow, lazy paths over your navel, down to the plushness of your hips, the swell of your thighs, settling lower, lower—

His throat bobbed, a sharp inhale shuddering through him as his gaze caught between your legs, at the glistening wet heat of you, already slick, already open for him.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice strained, thick with want. His grip on your thighs flexed, his fingers pressing into soft flesh, kneading, his eyes locked onto you, staring like he was witnessing something divine.

Then, finally, finally, he tilted his head up, his brown eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice wrecked.

"Whose fault is that?" you murmured, gazing up at his though half-lidded eyes.

Sebastian let out a low, strangled sound—somewhere between a groan and a curse—his grip sliding up to your hips, tightening, his fingers flexing against soft flesh like he was grounding himself, steadying himself.

"Mine," he muttered, almost to himself, almost reverent. "All mine."

And then he moved lower.

His lips brushed the inside of your thigh, slow, deliberate, his breath hot against your damp skin. His hands, one on your hip, one on your breast, pressed, kneading, gripping, holding you in place as he trailed his mouth along the sensitive skin.

Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching at your sides, instinct begging you to reach for him, to pull him closer, to demand more.

Sebastian hummed against your thigh, slow and pleased, his lips curling against your skin. “You’ve always had such a sharp mouth,” he murmured, voice like gravel, teasing.  “But now? Now, you’re going to be too busy moaning my name to run that pretty mouth.”

And before you could even react, before you could do anything but shudder beneath him, Sebastian’s mouth was on you.

A sharp, breathless sound broke from your lips as his tongue pressed against the slick heat of you, slow and thorough, licking through your folds like he wanted to savor you, consume you.

Sebastian groaned, low and wrecked, his fingers digging into your thighs as he buried himself between them, licking, sucking, devouring like he was a man starved—like he had been waiting for this for years.

Your fingers flew to his hair, tangling in the strands, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing more.

He shuddered, his tongue flicking against your clit, slow and deliberate, before dragging lower, teasing and pressing inside.

A whimper spilled from your lips, your thighs twitching around his head, your entire body trembling at the heat of him, of what he was doing to you.

“You taste so fucking good.” Sebastian muttered, his fingers flexing, holding you open for him, his mouth moving with precision, slow and intentional, like he was mapping you out, memorizing every reaction, every sound, every tiny movement that told him exactly what you liked.

Your hips bucked, your fingers tightening in his curls, and Sebastian let out a sound that was nothing short of filthy, his grip on your thighs tightening before his tongue stroked, pressed, teased—

"Look at you," he rasped, voice thick with something dark, something possessive, something hungry. "Falling apart for me already, hm?"

You let out a desperate, broken sound, your body aching for more, for him, and Sebastian just smirked, grinned, before plunging his fingers inside you, insistent and deep.

Your body jolted, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, the feeling of him inside you. Sebastian groaned at the reaction, his fingers flexing, curling, teasing—spreading you open in the most devastating way.

His mouth was back on you in an instant, tongue flicking over your clit, slow and purposeful, as his fingers worked inside you, stroking, coaxing, ruining.

Your head tipped back, pleasure surging through you, sharp and overwhelming, And this time—

You did moan his name.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And then—

“Let me fuck you,” he rasped.

Your breath hitched.

“Wha—”

Sebastian’s grip tightened, his nails digging into your skin just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Answer me,” he repeated, his voice lower this time, more desperate. “Before I forget how to be a gentleman and do it anyway."

You huffed, a flicker of defiance sparking through the haze of pleasure. "How demanding of you," you murmured.

Sebastian's grip flexed against your thighs, his fingers still buried inside you, his mouth hovering just above where you needed him most. His jaw tensed, his pupils dark and blown, his expression twisted with want, with something near desperation.

"Answer me," he repeated, his voice thick with warning as his fingers curled inside you, imploring you to respond.

But you just smirked, still gasping, still wrecked, but unwilling to give in that easily.  Sebastian wanted an answer? He could wait.

Your fingers twitched against his shoulders before you moved, pushing yourself up. Sebastian’s gaze flickered up to yours, pupils blown, his lips still slick with you, his hands flexing against your thighs like he knew what you were doing—like he knew you were about to make him suffer.

Good.

You reached for him, your fingers curling around his biceps, pushing him back, and Sebastian let you, let you take, let you flip the balance of control.

Your hands trailed lower, down his chest, his stomach, and then your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his swim trunks.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid, his jaw tight, his hands twitching where they still braced against your thighs.

You smirked, slow and deliberate, tilting your head as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What’s wrong?” you murmured. “You were so talkative a second ago.”

Sebastian let out a breath that was more growl than exhale, his head tipping forward slightly, his entire body coiled like he was barely holding himself back.

Your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his trunks, teasing the band, pulling just slightly.

“Let me see you,” you whispered.

Sebastian stared at you, eyes dark, lips parted, his hands clenching, flexing, aching to touch, to take. Then, without breaking your gaze, he reached down, fingers curling over yours, helping you undo the ties.

Your breath caught when the fabric slid down, when his cock sprang free, hard and thick, flushed and leaking, heavy against his stomach, every inch of him aching, straining.

"Like what you see?" he asked, voice smug despite the raw edge of need in it.

Yes.

You swallowed hard.

"I'm deciding," you managed to shoot back.

Sebastian barked out a laugh—short, strained—before he caught your chin between his slick fingers, tilting your face up, forcing your eyes back to his. "Fucking tease," he muttered.

You arched a brow, smirking, and without breaking eye contact, you leaned in.

Your lips brushed over the flushed, aching tip of him, barely there, just enough to make his entire body shudder, to make him suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

His cock twitched against your mouth, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and you—slowly, deliberately—dragged your tongue across it.

Sebastian jerked, his grip tightening on your chin, his breath stuttering, a low, guttural groan escaping him.

You hummed, pleased with his reaction, with the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, with the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding on.

But you didn’t take him fully. Not yet.

You let your lips trail down his length, your tongue flicking out just enough to taste him, to tease him, your hands smoothing over his thighs, slow, measured, unrushed.

Sebastian groaned, low and dangerous, his grip tangling in your hair, tugging and demanding, his body vibrating with restraint, with the barely leashed need to take control, to take you.

“Enough,” he ground out, his voice a raw, strained command. “Either stop teasing, or I’ll fuck your mouth like I know you want me to.”

Heat flooded your stomach, your entire body pulsing at the sheer dominance in his tone, at the way he looked at you like he was losing his mind, like he was aching to wreck you.

You pulled back just enough to make him groan in frustration, enough to make his fingers flex against your scalp, enough to make his cock twitch in anticipation.

Then you licked your lips, slow and deliberate, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What’s the rush?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, filled with challenge. “I thought you wanted to be a gentleman.”

Sebastian snapped.

A growl rumbled from deep in his chest, his grip shifting as he pushed you back onto the lounge chair, his body pressing against yours, hot and unyielding.

“You really want to test me right now?” he muttered, his voice dark, dangerous, his cock pressing hard and heavy against your stomach.

“Maybe."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, shaking his head, a rough, strained chuckle escaping him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his grip shifting to your thighs, spreading you open for him again, positioning himself exactly where he wanted to be, where you wanted him to be.

His gaze locked onto yours, dark and searing, one last time.

“You’re done teasing,” he rasped, voice raw as he pressed the thick, aching length of himself more firmly against your stomach, teasing, taunting. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

You grinned, fingers curling into the damp mess of his hair, tugging him down to kiss you. His groan vibrated against your lips, his hands clenching against your thighs as you deepened it, licking into his mouth, tasting the desperation there.

And then, you shifted beneath him, twisting, arching—attempting to flip yourself over, to press your chest to the lounge, to give him the perfect view of your ass as you braced yourself on your forearms.

But before you could turn completely, Sebastian’s hands flew to your waist, stopping you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering through the haze of heat as you turned to look at him, your breath coming in short pants. “Sebastian—”

He shook his head, softly, slowly, like he wasn’t rejecting you—like he was pleading with you.

“No, don't,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but suddenly softer.

Your brow furrowed, eyes searching his. "Don’t?"

Sebastian's lips curved into a small, strained smile, one hand reaching to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

"As much as I love your ass," he admitted, his jaw tightening as his gaze dipped, sweeping over the soft curves of your body—lingering, wanting. "And as much as I’d love to see it against my hips, to watch myself sink into you, to see the way your back arches, to hold onto these soft, perfect fucking hips and bury myself so deep—”

His voice broke, his breath coming out sharp, shuddering.

“That's not what I want, not for our first time.”

Your stomach flipped, something warm and devastatingly tender blooming in your chest, twisting around your ribs.

Sebastian sighed, his grip on your face tightening just slightly, his gaze flickering back up to yours, something raw, vulnerable shining behind the wrecked hunger in his eyes.

“The first time,” he murmured, voice rough, stripped down, honest. “I want to see you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to watch you come.” His lips ghosted over yours, featherlight, reverent. “Want to see every expression, every little fucking reaction. All of you.”

You swallowed, your breath still unsteady, your body still burning, aching—but the heat had shifted, changed.

This wasn’t just need. It was something more.

His lips brushed over yours, featherlight, his hands framing your jaw like you were something fragile, something precious. "Is that okay?"

Your fingers curled around his wrists, your pulse hammering beneath his touch.

You nodded.

Sebastian exhaled, a breath that felt like it had been trapped inside him for years. Then, so softly—so reverently—he kissed you.

Not like before.

Not feverish. Not desperate. Not a frantic chase of pleasure.

This was different.

This was tender. This was worship.

“I love you,” he said against your lips.

Your hands slid up to his face, cupping his jaw. "I love you too."

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound breathless, almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite process that this was real. That after everything, after years of tension and stolen glances, after all the pushing and pulling, you were here, beneath him, wrapped up in him, saying the words he'd never let himself hope to hear.

His lips found yours again—slow, unhurried, savoring—before he finally shifted, positioning himself exactly where he wanted to be. Where you wanted him to be.

He teased, barely pressing into you, the slick heat of your body driving him to the edge of his restraint. His breath fanned against your lips, uneven, ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

His gaze locked onto yours, dark, devouring, and his voice, when it came, was hoarse.

"Tell me if—if I need to stop."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter, your own lips parting as you whispered, "I will."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip tightening at your waist, anchoring himself to you.

"Keep your eyes on me," he murmured, fingers flexing against your skin, voice rough, edged with something deeper than desire. "I want to see everything."

A shudder ran through you, your breath catching, your pulse hammering beneath the weight of him, the weight of this moment.

Because this wasn’t just need.

This wasn’t just giving in to years of tension.

This was love. A love that burned. That consumed. That settled into your bones and refused to let go.

Then, with a slow, steady roll of his hips, he pushed inside.

Your breath caught, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as he stretched you open, filling you completely, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, until you could feel him in every part of you, until there was nothing between you.

Sebastian shuddered, his grip tightening, his fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of your hips.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice trembling with the weight of his own need. "You—God, you feel unreal."

You clung to him, your hands grasping blindly at his shoulders, his back, needing something to hold onto, needing to ground yourself as pleasure crashed over you in waves, hot and overwhelming.

And Sebastian—God, Sebastian—

His head dipped, his lips brushing against your jaw, the column of your throat, breathing you in, his hands roaming and greedy, mapping every curve, every dip, every soft, yielding part of you like he was memorizing you, like he wanted to brand this moment into his soul.

“Move,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your nails scraping against his skin. “Sebastian—please—"

He didn’t make you wait.

A ragged groan tore from his lips as his hips pulled back, slow and deliberate, before thrusting forward again, deeper, dragging another gasp from your throat as he filled you again and again, his movements measured but devastating.

His lips found yours, desperate, consuming, claiming, swallowing every sound that escaped you, every broken moan, every whispered plea.

And he was watching—just like he said he would.

His gaze flickered over your face, drinking in every expression, every quiver of your lips, every flutter of your lashes, memorizing you.

"You’re so fucking beautiful," he murmured, voice thick with reverence, his hands gliding up your sides, over your ribs and gripping at your breasts.

You whimpered, your body arching into him, your thighs tightening around his waist as he kept moving, slow and deep, dragging out every inch of pleasure, unraveling you entirely.

Heat curled low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter, every shift of his hips, every roll, every stroke against the most sensitive parts of you sending you hurtling closer to the edge.

"Oh god," you moaned, head falling back, tension coiling tighter as he stroked the bundle of nerves inside you, the one that made you see stars, the one that made your entire body tighten around him.

Sebastian let out a wrecked, filthy sound, his hands flexing against your waist, like he was barely holding himself back, like he was trying to keep himself from unraveling too soon—because he wanted to watch you come first.

He moved faster now. Rougher, deeper, every thrust dragging a desperate, broken moans from your lips, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you, sharp and electric, ready to snap.

"Sebastian," you whimpered, your fingers fisting in his curls, your head tilting back, your body begging for release, needing it.

"I've got you," he murmured, breathless, his lips brushing against yours, his movements never faltering, never slowing. His forehead pressed against yours, his voice a ragged whisper. "Let go. Come all over my cock—let me feel it."

And fuck—you did.

Pleasure ripped through you, blinding and all-consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs, the world narrowing to just him, just this, just the way he held you, the way he filled you, the way he worshipped every sound you made.

Sebastian followed you over the edge, his body jerking, his thrusts turning erratic and desperate as he groaned, his fingers digging into your waist, pulling you closer, deeper, until he was buried impossibly deep, spilling inside you, hot and thick and completely undone.

You felt utterly spent, boneless beneath him, warmth pooling in every inch of your body, but you welcomed his weight, the way he sank into you like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was always meant to be.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your chests rising and falling in tandem, your heartbeats thrumming in sync, a quiet, unspoken connection settling between you.

Sebastian finally let out a slow, shaky breath, his lips pressing against your temple, lingering there for a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then, his fingers—still gripping your waist—softened, smoothing over your skin in slow, lazy strokes.

"Holy shit," he murmured, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "That was—"

"Perfect," you finished for him, your voice still breathless, still heavy with everything this was, everything it meant.

Sebastian's lips curled upwards, nudging his nose against yours, his breaths still uneven. "Yeah," he murmured. "Perfect."

You smiled, cupping his jaw and tugging him down for another slow, lingering kiss—one that wasn’t filled with hunger or urgency, but something deeper. Sebastian melted into you, sighing against your lips.

"You're beautiful," he murmured. "You're so fucking beautiful, I'll remind you until the day I die."

You swallowed, your thumb brushing over his cheek as you pulled back, dazed, overwhelmed, utterly wrecked by the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred, something cherished, something he had never once doubted wanting.

“You really believe that?”

Sebastian let out a soft, breathy chuckle against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours, his hands still tracing over your body.

"I don't believe it, I know it," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your lips. "You’re the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Another kiss.

"Perfect, really."

Another.

"Always have been."

Your chest tightened, your stomach twisting, something thick and overwhelming settling in your throat. Because God, you had spent so long believing you weren’t enough—so long shrinking yourself, making yourself smaller, convincing yourself that someone like him could never want you like this.

But he did.

He always had.

And now, with his body wrapped around yours, with the heat of him still lingering between your thighs, with the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—it was undeniable.

It had always been you.

A shaky breath left your lips, and you smiled—small, but real—your fingers tracing over the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the tension there, feeling the way he was holding himself together, barely, just for you.

"I love you," you whispered, and God, it felt good to say it again. To let it out. To give it weight. "I will for the rest of my life—" your thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth, and you grinned, "and after that too. I'll fucking haunt you, Sebastian Sallow."

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him, and his head dropped, his forehead pressing against yours. "Good," he murmured, his voice warm and teasing but full of something deeper, something raw. "Because you're mine. Completely stuck with me."

You huffed a quiet laugh, fingers threading through his curls, nails scraping gently against his scalp.

"Obviously," you mused, voice still breathless. "I can feel you dripping down my thighs right now."

Sebastian groaned, deep and wrecked, his grip on you tightening like he physically couldn't handle what you'd just said. His forehead still rested against yours, but you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his fingers flexed against your hips, like he was resisting the urge to do something about it.

"Fuck," he muttered, and his breath was hot against your lips, his nose brushing yours. "Don't say shit like that unless you're ready for round two."

You smirked, utterly sated, utterly pleased with yourself, your body still thrumming with euphoria. Your hands trailed lazily down his back.

"Who said I wasn't?"

He groaned, half in frustration, half in amusement, and buried his face against the crook of your neck. "You have no idea how badly I want to," he admitted, voice muffled against you, breath hot and uneven. "But I’m pretty sure I have nothing left to give you."

You giggled, running your fingers through his sweat-damp curls, tugging lightly just to feel him groan.

"Nothing?" you teased.

"Love," he mumbled. "I think I came enough for three sessions in one. My soul left my fucking body at some point."

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh. "Sebastian Sallow, surrendering? What in Merlin's name am I hearing right now?"

He groaned again, lifting his head to glare at you—though the effect was utterly ruined by the small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not surrendering," he argued. "I'm just acknowledging that I may need to recover before you completely break me."

You laughed outright this time, the sound bright and breathless, warmth blooming in your chest at the sheer wreckage of him.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "Give me, like, ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."

"You might as well use that time wisely, then," you mused, voice teasing, but laced with something softer, something full.

Sebastian hummed against your skin, pressing a lazy, absentminded kiss to your collarbone. "Mmm, and how’s that?"

You smirked. "By cleaning me up. Preferably with your tongue.”

A low, wrecked sound rumbled from his chest, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and suddenly his grip on your waist tightened.

"You're killing me," he muttered, his breath hot against your skin.

You grinned. "Am I?"

Sebastian lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils still blown wide, his expression caught somewhere between utterly ruined and utterly obsessed with you.

"You are," he admitted, voice rough, hoarse, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your hip. "Because now I have to."

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Oh? Have to?"

His lips curved into a smirk, dark and lazy. "You asked me to," he murmured, voice dipping into something dangerous, something possessive. "And I'm a very considerate boyfriend."

You arched a brow, amusement flickering in your expression as you lifted your head slightly to meet his gaze.

"Boyfriend?" you mused, voice teasing, but beneath it was something softer, something real. "When did that happen?"

Sebastian blinked, then scoffed, like you had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"Merlin’s balls, woman," he muttered, shaking his head as he let his weight settle more firmly against you. "You just let me fuck you into a patio chair, told me you’d haunt me, that you've loved me since we were sixteen, and now you’re questioning whether I’m your boyfriend?"

You grinned. "Well," you drawled, tilting your head, feigning deep thought. "You never asked."

Sebastian groaned, dropping his forehead onto your chest like he physically couldn’t handle you right now. "Unbelievable."

"You’re the one making assumptions," you teased.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze again, and there was something fond in his expression, something soft beneath all that exhaustion and wreckage.

"Alright," he murmured, voice low, hoarse. "Be my fucking girlfriend."

You huffed out a laugh, amused, delighted. "Wow, so romantic."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched upward. "Please be my fucking girlfriend," he corrected, smirking as he trailed a hand down your thigh, fingers teasing, possessive. "Though, given the fact that I've also loved you for a decade, and the fact that I’m about to devour you, I’d say the answer’s pretty obvious."

Your breath hitched slightly, your amusement shifting into something warmer, something deeper, something that curled low in your stomach.

But you weren’t going to let him off that easy.

"Hmm," you hummed, running your fingers down his back, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, enjoying the way he shuddered beneath your touch. "I don’t know..."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, his smirk turning wicked, dangerous. "You don’t know?" he echoed, voice dipping low, teasing, edged with something predatory.

You grinned, thoroughly pleased with yourself, fingers still lazily tracing patterns down his back. "Mmm. Maybe you should convince me."

A deep, wrecked groan rumbled from his chest, and his grip on your thigh tightened. "You really don’t know when to quit, do you?"

You shivered beneath him, your breath catching, anticipation coiling in your stomach. You opened your mouth—maybe to challenge him, maybe to tease him further—

A sharp click rang through the air, the unmistakable sound of the gate latch unlatching.

Sebastian froze.

You froze.

Then—

"OH MY GOD."

You barely had time to process before a chorus of voices erupted from behind you, overlapping in shock, amusement, and sheer disbelief.

"Finally!"

“Sweet Merlin—”

"No fucking WAY."

"I cannot bloody believe this!"

Sebastian flinched, his entire body going rigid, his head snapping up so fast you thought he might injure himself.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat as you followed his gaze toward the entrance of the secluded deck—where your friends stood, frozen, their expressions ranging from amusement to absolute agony.

Poppy had both hands clapped over her mouth, her wide eyes darting everywhere but you. Natty looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or leave the country. Garreth, the absolute menace, was grinning like he'd just won the lottery, nudging Imelda—who was looking at the two of you like she was seconds away from hexing you both for subjecting her to this.

And then—

"Thank fucking Merlin I'm blind," Ominis declared, his expression nothing short of relieved, even as his face twisted in mild disgust. "This was the single greatest blessing Salazar ever granted me."

Sebastian dropped his head onto your shoulder, his damp hair sticking to your skin. His breath hitched—somewhere between a groan and barely-contained laughter—as you immediately scrambled to cup your breasts with frantic desperation.

Mercifully, blessedly, he was still positioned between your legs, hiding the most damning evidence from your group of unwitting, horrified spectators.

"Fuck," he laughed, voice wrecked, his arms tightening around your waist. "This is so much worse than getting caught by a professor at Hogwarts."

You let out a strangled, humiliated sound. "Sebastian, please, we need to get a towel or—!"

Garreth howled with laughter, his voice ringing loud and delighted over the deck. "We left you alone for an hour," he crowed, "and you two finally decided to stop pining and start—”

"SHUT UP," you and Sebastian both shouted at the exact same time.

Poppy let out a giggle from somewhere behind Garreth, and you could practically hear the barely-concealed amusement in Natty's voice when she muttered, "It's about bloody time."

Imelda groaned. “I just—why here?” She gestured toward the deck, still looking like she wanted to bleach her eyes. “This is communal property!”

“Technically,” Sebastian muttered against your thigh, “we were here first.”

“Oh, so that makes it better?” Imelda practically screeched.

You groaned, feeling the heat of absolute mortification creeping up your neck.

Ominis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care how inevitable it was,” he said, voice utterly flat. “I do care that I now have to suffer through knowing where it happened.”

Poppy giggled behind her hands. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Ominis.”

“You try sharing a living space with Sebastian after this,” he deadpanned.

Sebastian grunted, finally sitting up, his broad frame still angled protectively in front of you, shielding as much of you as he could manage. His hair was a disheveled mess, his expression caught somewhere between resigned acceptance and unapologetic defiance—like a man who had been caught red-handed but had absolutely no regrets.

“Well,” he exhaled, his arm still braced protectively in front of you, still shielding as much of you as he possibly could. “Guess we’re not keeping this a secret anymore.”

Natty snorted, crossing her arms, her smirk barely contained. “You two thought this was a secret?”

Poppy giggled from behind her hands, her eyes still squeezed shut like she wasn’t quite brave enough to risk seeing something scarring. “We’ve known for years.”

Garreth grinned like he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. “I knew you two were in love, but this—” He gestured wildly to the deck, to the situation, to Sebastian still bracing himself between your legs like a human barricade. “This is beyond what I could have ever imagined.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Alright, that's enough commentary from the peanut gallery.”

Imelda scoffed. “Peanut gallery? We walked in on this absolute nightmare! You don’t get to act like we’re the ones inconveniencing you.”

“I do, actually,” Sebastian quipped, deadpan. “You’re the ones interrupting our afterglow.”

Natty’s voice was full of strained patience, but there was no hiding her mirth. "Alright, alright, everyone, let’s give them some space before they die of embarrassment."

"Bit late for that," you muttered under your breath.

There was a collective shuffle of movement, a few muffled laughs, and one last dramatic sigh from Garreth before the door clicked shut behind them. Silence settled over the space, thick and still buzzing with lingering mortification.

Sebastian snorted. "You think they’re ever gonna drop this?"

"Absolutely not," you muttered, knowing full well that the moment you and Sebastian emerged from this, you would never hear the end of it.

And yet—

Somewhere beneath the mortification, beneath the utter embarrassment, there was something else.

Something warm. Something real.

Something that felt like forever.

Sebastian shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you, his brown eyes still twinkling with amusement, but soft, fond, full of something deeper than just humor.

"You still gonna haunt me?" he murmured, smirking.

You huffed a laugh, still hiding against his shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the bare skin there.

"Now more than ever, Sallow."

Banner Credit

[missmadella]

“Back Where We Began” (Sanzu x Reader)

Summary: You and Sanzu knew each other since forever—back before Bonten, before the scars and the chaos. A parting years ago left both of you with unresolved feelings... and a promise sealed in the form of a rare VIP club card he gave you. Years later, you return to Tokyo, card still in hand, and step into the club he now helps run.

He doesn’t expect to see you—but when he does, he smiles. Really smiles. From a heartfelt reunion to stolen moments, old memories, and undeniable chemistry, your worlds collide all over again.

Words: 5356

The Tokyo night was electric—humming with neon, secrets, and the thrum of bass that pulsed through the streets like a second heartbeat.

You stepped out of the car slowly, heels clicking on the pavement, city lights catching on the silky curves of your dark dress. The fabric hugged you like it remembered your shape, slit high enough to whisper danger, but tasteful enough to say: I belong here.

You reached into your clutch and pulled out a black card.

It gleamed under the entrance light—glossy and minimalist. No name. Just a silver emblem: a capital B, coiled with delicate cherry blossom petals. A symbol of something most people didn’t even know existed.

But you remembered.

He gave it to you. Years ago. Right before everything changed.

The bouncer at the door didn’t ask for ID. He saw the card and straightened instantly.

"Right this way, miss."

No hesitation. No questions.

You smiled politely, heart fluttering beneath your ribs.

Inside, the club was a different world—low light, rich shadows, scent of top-shelf liquor and danger laced into the air. Music pounded from deeper within, but here in the entryway, it was muffled. Almost reverent.

A sleek woman in black met you at the threshold, earpiece tucked behind her ear. She gave you one glance, and her professional demeanor faltered for a split second.

“Please follow me,” she said quickly. “The VIP lounge has been expecting this card, though… no one knew if it’d ever be used.”

You smiled at that, running your fingers over the smooth surface of the card as you walked.

“I made a promise,” you murmured. “And I keep those.”

Down the hall. Past mirrored walls and hushed stares. The music faded behind thick doors—until the last one opened.

A quiet, exclusive lounge. The air cooler. Darker. Calmer.

You stepped inside, and time caught its breath.

He was there.

Sanzu Haruchiyo.

Half lounging on a couch, one hand lazily flipping a coin, pink and blue hair a little longer, scar still carved like a memory across his face—but his eyes. God, his eyes. Still that wild, unreadable blue.

He looked up.

The coin dropped.

And so did his jaw.

“…Y/N?”

___________________________________________________________________________

His voice cracked the silence, low and stunned. “…Y/N?”

Your smile bloomed wider, warmer, like sunlight slipping through the cracks of a long winter.

“Hi, Haru.”

He stood slowly, as if afraid the vision of you might disappear if he moved too fast. For a second, neither of you said a word—just stood there, taking each other in like ghosts finally made real again.

And then you stepped forward. And he did too.

The moment collided.

You threw your arms around his neck, and he caught you like instinct. Like home.

Sanzu hugged you back tight. Tighter than anyone had hugged you in years. Like his arms were trying to make up for all the time lost. One hand gripped the back of your dress, the other wrapped around your waist, anchoring himself to the warmth of you.

“You’re really here,” he breathed into your shoulder. His voice wasn’t shaking, but it was close. "After all this time..."

You laughed softly, squeezing him just as tight. “I told you I’d come back.”

His face was buried in your neck, and you felt the curve of his lips—a smile. Real. Unfiltered. The kind of smile only a few people had ever seen from Haruchiyo Sanzu. Not the crooked grin, not the manic smirk. This was something raw. Soft. Rare.

“Still smells like strawberry shampoo,” he muttered, and you snorted into his shoulder.

“Still notices the weirdest things.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still on your waist. His eyes were softer than you remembered. Tired, yes. Hardened, sure. But there was something underneath all that—something that hadn’t changed.

"You kept the card,” he said quietly.

“I kept everything,” you said, just as quietly.

His jaw clenched. His throat bobbed with a swallow. And then, again—that smile. A little crooked now, but still achingly real.

Behind you, you could feel the weight of a dozen stares.

Kakucho was watching with arms crossed. Ran had one eyebrow arched, Rindou looked like he couldn’t decide if this was hilarious or heartwarming, and Takeomi had paused mid-drink.

And Mikey?

Mikey was sitting silently, hands in his lap, observing everything. Like always. Like nothing escaped him.

You finally turned your head, still half in Sanzu’s arms.

“Hi, sorry!” you chirped, cheerful and radiant. “Didn’t mean to make an entrance. I’m Y/N—me and Haru go way back. Like, bike training wheels and scraped knees back.”

Sanzu groaned softly behind you, muttering, “Here we go…”

You only grinned brighter. “He used to throw rocks at my window to sneak out and share candy with me. And once he punched a guy in the face for calling my pigtails ugly.”

You extended a hand toward the room like you owned it. “So, are you all the people he works with? Or are you the people who try to keep him out of trouble? Because either way, I think you’ve got your hands full.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, a small, genuine chuckle from Mikey.

“She’s cute,” he said simply.

You winked. “Thanks, bossman.”

Sanzu just kept looking at you. Like if he looked away, you’d vanish again. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

And for the first time in years—he didn’t care who was watching.

The others eventually went back to their drinks and conversation, the initial surprise giving way to quiet curiosity. But Sanzu didn’t move.

He kept you close, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, like his body still didn’t believe this wasn’t a dream.

You tilted your head up at him. “You look different,” you said softly, eyes searching his face. “But it still feels like you.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice rougher now, but teasing under the gravel. “You mean cooler?”

You smirked. “I mean tired. But like, in a dangerous I-run-an-underworld-empire kind of way.”

That pulled a soft laugh from him, real and warm. “You’re the same,” he said, not smiling with his mouth now, but with his eyes. “Still loud. Still too bright for a place like this.”

“Guess that makes you my shadow, then,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder.

He blinked at that, eyes lingering on your face. Then he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck in that old, familiar way. “You always say shit like that without thinking about what it means.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you always pretend you don’t love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

For a moment, the air between you shimmered. Not with tension—but with the old, tender gravity that had always pulled you toward each other. Unspoken things dancing just beneath the surface.

But before either of you could fall too far into it—

“Haruchiyo,” Mikey’s voice cut in from across the lounge.

Sanzu tensed slightly but turned his head. “Yeah?”

Mikey’s expression was unreadable as always, but calm. “Bring her over. I want to talk to her.”

Your brows rose a little in surprise, but you didn’t feel fear. Only curiosity.

Sanzu glanced at you, as if asking you okay with this? with just his eyes.

You gave him a small nod and smiled. “He is the bossman, after all.”

He clicked his tongue. “You’re not supposed to call him that.”

You only grinned wider. “Bet he secretly likes it.”

Sanzu led you gently by the hand across the room, eyes flicking to Mikey for any subtle shift in mood—but Mikey was just sitting there, still, legs crossed, that usual air of quiet power around him.

You took a seat beside him, your posture relaxed, smile soft but respectful.

“So…” you began. “You wanted to talk?”

Mikey studied you for a long moment.

Then, softly, with just a trace of curiosity in his voice, he asked:

“What kind of person brings him back to life like that?”

You blinked—then laughed, a sound like music in a room full of shadows.

You rested your hands in your lap, not looking away from his gaze. “Maybe someone who knows what he used to be like—before all this.”

Mikey’s eyes didn’t flicker, but something in his expression shifted. Subtle, but you caught it.

“You think he’s not the same?” he asked.

You thought for a moment, then shook your head gently. “No… I think he is the same. That’s the problem. You all look at him and see the chaos, the volatility, the scars—and yeah, they’re real. But that fire? That loyalty? That weird, obsessive way he cares about the people he loves?” You smiled, almost wistfully. “That’s always been there.”

Mikey was silent for a moment. Then: “He’s not easy to be around.”

“I’m not looking for easy,” you said simply. “I’m just here because I never stopped caring. That kind of thing… doesn’t go away.”

Another long pause. Mikey stared at you like he was trying to see something deeper. Not threatening—just deeply curious.

Finally, he spoke again. “He talked about you. Once.”

You blinked. “He did?”

Mikey nodded once. “Not in detail. Just… said there was someone he used to know. Someone who made Tokyo feel like home. I didn’t ask more.”

Your heart squeezed a little, throat catching on a breath. “He always had a hard time saying things out loud.”

Mikey studied you a bit longer, then leaned back slightly.

“You’re different,” he said.

“Most people are scared when they walk in here,” he added. “They feel the weight of what this place means. But you came in smiling. You hugged him like none of this mattered.”

You looked down for a moment, brushing your fingers over your knees, then back up.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said quietly. “Not to me. Because I knew him before the blood, before the scars, before he started walking through the world like it was always burning. And even if it’s burning now… I still see him.”

For the first time, Mikey’s lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Good,” he said.

You tilted your head. “Good?”

He nodded. “I think he needs someone who sees him like that.”

Then, in that soft, unsettling Mikey way, he said:

“Don’t disappear on him again.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Because if you do…” he paused, not threateningly, just matter-of-fact, “I don’t know if he’ll survive it a second time.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t flinch.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere,” you whispered.

Mikey held your gaze one more moment.

Then he turned away, voice low. “You can go back to him now.”

_________________________________________________________________________

You stood slowly from the seat next to Mikey, the weight of his last words still echoing softly in your chest.

Across the room, Sanzu was watching. You knew he’d been watching the entire time—he always had a sixth sense when it came to you. Like if he looked away, you’d be gone again.

You crossed the lounge and reached him, your hand brushing against his.

“Let’s get out of here,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked toward the others—still loosely gathered, half-distracted, half-noticing. Mikey gave no signal, but somehow, you both knew it was fine.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Come on.”

Without another word, he took your hand and led you out. Not through the front. Through a narrow hallway, down a back staircase that smelled like old smoke and stone. The noise of the lounge faded behind you, replaced by the echo of your steps and the quiet thrum of city life just beyond.

You ended up in a back courtyard—empty, tucked away between buildings. The only light came from a flickering neon sign and the soft glow of the moon above.

It was quiet. Still. Like the world had been waiting for you both to catch up.

Sanzu lit a cigarette with one hand, the other still loosely linked with yours. He didn’t speak for a moment, just inhaled, then exhaled slowly like he was trying to keep everything from spilling out.

Then:

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said quietly.

You turned toward him, stepping a little closer. “I didn’t think I’d come back.”

He gave a dry chuckle, eyes flicking toward the sky. “Tokyo’s a black hole. Swallows everything. You were one of the few things that ever felt light.”

You smiled softly. “I didn’t feel very light when I left.”

Sanzu went quiet again.

Then he looked at you—and this time, really looked. His voice dropped, rougher now.

“I thought about you. More than I should’ve. Even after I got into Bonten. Even after I stopped recognizing my own damn reflection. I still thought about you. I wondered what you’d think if you saw me now.”

You reached out and gently tugged the cigarette from his lips, letting it drop to the ground and putting it out with your heel.

“I think,” you said, stepping into him now, so close your chest brushed his, “that you’re still Haru.”

His breath hitched. You brought your hand up and cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the scar on his cheek like it didn’t scare you. Like it never could.

“And Haru was the boy who sat with me in the rain when I cried. Who got into fights for me. Who gave me a stupid VIP card and told me it meant I’d always have a way back to him.”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning into your touch. “I meant it. I meant every word of it.”

“I know,” you said softly.

His hands found your waist again, and this time it wasn’t desperate—it was steady. Grounded. Like he knew this was real now.

“Stay,” he said quietly.

“I will,” you replied.

“I don’t care if it’s dangerous,” he muttered. “Or if people talk. Or if I’m messed up now. Just… don’t leave again.”

You leaned in, forehead pressing to his.

“I’m not leaving, Haru. Not this time.”

And under the moonlight, in the silence of the city that had changed everything, he finally closed his eyes.

And breathed.

___________________________________________________________________________

You both stayed like that for a while—his forehead resting against yours, the city humming quietly around you, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Then you slowly pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers still brushing along the side of his face.

“What happened, Haru?” you asked softly. “After I left?”

He looked away for a moment, jaw tightening. You waited, not pushing—just being there. Like always.

He took a slow breath, then finally spoke. “You remember when everything started falling apart—when we all started drifting?”

You nodded.

“I thought I was handling it,” he said. “Thought if I stayed angry, if I threw myself into fights, I wouldn’t feel it. But then you were gone. You just… disappeared.”

You looked down, guilt tugging at your chest. “I didn’t mean to vanish. I had to leave. My family was falling apart back home, and I didn’t know how to ask for help. I thought I’d just go for a while. Then I looked up and years had passed.”

Sanzu exhaled sharply, but not in anger. Just pain.

“I used to walk past your old apartment, even after they repainted it. Just to see if maybe you came back. I gave you that card because I didn’t know how else to make sure you’d remember me.”

You smiled faintly. “I carried it in my wallet through three cities and two passports.”

That made him laugh—quiet, rough, but genuine.

“I missed you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “More than I missed myself.”

You stepped closer again, wrapping your arms around his waist this time, resting your cheek against his chest. His arms folded around you naturally, like they never forgot the shape of holding you.

“I missed you too,” you said. “I missed this. Even if everything’s different now.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then spoke again, more hesitant this time.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Where?”

“My place,” he said. “Penthouse. It’s… quiet. Safer than most places. No one else is there. Just me. It’s not much—well, it’s a lot, actually—but it never felt like anything without someone in it.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You live in a penthouse now?”

“Don’t act surprised,” he said with a crooked grin. “Bonten pays well.”

You laughed. “Alright, then. Take me to your ridiculous criminal lair.”

He smirked, but there was warmth behind it now. “It has heated floors.”

You pretended to gasp. “Luxury.”

“I’m trying to impress you,” he deadpanned.

You reached up and kissed his cheek—right beside the scar.

“You already did.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing Sanzu’s penthouse—spacious, sleek, and glowing dimly under low, warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Tokyo skyline like art. The city buzzed below, but up here, it was quiet. Almost peaceful.

You stepped inside slowly, taking it all in.

“Wow,” you said, your voice soft with surprise. “This is… not the kind of place I pictured you in.”

Sanzu stepped in behind you, tossing his jacket onto a sleek black couch. “What’d you expect? A dungeon?”

You smirked. “A messier dungeon.”

He snorted, then walked past you, grabbing two drinks from a minibar near the window. When he handed you yours, your fingers brushed again. Neither of you pulled away.

You wandered through the living room slowly, noticing small, personal things tucked between the luxury—an old, scratched lighter on a shelf; a framed photo of a motorcycle you remembered from high school; a cracked ceramic ashtray that looked handmade.

“You kept this?” you asked, picking it up gently.

Sanzu glanced over. “You made it. Of course I kept it.”

You smiled, touched. “It’s terrible. Lopsided.”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging with a small grin, “but it’s mine.”

You sat on the couch, tucking your legs under yourself as he joined you, drink in hand. For a while, the two of you just sat like that—shoulders brushing, silence thick with comfort.

Then, softly, you asked, “Do you remember that one summer we tried to build a treehouse in your neighbor’s yard?”

He laughed, really laughed, head tipping back. “God. We didn’t even ask permission. Just showed up with stolen wood and a hammer.”

“And then you fell out of the tree and broke your arm,” you grinned.

“I did not fall,” he protested. “I jumped. Dramatically.”

You nudged his knee. “You cried for twenty minutes.”

He grinned at you. “And you stayed. Even after your mom was yelling down the street.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave you,” you said, tone softening. “Even back then.”

Sanzu looked down at his drink, the smile fading into something quieter. “You always stayed until you couldn’t anymore.”

You swallowed, heart twisting. “I hated leaving. I never told you that.”

He nodded slowly. “And I hated that I didn’t stop you. But I didn’t know how to ask you to stay without sounding selfish.”

You reached out and took his hand gently, fingers lacing between his. “So maybe this time, we don’t run. Not from each other.”

He looked at your hand, then at you. His voice dropped, softer than ever.

“I wanted to kiss you so many times back then,” he admitted. “I always told myself I’d wait until the right moment.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly. “This one feels pretty right.”

His breath caught, eyes locked to yours.

Then he leaned forward and kissed you—slow, steady, full of every word he never said when you were younger. It wasn’t rushed, or frantic. It was homecoming.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his once again.

“We really grew up, huh?” you whispered.

Sanzu smirked, voice barely audible. “One of us did.”

You laughed against his lips. “Guess you’ll just have to catch up.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The kiss should have been enough to break the tension.

But it wasn’t.

When you pulled back, the air between you didn’t settle—it sharpened. Like every emotion, every memory, every unspoken word had been stirred up again and now hovered, waiting to fall.

Sanzu’s hand stayed on your thigh, thumb moving in slow circles through the fabric of your dress. You could feel how hard he was trying to keep still. How every part of him wanted to move closer, press deeper—but he didn’t. Not yet.

“You’re messing with me,” he muttered, eyes locked to your lips.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “How so?”

“You show up in that dress. With that card. Smiling like you never left.” His voice was low, rough, almost accusing—but not angry. Hungry.

“You gave me the card,” you reminded him, a smile playing at your lips. “You told me it’d always mean something.”

He huffed a laugh, bitter and amused all at once. “Yeah, and I didn’t think you’d actually show up years later looking like that.”

You leaned in, just enough to make your breath ghost over his skin. “What exactly do I look like, Haru?”

His jaw clenched. “Like a problem.”

Your eyes glittered. “Are you saying I’m bad for you?”

“I’m saying you’re dangerous,” he murmured. “And I���ve got enough danger in my life already.”

You moved your hand up, over the scar on his cheek, gentle, like you were memorizing it. “You used to be afraid of getting close to people.”

“I still am.”

“But you let me in anyway.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just stared at you like you were a ghost that refused to fade.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you whispered.

He leaned in, voice close to your ear, and said, “That if I touch you again, I won’t be able to stop.”

Your breath caught, heart hammering in your chest.

“You think I’d want you to?” you whispered.

That broke something in him.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His were stormy, restless. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

You slid your hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve never said anything to you I didn’t mean.”

He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to yours again.

“I don’t know how to do this slowly,” he said. “I don’t know how to be careful with you.”

“Then don’t be,” you breathed.

His lips brushed against yours again—but this time it didn’t turn into a kiss. He pulled back. Just a little.

“Stay the night,” he said suddenly. “But not for that.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I want you here. Just here. Not because we’re chasing something we should’ve had back then.” His voice was hoarse. “I want the first time I sleep beside you to be real. Not just because we couldn’t hold back.”

You were quiet, your heart full and aching.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, a promise without pressure.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered. “No expectations. Just us.”

He exhaled slowly, his entire body finally relaxing under your touch.

And as he stood up and led you to the bedroom—his fingers loosely laced with yours—it wasn’t about sex, or need, or desperation.

It was about choosing each other. After all this time.

___________________________________________________________________________

The bedroom was quiet.

City lights filtered through the wide windows, casting soft, shifting shadows across the room. You stood near the edge of the bed, still in your dress, watching as Sanzu shrugged off his shirt and tossed it aside.

He didn’t look at you at first—he was tense again, jaw tight, back turned like he was bracing for something more than just physical closeness.

You stepped toward him, hands gentle on his back. His skin was warm under your palms, marred with old scars and new ones you hadn’t seen before.

“This okay?” you whispered.

He nodded, but it was stiff. Too stiff. So you pressed a kiss between his shoulders, slow and soft.

That was what did it.

He turned around fast—like he couldn’t hold back another second—and kissed you. Really kissed you. Not careful. Not soft. Just full of years.

Years of waiting. Years of wondering. Years of imagining what it would feel like to have you here again, close enough to touch, no longer a memory.

His hands found your hips, your back, your face—like he couldn’t decide which part of you he needed most. Your fingers tangled in his hair as you pulled him closer, matching his intensity without hesitation.

“I missed you,” he said against your lips. “So fucking much.”

“I’m here,” you breathed. “I’m right here.”

And that was the last thing either of you said for a while.

Your dress slipped down your shoulders. His mouth followed the curve of your neck, your collarbone. You felt him slow down—not because he didn’t want you, but because he did. So badly he needed to savor every second. Like he didn’t trust this to last, even now.

You guided him to the bed, tugging him down with you. He hovered over you for a heartbeat, eyes locked on yours—asking, checking, hoping.

You nodded. Just once.

And that was enough.

Clothes forgotten. Time forgotten. Everything else disappeared.

His hands were reverent—like he’d dreamed of this, memorized it in some other life. And yours were no better—pulling him closer, anchoring yourself in the way he felt, the way he breathed your name like it was a prayer he’d stopped believing would ever be answered.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rushed.

It was intense.

Every kiss. Every touch. Every sound. All of it came from something deep, something old. Something that had never really gone away, no matter how far you'd both traveled.

And when he finally held you after—bare skin against bare skin, heart still racing—he whispered it against your temple:

“I never stopped wanting you.”

You didn’t answer. You just held him tighter.

Because you hadn’t either.

__________________________________________________________________________

Sunlight filtered softly through the blinds, painting warm stripes across the bed where you lay tangled in each other. The air smelled like Sanzu — faint smoke and something sharp and familiar that made your heart twist in the best way.

He was already awake, sprawled beside you, his shirt hanging open and slipping off one shoulder. You traced lazy circles on his chest, watching the way his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours — that mischievous, half-smile already teasing at his lips.

“Sleep well?” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and last night’s memories.

You grinned, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Like a baby. You?”

He shrugged, pulling you closer, fingers curling around your waist. “Better than I have in years.”

You laughed softly, then wriggled free, planting a quick kiss on his jaw. “I’m starving. You cook?”

His smirk turned full-on challenge. “Depends. You wanna see my skills… or my mess?”

“Both,” you teased, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

He caught your hand and tugged you back with a rough pull. “Wait.”

Before you could protest, he was standing, grabbing a shirt off the floor and slipping it on — the sleeves a little long on your wrists, but somehow perfect. He held out his hand with that crooked grin.

“Dance with me. Kitchen island style.”

You rolled your eyes but laughed, taking his hand. The warmth of his palm against yours made your heart skip. Together you swayed — just two people making space in a world that often refused it.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, serious now.

“Look, I know my life’s messy. Bonten isn’t just some gang—it’s dangerous. But I don’t want to lose you. Not again.”

Your breath caught.

He took your hand again, squeezing gently.

“If you want to stay—with me, with this—it’s not just a fling. You can work with me. Be part of this life. But only if you want. No pressure.”

You searched his face — raw and honest beneath the bravado.

“I’m not scared,” you said softly. “I want to be with you. All of you. Even the dangerous parts.”

His grin softened to something warmer, almost vulnerable.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not letting go this time.”

You leaned up, kissing him—a promise sealed in morning light.

___________________________________________________________________________

The low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint smell of cigarette smoke filled the cramped, concrete-walled room where Mikey sat behind a battered metal desk. His usual calm demeanor gave way to a sharp gaze as Sanzu pushed the door open, you trailing behind him.

Mikey’s eyes flicked over you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "So, you’re the one trying to get in," he said, voice steady but edged with challenge.

Sanzu crossed his arms and nodded. "She’s serious. I want her in Bonten. But I’m not the one to decide."

Mikey’s gaze sharpened. "Alright, then. What exactly do you have to offer? We don’t need liabilities."

You stepped forward, the quiet confidence of someone who’s navigated darker digital waters than any street fight. "Let me show you."

Mikey smirked and pointed to a rusty security terminal on the wall—an ancient relic in an otherwise dangerous empire. "That’s your test. Break through our defenses. If you do it in under two minutes, I’ll consider what you’re worth."

You didn’t hesitate. Sitting down, your fingers danced across the keys with practiced ease, commands flowing in a precise rhythm. The security system—meant to keep out hackers and rival gangs—started flashing red alarms and flickering icons as firewalls and encryption layers peeled away under your touch.

The room fell silent except for the steady tapping of your fingers.

Mikey leaned back, impressed despite himself. Sanzu watched you with a rare, proud smile.

Seconds ticked by. You bypassed their outdated firewall with a few cheeky lines of code, scanning deeper into their security protocols.

Then, with a sly grin, you muttered, "No front, Bossman, but you really need to get a refund on this defense system. I’ve seen better firewalls on a flip phone."

The terminal screen blinked open completely—security breached.

Mikey raised an eyebrow but smiled lightly. “Your in.”

You shut the console down and stood, turning to meet both their gazes. "That’s what I bring. Not just muscle, but brains."

Sanzu stepped forward, voice soft but firm. "She’s not just a hacker. She’s family."

Mikey’s eyes softened, the smirk turning into a genuine smile. "Alright then. Welcome to Bonten."

You exchanged a victorious glance with Sanzu. "About time," you said with a wink.

___________________________________________________________________________

The dim light of the back alley flickered as you waited by the cracked brick wall, phone pressed to your ear. The informant’s voice crackled through, low and nervous. You smirked, already knowing how this would go.

“So, you’re the famous Mrs. Sanzu,” the man said, his tone sliding into something too familiar. “Didn’t think you’d be this... approachable.”

You rolled your eyes, voice smooth. “Flatter me all you want. Just make sure your info’s worth it.”

Before the man could respond, a heavy shadow fell beside you. Sanzu’s presence was like a thunderclap—dark, commanding. His cold eyes locked on the informant with a warning sharper than any blade.

“You better not touch my wife,” Sanzu said quietly, voice low and dangerous. “Or even try to open your mouth one more time.”

The man swallowed hard, stepping back with a quick nod. “Got it. No trouble.”

As he hurried away, you turned to Sanzu, slipping your hand into his. Without hesitation, you moved into his arms, tilting your face up to give him a sweet, soft kiss.

“That was sexy, Mr. Sanzu,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

His smirk softened, eyes warm as he cupped your cheek gently. “Everything for you, Mrs. Sanzu.”

[iraot]

Word Count: 11,064 Pairing: Treasure Hunter Rafayel x Marine Biologist F!reader Warnings: Dark!, kidnapping, "hostage", "you're mine now", oral f receiving, stealing?, dubious consent?, p in v sex, controlling behavior from male lead. A/N: I am not responsible for your media consumption, if you find at any point that you dislike the way this story goes you're able to just stop reading. Continuing to read after you're no longer comfortable is not my problem and it never will be. Cater your internet experience for yourself. That being said this is not the darkest media I've ever written, its incredibly tame. :3 AO3 Link

She hit the deck hard, her body still damp and glistening from the sea, the scent of salt and brine thick in the air. The rough hands that had dragged her from the water weren’t gentle, nor had they been for the last ten minutes. She’d had guns pointed at her no less than three damn times, and now she was being thrown in front of their captain like some prize catch.

Rafayel.

The name rolled through her head, half-heard from the crew’s murmurs. He stood near the helm, tall and steady, the kind of presence that made men straighten their backs and rethink their choices. His plum-colored hair shifted slightly in the ocean breeze, and those gradient eyes—one part deep blue, the other burning red—settled on her with a certainty that sent heat crawling up her spine.

She glared, breath coming fast, chest rising and falling beneath the tight neoprene of her wet suit. “I don’t know what the hell you think I was doing down there, but I sure as hell wasn’t stealing from you.”

A slow, lazy smirk pulled at Rafayel’s lips. He stepped closer, his boots heavy against the deck, his hands sliding casually into the deep pockets of his black slacks. “Is that so?” His voice was smooth, low, like the undertow of a current pulling you deeper before you even realized you were drowning. “And yet, you were where you shouldn’t be. Swimming around my wreck. I don’t believe in coincidences, cutie.”

His men chuckled behind her. She clenched her fists, the sea still dripping from her fingers onto the wooden deck. “Your wreck?” she scoffed. “Didn’t realize you had the rights to the ocean now.”

His grin widened. “I take what interests me.” His gaze flicked over her, deliberate, appraising. “And you’ve made yourself very interesting.”

A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the cool sea breeze. She was no stranger to men looking at her, but this was different. There was no idle curiosity in his expression. No hesitation. Just knowing. A claiming. Like he’d already made the decision, and she was simply going to have to deal with it.

Her chin lifted. “I was looking at the wildlife,” she bit out. “Not your damned treasure.”

One of his men—big, ugly, with a scar slicing through his jaw—let out a grunt. “Could be lyin’, boss. No normal diver goes down alone like that. What if she’s scoutin’?”

Rafayel didn’t even spare the man a glance. His eyes never left her. “I don’t think she’s lying,” he mused. “I think she really was just admiring the fish.”

She let out a breath—relief, maybe—but it was cut short when he crouched in front of her. He moved slowly, controlled, forearms resting on his knees.

“But here’s the thing,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something that scraped along her nerves. “I don’t really care what you were doing.”

She stiffened. “Then let me go.”

The smirk returned. Amused. Playful. Infuriating. “No.”

Her pulse slammed against her ribs. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean you’re mine now.”

The words were simple. Unshaken. Not a threat, but a fact. He reached out, fingers brushing against her wet sleeve, toying with the neoprene like he had all the time in the world.

Her breath caught. “You can’t just—”

“Oh, but I can,” he said smoothly, standing again, towering over her like the sea itself. “See, I keep the things I like.” His hand lifted, tipping her chin up with a single finger. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through her body.

“And I think I like you.”

Her stomach twisted. Part fear. Part something else.

His men chuckled darkly behind her, but Rafayel didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Just watched her like he was waiting to see how she’d react, how far she’d fight.

She swallowed hard, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of backing down. “You really think you can just claim people like you do your treasure?”

He grinned. “Cutie, I already have.”

The quarters were better than a cell, but not by much. The walls were dark, heavy wood, the furniture polished and rich, everything smelling faintly of salt and something deeper—like leather and spice, like him. The bed she’d been given was small but comfortable, pressed against the far wall, a silent reminder that she wasn’t entirely his yet, but close enough.

She’d changed into the dry clothes they’d left her—a loose, thin linen shirt and soft drawstring pants that felt far too casual for captivity. The food they’d given her sat untouched on the table. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it.

She had just started pacing when the door opened.

Rafayel stepped in like he owned the air in the room, like he’d already decided how this conversation would go before it even started. His plum-colored hair was slightly tousled from the sea breeze, those gradient eyes unreadable but focused, sharp with something she couldn’t name.

She crossed her arms, squaring her shoulders. “Finally come to tell me what the hell you’re planning to do with me?”

His smirk was slow, amused, as he shut the door behind him. “Something like that.”

He leaned against the table, crossing his arms in an almost casual way. “I’ve decided on a few rules for you,” he said, watching her reaction closely. “I expect you to follow them.”

Her stomach twisted. “Rules?”

He nodded once. “First rule—what I say goes. No questioning me.”

Her mouth opened, but his eyes darkened slightly, a silent challenge for her to test him already. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together.

“Second,” he continued, “you’ll stay by my side at all times. Consider it a privilege. You’ll have your own bed, for now, but it’s adjacent to mine. You won’t be locked up. You won’t be mistreated. But you will be mine.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “You think you can just—”

“I do,” he cut in smoothly. “And I will.”

She took a slow, controlled breath, willing herself to keep her voice even. “I just wanted to look at the goddamn fish. I wasn’t stealing from you, I wasn’t doing anything, and now I’m supposed to just… stay?”

His smirk deepened. “That brings me to rule three. You can conduct your research. I’ll even allow it. When I decide we have time for it. And only for specific amounts of time.” He tilted his head, his voice dipping into something quieter, something that made her skin prickle. “I might miss you, after all.”

She stiffened.

His eyes held hers, steady. “Rule four—you can leave when I say you can. If I say you can. But that doesn’t mean I won’t find you again. Doesn’t mean I won’t bring you back.”

A chill ran through her. There was no malice in his voice. No theatrics. Just fact.

“And the last one,” he murmured, stepping toward her, closing the space between them in a way that made her breath hitch. “Just like this wreck… I found you. And now?” His fingers brushed against her chin, just enough to tilt it up slightly, just enough to make her feel it—his claim. His certainty.

“You belong to me.”

Her pulse pounded against her ribs.

He held her there for a moment, just watching, just waiting. Then, slowly, he let his fingers drop and turned for the door.

“Get some sleep,” he said easily. “You start getting used to things tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving nothing but his rules lingering in the air between them.

The ocean stretched wide before her, an endless sapphire expanse, broken only by the occasional ripple of movement beneath the surface. Schools of fish darted in flashes of silver. Somewhere farther out, she swore she’d seen the arch of a dolphin’s back cutting through the waves. This was why she dove. Why she put on the wetsuit, strapped on the tanks, and disappeared beneath the surface—because down there, the world was quiet. Safe. Hers.

She exhaled, fingers gripping the railing as she leaned forward just slightly, letting the sea air cool her face.

And then—him.

The warmth of his body pressed against her back, solid and deliberate, his arms bracketing her on either side. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel him, the heat of him sinking into her skin through the thin fabric of her borrowed clothes.

His breath ghosted against the side of her neck, his voice smooth and amused.

"See anything good, cutie?"

Her fingers tensed against the railing. “Don’t call me that.”

Rafayel chuckled, low and teasing. “Would you prefer something else?”

“I’d prefer if you moved.”

His hands didn’t budge. He was caging her in without actually holding her, a game of proximity that she refused to acknowledge was working.

His lips tilted into a smirk against her ear. “You didn’t answer my question.”

She swallowed, eyes flicking back toward the water, not focusing on the fact that his voice was deep enough to feel in her ribs. “A pod of dolphins,” she muttered, watching the horizon. “They were passing by.”

“Hm.” His voice was thoughtful, but she could feel his attention still fixed on her, not the ocean. “You like them?”

She rolled her eyes. “They’re beautiful. Intelligent. Playful.”

“So am I.”

Her head snapped toward him, her lips parting in incredulous disbelief. “You—”

His grin was pure arrogance, his eyes glittering like the reflection of sun on dark water.

She groaned, turning back toward the sea. “Oh, my god.”

“I don’t mind the comparison,” he continued easily, tilting his head slightly, like he was considering it. “Fast. Clever. Dangerous if provoked. I’d say it fits.”

“Dolphins don’t go around kidnapping people.”

“Mm, depends on the dolphin,” he mused. “You’re a marine biologist and you don’t know their behavior?” He tsked, “Dolphins are known for keeping female dolphins hostage for breeding—its well documented, I’m surprised you don’t know about it.” His voice dipped, something slow and deliberate curling around his words.

Her pulse stuttered.

His meaning sat thick in the air between them, as heavy as the weight of his presence against her back.

She inhaled sharply, pushing off the railing and turning to shove at his chest. He let her, stepping back just enough to give her room, though his smirk didn’t fade in the slightest.

“You are so full of yourself,” she muttered, brushing past him.

“I prefer the term confident.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back as she strode away—ignoring the fact that her heartbeat was far too quick, her skin far too warm.

And behind her, Rafayel chuckled under his breath, watching her go like a man who had all the time in the world.

She didn’t trust it.

The moment she stepped into his cabin, she knew it was a trap. Not the kind with chains or locked doors—no, Rafayel was playing a longer game. One where the bindings weren’t physical, but mental. Emotional. Seductive.

The lights were dim, casting a golden glow over everything. Candles flickered in scattered placements, their flames swaying with the subtle movement of the ship. A faint melody played from somewhere unseen, low and rich, threading through the air like smoke curling around bare skin. And the food—she caught the scent immediately. Fresh seafood, seasoned just right, the kind of meal that would have cost her a small fortune at a coastal restaurant.

Her stomach betrayed her before she could stop it, twisting in hunger.

Rafayel, standing near the table, caught the movement in her throat when she swallowed. His lips curved—just slightly, just enough.

“I figured we should have dinner together,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward the chair opposite his own. “I’d rather not keep my new possession starved.”

She stiffened, meeting his gaze with a glare. “I’m not your possession.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he moved toward her, slow and deliberate. “You keep saying that,” he murmured, stopping just in front of her, forcing her to tilt her chin up to hold his stare. “And yet, here you are. On my ship, in my quarters, wearing the clothes I gave you.” His head tilted slightly, his gaze heavy-lidded, lazy in that way that somehow still felt predatory. “You belong to me, cutie. The sooner you accept it, the easier things will be.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Rafayel sighed, almost as if he found her insistence adorable. He lifted a hand and, before she could react, hooked his fingers into the collar of her borrowed shirt. Just lightly. Just enough to pull her closer—barely an inch, but it made all the difference.

Her breath hitched.

His eyes traced over her face, slow and searching. Then, with infuriating amusement, he released her and stepped back.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the table again. “Eat. I’d hate for you to faint before we’ve had a proper conversation.”

She didn’t want to obey. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But hunger gnawed at her insides, and her body, treacherous as it was, wasn’t willing to endure more suffering for the sake of her pride.

She sat.

Rafayel’s smirk was damn near victorious as he followed suit.

The food was, unsurprisingly, incredible. Perfectly grilled fish, succulent shrimp, sides that tasted like something pulled straight from a high-end coastal kitchen. Every bite soothed her body’s needs even as her mind screamed at her not to relax.

Rafayel watched her eat with an expression that was equal parts pleased and knowing. “See?” he mused, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. “Not everything I offer is cruel.”

She swallowed her bite before leveling him with a look. “And what am I supposed to do? Be grateful that my kidnapper is feeding me?”

He chuckled, tipping his glass in her direction before taking a slow sip. “You say ‘kidnapper,’ I say ‘rescuer.’”

Her brow twitched. “Rescuer?”

“Of course.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching one arm along the table’s edge. “You were alone, vulnerable. Who knows what kind of danger could have found you down there?” His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Lucky for you, it was me.”

Her jaw clenched. “That’s not how luck works.”

Rafayel smirked again, setting his glass down before leaning forward. The playful facade dimmed just slightly, something deeper flickering beneath.

“I don’t think you’ve realized yet, cutie,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, rougher, “but there’s not a single part of this where your say matters.”

Her fingers clenched around her fork.

His grin returned, slow and wicked. “The only question left is how long you plan to fight before you admit you like it here.”

The worst part?

Her stomach was full, her body warm from the wine and the food and the damn way he looked at her.

And she had no answer.

Rafayel extended his hand, fingers relaxed but expectant, palm up, as if this was a choice—as if she had any real options here.

She hesitated, her gaze flickering up to his.

That look—

It wasn’t impatient, not quite. But there was something behind it, something dark and waiting, something that said: Push me, and see what happens.

Her throat tightened. Shit.

Reluctantly, she slid her hand into his. His fingers curled around hers instantly, firm and warm, a contrast to the cool air slipping in through the open windows. Before she could talk herself out of it, he pulled her up, steady and controlled, and in one effortless motion, he guided her into him.

The music swelled, slow and deep, the kind that moved like liquid through the air.

And Rafayel?

Rafayel was too close.

One hand rested at her waist, possessive, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep her there. The other cradled her own, leading her into a slow, measured rhythm. He moved like he owned this moment, like he owned her reaction to it.

Her pulse was unsteady, and she knew he felt it.

She refused to meet his eyes, keeping her gaze locked somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t his face.

"Shy now?" he murmured, his voice a quiet tease, his breath skimming just over her cheek.

"Hardly," she muttered, though it sounded weaker than she wanted it to.

His chuckle was low and knowing.

For a few moments, he simply moved with her, letting the music stretch between them. Then, his voice hummed against her skin.

"You'll be pleased to know we pulled some beautiful things from the wreck," he said, like they were having a casual conversation, like they were simply two people dancing and not a captor and his unwilling prize.

She swallowed. "Yeah? Should I be impressed?"

"Yes," he said easily. "Gold coins, ornate goblets—one of my men nearly pissed himself when he found a dagger with rubies in the hilt." He turned his head slightly, and she could feel his smirk even if she didn’t see it. "But I think the jewelry was my favorite."

Something in his tone made her wary. "...And why is that?"

He hummed. "Because I was thinking about what would suit you."

Her breath caught.

Rafayel's hand at her waist flexed slightly, like he felt her reaction. He continued, his voice smooth and lazy, dragging over her senses like silk and rope.

"A simple gold chain," he mused. "Thin, delicate. Something that would catch the light when it sits against your throat."

Her fingers twitched in his grip.

"And bracelets," he went on, thoughtful. "Maybe something beaded, something you could wear when you're diving. Wouldn’t want you to forget about me, even when you’re down in the deep."

She forced a scoff. "Right. Because I'm so likely to think about you while I'm working."

His smirk was undeniable. "Oh, you will."

She barely had time to bristle before his voice dropped lower, the heat in it curling into something unmistakable.

"Or," he murmured, his breath warm as his nose brushed along her cheek, "maybe just the chain."

Her breath hitched.

"Or maybe," he mused, his lips barely ghosting the line of her jaw now, "nothing at all."

A sharp jolt of heat shot through her, completely against her will.

Her fingers dug into his shoulder. "Pig," she bit out.

Rafayel only grinned. His nose trailed up her neck, slow and unhurried, until his mouth hovered near her ear.

"I just know what I want," he murmured, voice like sin and satisfaction.

And the worst part?

So did she.

The water embraced her, cool and endless, wrapping around her body in a way that always made her feel weightless, untethered. Free.

Or at least, she should have felt that way.

But Rafayel was there.

Even beneath the waves, even surrounded by the marine life she loved, he was the only thing she could really focus on.

He moved like he belonged here. Like the ocean had made him. Where she had to kick and adjust her buoyancy, where she had to work to stay steady, he simply was—his body cutting through the water in smooth, effortless strokes, his movements graceful in a way that made her stomach twist.

He was beautiful in a way that felt almost unnatural.

A predator in his home.

She tried to focus. Tried to keep her attention on the coral formations, the darting flashes of silver fish weaving through them, the notes she scrawled in her waterproof notebook.

But he was there. Always there.

A shadow in the periphery of her vision. A flicker of motion that drew her eyes no matter how hard she fought it.

And worse?

He knew it.

He would swim close—too close—pointing out a fish or a sunken relic, his body gliding just near enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through the water. He would look at her through the glass of his mask, those mismatched eyes catching the light in an eerie, knowing way. Every glance, every shift in his presence, was a silent reminder: I see you watching me.

She hated that he was right.

He dove deeper.

She hesitated, watching him disappear into the shadows below. The wreck was farther down, half-buried in the seafloor, and she followed his path with her eyes, pulse quickening as he moved like a specter, his body cutting through the water like he belonged to it.

And then he paused—his hand reaching out, brushing against something half-buried in the sand.

A glint of gold. A chain.

She barely had time to react before he turned and came for her.

A sharp tug at her leg—strong fingers wrapping around her calf, dragging her down, down, until she was pressed against him, her body slotted to his in the weightlessness of the sea.

Her breath caught, trapped behind the regulator in her mouth.

His grip on her was firm, unyielding, his hand sliding up to the curve of her hip, anchoring her to him as he lifted the necklace—something old, something shimmering, the gold catching the sparse beams of sunlight filtering through the depths.

And then—he clasped it around her neck.

His fingers brushed her skin, slow and deliberate, the weight of the jewelry settling against her collarbone.

She shivered.

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

Even through the mask, even in the eerie blue of the deep, she could feel his satisfaction.

His claim.

His lips tilted in a smirk behind his regulator, his eyes gleaming, pleased.

Like he had just put her exactly where she was meant to be.

The ocean cradled them in a weightless embrace, the world above shifting in liquid ribbons of sunlight. Tiny bubbles slipped between them, shimmering against their skin, rising toward the surface like scattered pearls.

His hand was still on her, firm and unmoving.

They were nearly there—just feet away from breaking the surface, from dragging in air and separating back into whatever this was. But Rafayel?

He stopped.

And then, without hesitation, he reached up and removed his regulator.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He let the gear drift beside him, his mask following, his gradient eyes locking onto hers like the salt didn’t burn at all. Like he didn’t need the barrier. Like he saw her clearer this way.

Then his hand was on her again—moving with that same unshaken purpose.

Before she could react, before she could even think, he was pulling at her gear, sliding the regulator from her mouth, stripping away the mask until she was just as bare as him.\

His mouth crashed against hers.

Salt. Pressure. Heat. She surrendered to him, and he stole it.

His fingers cradled her jaw, thumbs stroking over her skin, his grip firm like he was keeping her from floating away. The kiss was deep, consuming, his lips moving against hers like he had waited for this, like he knew she would surrender the moment he took her breath for himself.

She should fight it.

She should push him away, should thrash against the water, should be panicking at the lack of oxygen.

But instead, she melted.

Her body, already weightless in the water, went slack against him, her fingers twitching before rising—grasping at his shoulders, at his skin, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

Her head swam, a dizzy, liquid haze of salt and him, her lungs burning with something that had nothing to do with the dwindling air.

It was the most reckless, insane thing she had ever let happen. It was the most romantic thing she had ever experienced, would likely ever experience because this wasn’t just a kiss.

It was possession.

It was a claim.

And somewhere, deep in the sinking fog of lust and oxygen deprivation, she let it happen.

The moment she stepped onto the raft, the world tilted. It wasn’t just the waves shifting beneath them—it was him. Rafayel. The heat in his mismatched eyes, the way his breath came rough and uneven, his pupils blown wide with something raw and dark. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly that his body trembled with it, every muscle coiled tight, his control stretched so thin she could practically feel it fraying under her fingertips.

And yet, he didn’t take.

Not here. Not with his men’s eyes on them.

She barely had time to catch her breath before he was moving, hauling himself onto the raft beside her. His hands found her waist, gripping just enough to steady her, just enough to remind her that she wasn’t going anywhere—not unless he allowed it.

“Get up there.” His voice was a growl, low and rough, scraping against her skin like sandpaper.

She hesitated.

His fingers flexed.

“Now.”

Something in the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine, and for once, she obeyed. She pulled herself up onto the raft, water streaming from her body as she collapsed onto her hands and knees, lungs still burning from the stolen air he’d kissed from her lips.

Rafayel was right behind her.

The raft rocked beneath his weight as he knelt, his presence a furnace against her back, his breath still coming hot and fast. She didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes, because she knew what she’d see—knew that if she saw it, she might do something reckless.

Like let him pull her back under.

The ship loomed in the distance, dark and waiting. His men were already preparing to haul them aboard.

But all she could think about was the way his mouth had claimed hers, the way his body had fit against hers in the endless blue abyss, the way she had let him.

Let him.

The word burned.

She should fight. Should push back. Should hate him for this.

But she didn’t.

Not entirely.

Back on the ship, she showered in silence.

Salt and sweat and the lingering ghost of his hands washed away beneath the hot spray, but the memory of him remained. It was in the way her fingers shook when she reached for the soap. It was in the heat pooling low in her stomach, a traitorous, unwelcome thrum of something she refused to name.

She scrubbed harder.

But no amount of scalding water or sharp nails could scrape him from her skin. When she emerged, fresh clothes clinging to her damp skin, the ship felt different.

She felt different.

Rafayel had taken her. Not just from the ocean. Not just from her work. He had taken something deeper, something intangible.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it back. She swallowed hard, fingers toying with the delicate gold chain around her throat—the one he had fastened there, deep beneath the waves, his hands brushing against her pulse like a silent promise.

A claim.

Her stomach twisted. What was she supposed to do now? Fight him? Give in? Pretend none of it had happened, even as her skin still tingled from the ghost of his touch?

She didn’t know.

But as she stepped into the dimly lit cabin, as she felt the heat of his gaze find her across the room, as she saw the slow, knowing smirk curve his lips—

She knew one thing for certain.

Rafayel had no intention of letting her go.

The way Rafayel watched her was feline—hungry, patient, like a predator toying with its meal. The candlelight cast shifting shadows across his face, making his mismatched eyes gleam as he took another slow sip of wine, the deep red liquid staining his lips for a fleeting second before his tongue swept over them. A sigh escaped him, something between indulgence and restraint, and then—his gaze flickered to hers, dark and knowing.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he poured a second glass, the rich crimson filling the delicate curve of crystal before he pressed it into her hand. His fingers brushed hers, lingering just a moment too long.

“You can’t ignore me now,” he murmured, tilting his head with a mock pout, as if wounded by her attempts at defiance.

She sighed, leveling him with a flat look, but still—she drank.

And damn.

It was good. Too good. The kind of wine that melted across her tongue, warm and velvety, slipping down her throat like a whispered promise. It tasted of dark fruit and spice, of something heady and ancient, like temptation bottled and poured just for her.

Rafayel watched her the entire time, his smirk sharpening at the way her lips parted around the rim of the glass, at the soft noise she made when the flavor hit her tongue.

Like he was drinking her in just as deeply.

Before she could lower the glass, he moved—smooth and deliberate, caging her in against the heavy wooden table fixed into the floor.

Her breath caught.

His body was heat and shadow, pressing close, stealing the space between them, his scent wrapping around her—salt, spice, and something deep, something uniquely him.

He plucked the wine glass from her fingers, his knuckles grazing the inside of her wrist as he set it aside with an ease that felt almost lazy.

Then his mouth was on hers.

Not soft. Not careful.

Hot. Messy. Taking.

He swallowed the startled gasp that slipped from her lips, twisting it into something deeper, something that sent fire curling in her gut. His hands found her jaw, rough fingertips stroking over her cheek before angling her chin up—forcing her to open for him, to give him more.

She did.

And he devoured it.

His teeth scraped her lower lip, biting just enough to make her whimper, just enough to leave a sharp sting before his tongue soothed the mark with slow, deliberate strokes.

A growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her skin as he dragged his lips down—along her jaw, the slope of her throat, tracing the places where her pulse beat wildly beneath his mouth.

Bite.

A sharp, wicked thing, sinking into the delicate skin just beneath her ear.

She gasped, her hands flying up, gripping at his arms, his shoulders—needing something to hold onto as heat licked through her veins, as her body arched into his without thinking.

He chuckled against her skin, dark and knowing, his tongue flicking over the bruise he’d just made before he did it again—nipping, sucking, claiming his way down her neck.

Each mark was deliberate.

Each one a silent declaration: Mine.

Her knees went weak.

Her breath came ragged.

And when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his lips swollen, his pupils blown wide with hunger—she knew.

She was in trouble.

His stare was unwavering, dark and molten, locking her in place with nothing more than the weight of his gaze.

Rafayel wet his lips, slow and deliberate, savoring the anticipation thick in the air between them. His fingers skimmed along her jaw, tilting her chin just enough to make sure she was looking at him—seeing him.

"Listen to me, cutie," he murmured, his voice low, rough with promise. "I'm going to take you apart, one bit at a time."

His thumb traced over her lips, dragging across the softness before he continued.

"I'm not going to fuck you tonight—not yet." His mismatched eyes flickered with amusement, with restraint. "As much as I'd love to."

His breath ghosted over her mouth, teasing, tempting.

"But I'm going to show you why you're mine. And why you'll never regret it."

Her pulse pounded, her skin prickling with heat as he slowly, methodically stripped her down. He didn’t rush—no, he took his time, unbuttoning, unfastening, peeling away the layers between them like he was unwrapping a gift meant only for him.

Every inch of newly bared skin was met with his mouth. Lips pressing, tongue tasting, teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver.

By the time he had her naked beneath him, spread out across the heavy wooden dining table, she was trembling.

He looked starved.

His hands skimmed down her sides, firm and possessive, before gripping her thighs and spreading them wider, exposing her completely to his hungry gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers tightening. “I could eat from you every night and have no complaints.”

His voice was thick, syrupy with want, as he straightened. The sound of fabric shifting filled the dimly lit room, and when she lifted her gaze, she saw him—his shirt discarded, muscles flexing beneath golden skin, one hand stroking over his stomach before dipping lower.

Palming himself through his pants, slow and lazy, his breaths coming just a little heavier, a little rougher. He leaned down, his mouth found the heat between her thighs, and fuck. He was slow at first. So slow.

Long, deliberate licks, dragging his tongue through the wetness pooling there, savoring her like she was the richest thing he’d ever tasted. A groan, the sound vibrating against her skin as he delved deeper, his tongue working her open, hot and messy and unrelenting.

It wasn’t just eating, it was devouring.

Like a passionate kiss, but between her legs, his mouth moving with the same demanding, practiced rhythm he’d used against her lips.

His hands pressed against her thighs, keeping her exactly where he wanted her, exactly where he needed her. Ahen he flicked his tongue just right, when her back arched and a gasp tore from her throat, Rafayel grinned.

Because he knew she was already his.

Rafayel lapped at her like he had all the time in the world, slow and indulgent, dragging his tongue over every inch of her with the kind of focus that made her stomach coil tight. His hands pressed against her thighs, spreading her wide, holding her still—keeping her at his mercy and fuck, was she at his mercy.

His tongue traced her folds, slick and deliberate, before dipping inside, stroking deep, teasing, tasting. He groaned into her, the vibration sending sharp sparks of pleasure up her spine.

She gasped, her fingers flying to his hair, threading through the silky strands, tugging—desperate for something to ground her.

Rafayel only hummed, pleased, and did it again.

His mouth moved like he was memorizing her, mapping every reaction, every shift in her breathing, every twitch of her thighs. His tongue curled, flicked, pressed just right her back arched, a ragged sound escaping her lips, her thighs trembling in his grip.

Rafayel chuckled, the sound deep and dark against her skin, his hands tightening as he pushed her hips down, keeping her still even as she writhed against his mouth.

"That's it," he murmured against her, voice thick with satisfaction. "Take it."

Then he went deeper.

Slow, messy, obscene.

The wet, lewd sounds of his mouth working her filled the air, his tongue moving with lazy precision, like he enjoyed this—like he could stay between her thighs forever, just drinking her in.

One of his hands slid up, dragging along the softness of her stomach before finding her breast, palming the weight of it, rolling her nipple between his fingers.

She cried out, body jerking at the sudden spike of pleasure.

He groaned against her, lips wrapping around her clit, sucking, her whole body shook.

Her nails dug into his scalp, her breath coming in shallow, desperate pants.

She was close. Too close.

And Rafayel knew it.

His grip tightened, his tongue quickening, dragging her toward the edge, pushing her closer, closer—

Until she shattered.

Her thighs clenched around his head, her back arching off the table, her breath choking on a scream as the pleasure crashed through her.

Rafayel growled against her, fucking her through it with his tongue, dragging out every last aftershock, making sure she felt it, making sure she knew she was his.

When she finally sagged against the table, her limbs boneless, her body wrung out and trembling, he pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening, his tongue sweeping over them with a satisfied hum.

Then he leaned up, hovering over her, his chest heaving, his hands framing her hips.

And when he smirked, his voice came rough, thick with promise.

“Now,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against her swollen lips, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“That was just the beginning.”

The next few days dragged on.

She dove, but it wasn’t the same—not without him there, not without the ever-present weight of his eyes on her, not without his teasing remarks and the way he moved through the water like he belonged to it. Instead, she was left to her own devices, waiting in her room while Rafayel spent long hours behind closed doors with his men, speaking in low voices about something he clearly didn’t want her involved in.

And fuck, was she bored.

At first, she told herself she didn’t care. That this was good. That space would help clear her head, help remind her of who she was before all of this—before him.

But instead, all she did was think about him.

About the way his voice curled around her name like something owned, about the way his mismatched eyes darkened whenever she challenged him. About the way he kissed—hot and hungry, like he needed her.

And the way he didn’t kiss her now.

That was the worst part.

Because no matter how much she told herself this was a break, no matter how much she reminded herself that she was still technically his captive—it didn’t change the fact that she missed him.

It was infuriating.

In his office, Rafayel leaned back against the heavy oak desk, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the wood as he listened to his two most trusted men.

“It’s the Corsairs,” Mateo said, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “We spotted their ship a few miles out yesterday. If they’re after the wreck too, we might have a problem.”

“We’ve dealt with worse,” Cyrus muttered, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Rafayel exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t like surprises,” he said. “Last thing I need is a goddamn crew of bottom-feeders sniffing around what’s mine.”

Cyrus smirked. “Which part of ‘yours’ are we talking about?”

Rafayel shot him a look, but the bastard just grinned wider.

Mateo sighed, rubbing his temples. “Can we not? I’d rather focus on how we don’t get our throats slit in our sleep.”

Rafayel waved a hand. “We’ll be fine. Just keep the men alert. We go at dawn.”

Neither of them argued. They knew he wasn’t worried—but they also knew he hated being caught off guard.

And this? This had the potential to be messy.

Dinner that night was different.

It wasn’t that Rafayel was tense, exactly, but there was something quieter about him, something coiled just beneath the surface.

She noticed it in the way he toyed with his knife, in the way his mind seemed elsewhere. In the way his eyes flickered over her more often than usual, as if he were grounding himself in her presence.

When the meal was finished, he leaned back, studying her for a moment before speaking.

“Stay.”

She blinked. “What?”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I won’t touch you,” he promised, and the seriousness in his voice made her pulse skip. “I just… need you close.”

There was something almost vulnerable about it and that? That was dangerous.

Because she should have told him no. Should have walked out and reminded herself that she didn’t belong to him, that she wasn’t his.

But instead—

She nodded.

And later that night, she found herself curled against him in his bed, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing filling the silence.

It was warm. Too warm. Comfortable.

And it was the best sleep she’d ever had.

She woke to the first rays of dawn slipping through the porthole, stretching golden across the sheets.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

She just… watched him.

Rafayel looked different like this. Relaxed. Peaceful in a way he never was when awake. His breathing was deep, his lips slightly parted, his hair tousled against the pillows.

Something in her chest tightened.

She should hate him.

She should.

She should hate the way he touched her. Should hate the way he made her feel things—deep, dangerous things that left her breathless and aching.

But she didn’t.

And the worst part?

She didn’t want him to let her go.

The realization hit her like a weight to the ribs, knocking the air from her lungs.

Her fingers moved before she could stop them, brushing lightly against the side of his neck, tracing the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her palm.

She cupped his jaw, her thumb skimming along the sharp angle of it, feeling the faint scratch of stubble against her skin.

His eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, he was still.

A slow, sleepy smile curved his lips. Fuck, she was gone.

She leaned in without thinking, closing the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in something soft, something slow.

Rafayel moaned.

A deep, needy sound, his mouth parting for her immediately, his arms tightening around her as if to pull her in, to keep her there.

Because finally, finally, she was kissing him.

All that careful control he had been holding onto for days—weeks, even—snaps.

Rafayel growls against her mouth, a low, primal sound as he moves, his body shifting until he’s over her, pressing her into the soft mattress, his weight settling between her thighs. The warmth of him, the heat of his skin, the way his mismatched eyes burn into hers, it’s too much and not enough all at once.

"Finally, cutie," he breathes, his voice thick with sleep, tinged with something deeper. He brushes his nose against hers, his breath warm, his lips curling into something dark, something satisfied.

"Don't you get it now?" he whispers, trailing kisses along the corner of her mouth, down the slope of her jaw. "We were destined to meet." He devours her.

His mouth moves over hers with purpose, with possession, with all the hunger he’s barely managed to keep caged. His tongue pushes past her lips, deep and slow, curling against hers as if he’s reminding her of every other time he’s stolen her breath—underwater, on the ship, against the dining table but this is different.

There is no stopping this time.

They’re done pretending.

Her fingers tangle into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as she arches up into him. His body is solid, his muscles tensing beneath her touch, his skin hot against hers.

She wants more.

She needs more.

Clothing becomes an obstacle neither of them will tolerate.

His hands move first, slipping beneath her shirt, fingers trailing up the soft planes of her stomach before tugging it over her head. She shivers as the cool air kisses her skin, but he’s already there—his mouth pressing against the newly exposed flesh, his tongue flicking over a nipple before his teeth scrape lightly, making her gasp.

She shoves at his shoulders, desperate to rid him of his own clothing, and he lets her, sitting up just long enough to yank his shirt off, the dim morning light casting sharp shadows across his golden skin, his lean muscles taut with barely contained restraint.

His hands are everywhere. Skimming her sides, gripping her hips, sliding lower until his fingers tease the edge of her underwear. He hooks his thumbs beneath the fabric, pulling it down, his gaze never leaving hers, his lips twitching in satisfaction as she lifts her hips to help.

"Desperate for me already?" he murmurs, voice thick, teasing, but there’s no real mockery there—only want.

Her response is a sharp tug at his waistband, shoving at his pants, and he chuckles, deep and wicked, before making quick work of them himself, then nothing between them.

Skin against skin, heat against heat, him against her.

Rafayel’s breath shudders as he shifts between her thighs, one hand sliding down, fingers ghosting over her slickness before pushing inside. Two fingers, stretching her just enough, moving slow, deliberate. His mismatched eyes flick to hers, dark and focused.

"So fucking wet for me," he murmurs, pressing his thumb against her clit, circling lazily as his fingers curl inside her. She whimpers, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body arching up to take more.

"Patience," he breathes, pressing a kiss to her throat, sucking lightly before whispering against her skin. "I told you, cutie, I’m going to take my time."

But fuck, she’s already falling apart.

And she knows, without a doubt, that he's going to ruin her. His length is heavy in her palm, thick and hot, pulsing against her fingers as she wraps her hand around it, and fuck, her fingertips don’t even touch.

Her breath catches, something wary flickering in her eyes as she looks up at him.

Rafayel watches her closely, his own breathing unsteady, his muscles trembling beneath the strain of his own restraint. He reaches down, brushing his knuckles over her cheek before shaking his head, lips quirking into something both wicked and reassuring.

"We'll make it fit," he murmurs, voice dark and sure.

Fuck, he does. Slow.

So fucking slow.

He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance, teasing, stretching. His breath shudders as he pushes forward, easing just the tip inside—hot, throbbing—and already, her body is straining to take him.

She whimpers, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her thighs trembling around his waist.

"Shh," he soothes, covering her mouth with his own, swallowing every gasped plea, every whine, every ragged breath.

He wants her, needs her, but more than that, he needs to be inside her.

There’s no other way around it. The only way is through.

He presses deeper, inch by agonizing inch, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still as he works her open, stretching her so slowly he can feel every flutter of her walls around him.

"Fuck," he groans into her mouth, his forehead pressing against hers. "So goddamn tight."

She gasps, her nails biting into his skin, her body clenching around him like she’s trying to pull him in, fuck, he gives in. He sinks into her, fully, completely, until there’s nothing left between them, until she’s stretched wide around his cock, until she’s his.

His lips brush against her temple, his breath ragged, his body shaking with the effort of not pounding into her immediately.

"You feel that, cutie?" he murmurs, rolling his hips just slightly, enough to make her whimper.

"Told you we'd make it fit." Then he starts to move.

At first, his thrusts are slow—controlled. Each measured stroke sinking deep, stretching her, filling her in a way that has her clawing at his back, gasping against his lips.

But then—

His eyes flash, dark and hungry, and suddenly, that restraint is gone.

His grip tightens on her hips as he pulls back and slams into her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Again.

And again.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, sharp and wet, mingling with her breathless moans and his ragged groans.

His hand moves, trailing up her body before wrapping around her throat—firm, pressing just enough to make her feel it, to make her aware of every nerve in her body, every pulse of pleasure snapping through her veins.

His lips crash over hers, tongue dominating, devouring her cries, swallowing her pleasure as if it belongs to him.

And fuck, he’s talking—

Filthy, filthy things that make her head spin, that make her walls clench around him, that make her dizzy with how much she wants this.

"You feel that, cutie?" he growls against her lips, thrusting deep, making her scream. "The way you’re squeezing my cock? Like you're trying to keep me inside?"

His fingers flex around her throat, his lips dragging along her jaw, his breath hot and wicked against her skin.

"You love it, don’t you?" Another sharp thrust, making her cry out. "Being stretched so fucking wide around me. Made to take me."

Her nails dig into his shoulders, her body tightening, pulsing, breaking.

"Fuck, you’re perfect," he groans, his pace brutal, every thrust hitting so deep she can feel him in her stomach.

She can’t think, can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but take it.

"Cum for me," he demands, his voice rough, desperate. "Now."

She shatters. It’s too much. Her vision blurs, her body convulses, pleasure slamming through her so hard it’s like her soul is leaving her body.

He growls, his grip tightening, his rhythm stuttering as he slams into her one last time, burying himself deep, spilling inside her with a ragged moan.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, his body shuddering as he fills her, his arms wrapping tight around her, pinning her against him.

"I’ll keep you like this, cutie."

A slow thrust, his cum dripping from her. "Full of me. Always."

The afternoon was quiet—too quiet.

Rafayel sat at his desk, hunched over a map, his fingers trailing the worn edges as his other hand flicked through the GPS. He was searching for something specific, cross-referencing coordinates, making calculations that should have had his full attention.

But it didn’t.

Because she was there.

Curled up on the small couch across the cabin, seemingly content in nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his shirts—too big on her, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, baring skin that still bore faint traces of his teeth from that morning.

His grip on the pen tightened as heat licked through him, his cock twitching against his thigh at the memory.

The way she had looked at him in the dim morning light, her fingers tracing his jaw before she kissed him slow and deep, before she let him have her—

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Focus.

He needed to focus.

Because no matter how good this felt, no matter how right it seemed to have her here, dressed in his clothes, wrapped up in the scent of him—this life was dangerous.

And if he wasn’t careful, if he let himself slip—

She could get hurt.

The thought alone sent something dark and cold twisting in his chest, and he had half a mind to get up, to pull her into his lap, to tell her—

Gunshot.

A sharp, violent crack split the air, echoing through the ship like a warning shot across his nerves.

Rafayel was on his feet before he even thought about it, his body moving instinctively, reaching for the handgun stashed in the drawer.

"Stay here," he snapped, but the second he saw the wide-eyed tension in her face, he knew that wouldn’t be enough.

He cursed under his breath, grabbing a second gun before striding toward her.

"Do you know how to shoot?"

She shook her head, pulse hammering, eyes flicking toward the door where muffled shouts were beginning to break through the chaos.

"Fuck."

No time.

He grabbed her wrist, pressed the cool weight of the gun into her palm.

"Alright, listen carefully," he said, voice sharp, focused. He moved behind her, his chest pressing against her back as he wrapped his hands around hers, guiding her fingers into place. "Safety’s here." He flipped the small switch, making sure she saw. "Never put your finger on the trigger unless you're gonna pull it."

She swallowed, nodding quickly, her breath shaky.

"Both hands," he murmured, adjusting her grip, his fingers covering hers. "Don’t lock your elbows. Keep your arms steady, but let them move with the recoil."

The gun felt too heavy in her hands, too real, but Rafayel wasn’t finished.

"It’s a hair trigger—you don’t have to squeeze hard," he said, voice dropping lower, firmer. His lips brushed the shell of her ear as he added, "And keep your goddamn eyes open. You close them, you miss. You miss, you die."

She exhaled sharply, trying to focus, but it was too much—his body so close, his scent wrapping around her, the heat of him sinking into her back.

This wasn’t the time to be flustered.

But fuck, how could she not be?

There was another gunshot. Closer this time.

Rafayel pulled back, grabbed his second firearm, flicked off the safety, and looked at her. She wasn’t ready for that look, because there was something cold in his expression now, something deadly—a side of him she’d never seen up close.

It sent a shiver down her spine. "Get in the bathroom," he ordered.

She hesitated. "Now."

Her fingers clenched around the gun, and she turned quickly, stepping toward the small attached room. Before she could close the door, Rafayel’s voice stopped her—quieter, but harder.

"Coral."

She blinked. "What?"

"Our password," he said, keeping his eyes on the door. "If someone tries to come in, you ask for the password. If they don’t say ‘coral’…"

His gaze flicked to her. "You shoot them."

Her stomach dropped. She opened her mouth—to argue, to protest, to say that she couldn’t, Rafayel was already turning away, already moving toward the door, gun raised, shoulders tense.

Her pulse thundered. The bathroom door clicked shut, she was alone.

Gun in her hands. Heartbeat pounding. Waiting for the next sound. Waiting to see if she’d have to pull the trigger.

It felt like ages.

The gun was too heavy in her hands, her pulse too loud in her ears, drowning out everything but the violent chaos just beyond the door.

Gunshots. Yelling. The ship shuddered beneath her, vibrating the walls, the floor, her bones.

And then—

A boom.

Not another gunshot—something bigger, something that sent a shockwave rippling through the hull. The force rattled the glass bottles on the counter, making the bathroom mirror quiver in its frame. The floor beneath her feet shook, and for a brief, breathless moment, she thought—

Are we sinking?

But the ship held.

She pressed herself against the wall, forcing down the rising panic, straining to listen.

Footsteps.

Voices.

People moving past the wall, arguing in hushed, urgent tones. Some too deep to be familiar, others—

The bedroom door creaked open.

Her fingers clenched around the gun.

Then—

"Cutie?"

Rafayel's voice. Steady. Calm. But beneath it, there was something else—something low, strained.

"You can come out."

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She swallowed. "What's the password?"

Silence.

Then—

A small, breathy chuckle.

"Good girl."

And then, softer—

"Coral."*

Her hands shook as she set the gun down, her legs weak as she moved to the door, her fingers trembling as she twisted the knob.

The moment she stepped out, she ran to him.

She buried herself against his chest, her arms wrapping tight around his waist, her fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt like she could anchor herself there, like she could make sure he was real.

He caught her without hesitation, his own arms closing firmly around her, tight, his grip possessive, like he had no intention of letting her go.

His knuckles were bruised.

His gun was still warm.

There was blood—splattered across his arm, smeared along the collar of his shirt.

But it wasn’t his.

He was fine.

Her breath came out in a shuddering exhale, her fingers curling against his ribs.

Rafayel pressed his lips to the top of her head, his own breath unsteady, his heartbeat strong and solid beneath her ear.

"It’s done," he murmured against her hair. "It’s okay."

His fingers stroked through the strands, slow, soothing, grounding.

She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing him in, letting his warmth seep into her, letting the tension bleed from her bones.

For the first time since the gunshots started she believed him.

She stared at him, searching his face, waiting for something—guilt, remorse, hesitation. There was nothing. Just the same lazy amusement, the same confidence, the same unbothered certainty.

“You shot them?” Her voice came out sharper than intended, her pulse still erratic from the way he’d grabbed her only moments before.

Rafayel didn’t even glance at her. He stretched out in his chair, legs spread wide, the candlelight catching in his mismatched eyes���one burning red, one deep and endless blue. The colors gleamed as he swirled his drink, taking a slow sip before answering.

“They were in my way,” he said simply. “They were taking what’s mine. So, I gave them something to think about.” A smirk, sharp and edged. “I didn’t have time for negotiations.”

Her stomach twisted. “Are they dead?”

He let the question hang for a second too long. “Doubt it.” A lazy shrug. “But if they are, well—” He grinned at her now, eyes gleaming. “Not my problem.”

She swallowed. “You don’t even care.”

“Why should I?” He leaned forward now, elbows braced on his knees, gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “You think this ocean is full of kind men? That they would’ve been merciful if they caught me off guard instead?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He already knew.

Rafayel chuckled, slow and dark. “That wreck is mine,” he said. “And I keep what’s mine.”

The wreck is still there, and it’s his. He curls his hand around her neck—"Kind of like you are."

The air between them changed. Thickened. His fingers brushed her skin first—light, teasing, barely there. Then they curled, firm, slow, wrapping around the delicate column of her throat like he was testing the fit. A perfect grip. A claim.

Her pulse jumped against his palm. He felt it. She knew he felt it. His smirk was slow, knowing, predatory.

Her breath stilled.

She should have shoved him away. Should have wrenched his fingers off her, thrown his own damn words back at him. But she didn’t. Her feet stayed planted. Her body stayed still. Her breath stayed uneven.

His thumb brushed over her pulse, slow and deliberate. “You feel that?” he murmured. “The way it races?” He tilted his head, watching her, drinking her in. “Your body always knows before your mind does.”

Her teeth clenched. “I’m not yours.”

Rafayel’s smirk widened. “Sure you aren’t, cutie.”

And then he makes a vow.

His grip tightened—just slightly. Just enough to make her aware of it, to make her feel it. Not cruel. Not painful. Just control. Just certainty.

His voice dropped, low and absolute.

“No one will ever hurt you while I’m around. Ever.” His fingers flexed. His mismatched eyes burned. “If they even thought about it, they would die on the spot.”

The words landed heavy, like the weight of the sea pressing down, slow and inescapable.

She swallowed, her throat shifting against his palm.

“You’re insane,” she whispered.

Rafayel grinned. “Maybe.”

The moment stretched between them, thick and heavy, her pulse still racing beneath his fingers. But then—just like that—he sighed, running a hand through his hair, making a mess of already tousled strands.

"I know it's been just under two weeks since I found you, cutie," he murmured, almost thoughtful, though there was something sharper beneath his voice. "But I can’t ever let you go. So, I’m giving you this."

His other hand slipped into his pocket.

She barely had time to process before he pulled out a small box and flipped it open.

A ring.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart thudding against her ribs, her body going still as he plucked the piece of jewelry from its velvet cushion and, without hesitation, slid it onto her finger.

The fit was perfect. Of course it was.

"We’ll get married soon," Rafayel said, his voice calm, like this was just another inevitability. "It’s only right, after all."

Her fingers twitched, and throat tightened.

She lifted her gaze to his, her lips parting before she found her voice. "You’re not even going to ask me properly?"

There was a tease in her tone—she hated that it was there, hated that her body betrayed her like this, hated that she didn’t rip the ring off and shove it back into his chest.

Rafayel tilted his head, his smirk lazy, smug.

"Hm." He hummed, his thumb brushing against her knuckles, his fingers tightening around hers as he played with the ring. "You’d say yes."

Her stomach twisted and breath hitched as Rafayel’s mouth descended on hers—hot, demanding, all-consuming. His lips crushed against hers with a hunger that stole her breath, his grip on her tightening as he pulled her flush against him. She barely had time to process, barely had time to think, before his tongue was sliding against hers, coaxing, claiming.

A groan rumbled deep in his chest, reverberating against her skin as his fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. It was slow and filthy, his teeth scraping against her lower lip, his tongue licking into her mouth with the kind of confidence that made her knees weak.

Sliding down, slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers finding bare skin, tracing the heat between her thighs.

He grinned against her mouth. "We should celebrate," he murmured, voice thick with want, teasing, wicked. His fingers dipped lower, brushing against the dampness gathering between her legs. "It’s not every day we get engaged, cutie." His breath was hot against her lips, his smirk unmistakable. "I want to live in sin with you just a little longer."

Before she could react, before she could tell him just how ridiculous he was—his fingers pressed against her clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

Her gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her again, swallowing every whimper, every sharp inhale, every sound she made as he worked her open with slow, purposeful strokes.

She barely had time to whine before he was lifting her, his hands gripping her thighs, hoisting her up like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, her arms clinging to his shoulders as he carried her across the cabin, his steps unhurried, confident, like he had all the time in the world.

The bed.

She barely had time to register the shift before he was on top of her, pinning her beneath him, his body heavy, solid, warm. His mismatched eyes burned as he looked down at her, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, tilting her chin up.

"You look good like this," he murmured, dragging his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. "All mine."

Before she could snap at him, before she could tell him she wasn’t his, he was moving again.

His hands were everywhere—skimming over her stomach, pushing up her shirt, sliding it over her head in one swift motion. His lips followed, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against every inch of newly exposed skin, his tongue flicking over her nipple before his teeth scraped, making her arch beneath him.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down, dragging them over the curve of her ass, past her thighs, until they were nothing but fabric discarded on the floor.

She was bare beneath him now, exposed to his hungry gaze, the way he looked at her. Like he was starving, as if he was seconds away from devouring her whole.

His own clothes were next—his shirt, his belt, his pants—gone in a blur of movement. And then he was there, between her legs, his body pressing her down into the mattress, his cock hot and hard against her thigh.

He grabbed her wrist, guiding her hand between them.

"Feel that?" he murmured, his voice rough, strained. "That’s what you do to me."

Her fingers wrapped around him, and he groaned, his head dropping for a moment, his breath unsteady. Rafayel lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance, teasing, stretching.

His gaze locked onto hers, sharp, unyielding. "Say it," he demanded, his voice dark, rough. "Say you’re mine."

Her lips parted, her breath coming fast, but she refused.

Rafayel’s smirk returned. "Still stubborn, huh?" He pushed in, slow, and deep.

Stretching her open, inch by inch, forcing her to take every last bit of him.

She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, her back arching as he filled her completely, as her body struggled to accommodate his size.

"Fuck," he groaned, his grip on her thighs tightening. "You feel that, cutie?" His hips rolled, pressing even deeper. "The way you squeeze me?"

She whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body burning, overwhelmed, too much and not enough all at once.

Rafayel chuckled, low and dark. "Don’t worry," he murmured, dragging his lips down her throat, his tongue flicking over her pulse.

"I’ll make sure you can take it."

Slow at first, each thrust deep, deliberate, designed to make her feel every inch of him. Harder. Faster. His control snapped, and suddenly, he was fucking her like he meant it.

The bed rocked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each sharp thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

Her moans were muffled against his shoulder, her body writhing beneath him, her nails leaving red lines down his back.

"That’s it," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. "Take it."

She was unraveling, her body coiling tighter, pleasure building fast, too fast.

Rafayel felt it.

He smirked, his hand slipping between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in quick, precise circles.

"Come on, cutie," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Cum for me."

Her body obeyed before she could fight it. The pleasure crashed over her in waves, her vision going white, her legs tightening around his waist as she came apart beneath him, her body pulsing, clenching around him.

Rafayel groaned, his grip on her hips bruising as he fucked her through it, chasing his own release, his pace stuttered.

A deep growl tore from his throat as he buried himself inside her one last time, his body tensing, his cock throbbing as he came, filling her with hot, thick pulses of his release. For a moment, neither of them moved.

His weight pressed against her, his breath ragged against her skin, his heart hammering against hers. Then he shifted, rolling them over so she was sprawled on top of him, her body still trembling, still dazed.

His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along her spine.

"See?" he murmured, lips brushing against her forehead. "Marriage is gonna be fun." ---

want to support me? give me a tip!

[ingeniousmindoftune]

Sins of a Shadowed Heart

This is part one drafted, should I continue?

The year was 1932, and the air of New York City was thick with the haze of cigarette smoke and the low hum of jazz spilling from every corner. The Great Depression had cast its shadow over the city, but the bright lights of Broadway still glittered, and the underground clubs thrived, their doors guarded by men with sharp suits and sharper eyes. You were no stranger to these streets, though your reasons for walking them differed from most. As a woman with a secret life and desires hidden under the fabric of a world that demanded propriety, you moved through the bustling crowd unnoticed, blending into the shadows like a ghost.

You had always been drawn to the dark, to the allure of the unknown, the danger lurking just beneath the polished surface of society. It was why you found yourself at The Black Rose that night—an infamous jazz club tucked in an alleyway, its velvet curtains keeping the night’s secrets tightly sealed. Rumors whispered of its proprietor, a man who went by the name Smoke. He was a man of mystery, a shadow in the city’s underworld, both feared and admired for his ability to make anyone vanish without a trace. But it wasn’t his power that drew you in. It was the magnetic pull he had on the very air you breathed—a draw so strong it made your heart quicken just thinking about him.

As you entered the club, the low hum of a saxophone greeted you, its sultry notes wrapping around your body like the finest silk. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the patrons seated at their tables. But your eyes were fixed on the stage. Smoke wasn’t performing tonight, but you could feel his presence like a weight pressing on your chest.

He was there, just behind the curtain, watching. You didn’t need to see him to know he was. His reputation preceded him—tall, enigmatic, and dressed in black like the night itself. His eyes, a cold blue, seemed to pierce through you the moment you walked in. Every muscle in your body screamed to retreat, yet you stood your ground.

The music flowed, but you couldn’t concentrate. You were too aware of the electric tension in the room, and more specifically, of the man who controlled it.

“You’re here.” His voice, low and smooth, slid into your ears, and you stiffened. Your breath caught in your throat.

You hadn’t heard him approach, yet there he was—standing in the shadows, his figure tall and imposing. Smoke was more than just a name; it was an aura, a force that wrapped itself around you the moment his gaze locked onto yours. He was no ordinary man, and you were no ordinary woman. That much was clear.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. His smile was small but knowing, as though he had already seen the decisions you’d made long before you had. “But I’m glad you did.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took in his appearance. His tailored suit clung to his frame with an ease only a man of his power could manage. The faintest trace of a scar ran along his jawline, a reminder of the life he led. His eyes, icy and calculating, flickered with something deeper, something you weren’t sure you wanted to explore just yet.

“I needed to see for myself,” you replied finally, voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. You took a step forward, drawn in by the magnetic pull between you. “Rumors about you… they don’t do you justice.”

Smoke’s lips curled into a smirk. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming the air around you. “I don’t need justice, darling. I need control.”

You could feel the weight of his words, heavy and suffocating, but they excited you in ways you couldn’t explain. His world was dangerous, thrilling, and infinitely seductive. You knew better than to get involved with someone like him, but the temptation of the unknown, of the forbidden, was too much to resist.

“Control?” you echoed, your pulse quickening. “Is that all you want?”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if the very words he spoke were meant only for you. “I want more than that, sweetheart. But first, you’ll need to learn the rules.”

You blinked, the weight of his gaze making your breath catch. “And what if I don’t play by them?”

Smoke’s smile deepened, and you could feel the predatory glint in his eyes. “Then I’ll make you.”

Before you could respond, he turned, nodding to a nearby waitress who approached with a drink. “You’ll need this,” he said, his tone still calm, yet with an edge that made you pause.

You took the drink from the waitress, your fingers brushing against hers as she gave you a small, almost knowing smile before retreating. Smoke’s eyes followed every movement of yours, never once letting you out of his sight.

There was a moment of silence between you, the only sound the distant hum of jazz and the soft shuffle of patrons at their tables. You took a sip from the glass, its bitter taste lingering on your tongue.

Smoke didn’t move, but you could feel the pull of his presence—like a rope slowly tightening around you. It was clear now. This wasn’t just a club. It was his kingdom. And you were about to be tangled in it, whether you liked it or not.

“You don’t know what you’re walking into, do you?” Smoke’s voice was soft, but the threat was clear.

“I don’t need to,” you replied, a slight smirk playing at the corner of your lips. “I’m not afraid of shadows.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “No?” He stepped closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Then you’ve yet to see the darkness I carry, darling. But you will.”

The words were a promise, one you weren’t sure you should have accepted—but something in you couldn’t help but take the risk.

[gpcwsl]

Alessia Russo x Reader

I don’t want you to go

WC: 1.5k

MasterList

Warnings: making out, kissing.

Song: Gravity - Sara Bareilles (I know it’s not the same as the picture just listen to this one instead, lol.)

The evening air was crisp, the soft hum of streetlights casting a golden glow along the pavement as you and Alessia walked side by side. Your third date had been perfect—simple but memorable. The laughter at the small Italian restaurant, the way she’d brushed her blonde hair behind her ear when you complimented her, the accidental touch of her hand against yours that lingered longer than necessary. Every moment felt like it carried a weight, a pull that you weren’t sure you could resist much longer.

Alessia walked close enough for your arms to occasionally bump, and each time it happened, her cheeks flushed a little deeper. Her eyes, soft and shining, darted toward you when she thought you weren’t looking. The conversation flowed naturally, but you couldn’t ignore the tension in the air—unspoken, undeniable, electric. It had been there since the moment you picked her up, simmering beneath the surface.

As her flat came into view, your heart began to race. The walk felt shorter tonight, or maybe it was just the anticipation building with every step. The thought of saying goodnight, of letting her go back inside without… something more, filled your chest with an ache you couldn’t ignore. But then again, what if you were reading this wrong? What if the spark you felt so strongly wasn’t mutual? The thought made your steps falter slightly, but Alessia didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, judging by the way her fingers brushed against yours in what felt like a deliberate motion.

When you finally reached her door, Alessia turned to face you fully. She was so close now, her bright blue eyes meeting yours, and you could feel the warmth radiating from her despite the cool night air. She smiled, that shy, almost hesitant smile she gave when she was nervous. It was one of your favorite things about her.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said softly, her voice just above a whisper. “I had a really good time.”

“So did I,” you replied, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of nerves threatening to take over. “You’re… amazing, Alessia.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked down for a moment, biting her lip as if trying to find the right words. When her eyes met yours again, there was something different in them—something you couldn’t quite place but that sent a shiver down your spine.

Neither of you moved. The air felt heavier now, the world around you fading into the background as you stood there, locked in this moment. You wanted to kiss her. God, you wanted to kiss her more than anything. But should you? Would she want you to?

As if reading your mind, Alessia took a small step closer, her hand hesitating before reaching out to lightly touch your arm. “I…” She paused, her voice trailing off as she seemed to gather her courage. Then, before you could overthink it, she leaned in—soft, tentative, testing the waters.

Her lips brushed against yours, warm and gentle, and every thought in your mind dissolved into nothing. It was soft at first, a question rather than a statement, but when you responded, leaning into her, the kiss deepened. Her hand slid up to your shoulder, pulling you closer, and you felt your own hands finding her waist, holding her steady as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

The kiss grew more urgent, the unspoken tension of the past few weeks unraveling with every movement. When you finally pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed, Alessia’s lips were parted, her face flushed. But she didn’t give you time to say anything. Instead, she grabbed your hand, pulling you inside her flat and kicking the door shut behind her in one swift motion.

She was on you again before you could process it, her lips finding yours with a fervor that took your breath away. Her hands, now resting on your face, slid into your hair, holding you to her as if she were afraid to let you go. You could feel the heat of her body against yours, the softness of her touch contrasting with the urgency of her kiss.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Alessia whispered against your lips, her voice low and breathless. Her forehead rested against yours, and her eyes searched yours as if she were looking for reassurance, for permission to keep going.

You smiled, your hands still resting on her waist. “I think I have an idea,” you replied, your voice just as unsteady as hers.

And with that, she kissed you again, her lips capturing yours in a way that made your knees weak. Every touch, every movement, felt like a revelation, and you couldn’t help but wonder how you’d gone this long without her.

The two of you stumbled further into the flat, your focus entirely on each other as the door remained shut behind you, the rest of the world forgotten.

Alessia guided you further into her flat, her hand still holding yours as if she was afraid to let go. The space was warm and inviting, dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner. You barely had time to take it all in before Alessia turned to face you, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes sparkling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

She hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer, her hands finding their way to your chest. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered, her voice soft but filled with emotion. Then, with the same boldness she’d shown at the door, she leaned in and kissed you again.

This time, the kiss was different—deeper, slower, but no less intense. It wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was deliberate, as though she wanted to savor every moment, every touch. Her hands slid up to your shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as you wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

You could feel her body relax against yours, the tension from earlier melting away as the kiss intensified. The faint citrus-vanilla scent of her shampoo surrounded you, and you couldn’t help but lose yourself in the softness of her lips, the way they molded perfectly to yours. Time seemed to blur as the world outside her flat faded into insignificance.

Without breaking the kiss, Alessia gently tugged at your hand, guiding you toward the couch. You followed willingly, your lips still locked with hers as you stumbled together, laughing softly between kisses when you bumped into the armrest. She sank down onto the cushions, pulling you with her, and you ended up sitting side by side, your knees brushing as you leaned into each other.

Alessia’s hands found their way to your face, her thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as she kissed you again—harder this time, with more urgency. You responded in kind, your fingers slipping to her waist, holding her like she might vanish if you let go. The couch creaked faintly as the two of you shifted closer, your bodies pressed together as if the space between you was unbearable.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Her lips were slightly swollen, her hair a little mussed from your fingers running through it, but she looked radiant. She rested her forehead against yours, her eyes fluttering closed as she let out a shaky laugh.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I think I have an idea,” you repeated-teased, earning a quiet laugh from her.

Her fingers trailed down your arm, intertwining with yours. She looked at you then, her gaze soft but filled with something deeper—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Stay,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly but steady enough to leave no doubt about her sincerity. “Stay the night. I don’t want you to go.”

The vulnerability in her words made your chest ache in the best way. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before replying. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

Her smile widened, relief and joy flashing across her face as she pulled you into another kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, but no less passionate. It felt like a promise, like the beginning of something neither of you fully understood yet but were more than willing to explore.

The two of you stayed there on the couch for what felt like hours, wrapped up in each other, sharing kisses and quiet laughter. It wasn’t long before Alessia rested her head on your shoulder, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm as you sat together in comfortable silence. The night stretched on, but neither of you seemed to notice—or care. For the first time in a long time, everything felt perfect.

[ninibeingdelulu]

His empress ✧

Plot: Because of Michael’s busy life, he barely have any time for you.

A/N: Loved Kaiser from day one , like he’s literally my bf. Also, I made him a little poetic so idk if it’s good😓.

The apartment doorslammed with enough force to rattle the windows. Michael stormed inside, cleats leaving muddy tracks across the hardwood in his wake.

His sharply angled features were locked in a ferocious scowl, blue eyes blazing with frustration. Another grueling training had pushed his limits to the brink once more.

You glanced up from the kitchen, unable to mask your wince at the unrepentant mess he left behind.

"Welcome home," you ventured in a measured tone, knowing his volatile moods all too well.

Michael barely acknowledged you. Instead he ripped off his muddied jersey in an angry flourish and hurled it aside, seeking to strip away the stench of another dissatisfying day.

Your eyes followed his toned form from behind the marble island as he stomped towards the bathroom. His shoulder muscles were knotted ropes of tension beneath that porcelaine skin.

You knew it was intentional, feeling your steady gaze tracking him like a hunting falcon.

That was just Michael's way - everything was a crucible, an excuse to exude that overwhelming dominance he so craved.

But today the display did little to spur your usual fluttering admiration. A different rawness simmered in your chest as you watched him disappear into the bathroom without a backwards glance.

The spray of running water filled the strained silence in Michael's wake. You stood there motionless, mulling over the painful sting festering deeper each day.

Though his ferocious commitment to training and perfecting his craft was legendary, lately it had consumed him to an almost alienating degree. Including from you.

How long had it been since you last shared an intimate moment together?

Or even heard that cocksure voice murmur sweet maddening praises that used to set you aflame from the inside out?

Those precious instances had dwindled to near non-existence as Michael became more obsessed, more distant, more...unseeing of the person he'd once crowned his devoted empress.

The bathroom door creaked open, steam billowing out with Michael's emergence in fresh sweats. Without forethought, the question slipped from your lips in a dull murmur.

"Do you even care about me anymore?"

His hand paused where he scrubbed the towel through those signature bedhead spikes. Sea-glass eyes flicked over to pin you with an owlish blink.

"What?"

You swallowed, turning to face him fully now that his defenses were stripped bare.

"Sometimes I wonder if you ever really loved me at all... or if I was just another passing conquest for the 'great emperor' to claim and discard."

The words hung in the air with damning finality.

Michael froze, hands falling away from his blonde and blue hair. For several beats his expression was unreadable, marbled handsomeness set in an impenetrable mask.

Then his sculpted brows slashed downwards in undisguised hurt.

You shrank back instinctively when he stalked towards you with quickened strides, expecting more flaring tempers to clash.

But instead of the storm you braced for, gentle calloused palms cradled your face with trembling reverence.

Michael searched your gaze with those kaleidoscope depths, as if reacquainting himself with the woman he'd unforgivably taken for granted.

"You..." he started roughly before clearing his throat. "Never think that, liebe. Not even for a moment."

A shuddery inhale filled Michael's broad chest as one hand drifted down to splay over your thundering heart. His touch was feather-light, worshipful in its tenderness.

"You are the single greatest treasure I've ever had the honor of possessing, my shining star among the world's dim masses. More divine than any earthly jewel or victory on the pitch."

You felt your breath hitch at the unbridled ardor shining through those captivating blue eyes. Michael's voice dropped to an intimate baritone murmur that caressed over you like velvet.

"I am an arrogant, obsessive fool in so many ways - but my absolute worship of you is one truth I'll never stray from. You make me an emperor worthy of respect, make me burn with desire to prove my worth to stand at your side.I-"

He cut himself, his thumb brushing over the plump swell of your bottom lip reverently.

"It is my gravest sin to ever make you question how utterly you reign over my soul, meine liebe. I’m sorry if I’ve been distant these last weeks, I just had a lot in mind with the upcoming games. Forgive me if I made you feel l didn’t care about you."

You were rendered utterly speechless at the searing depth behind Michael's heartfelt confession.

A powerful tremor rippled down your frame, threatening to melt you into an incoherent puddle.

Before you could trust yourself to speak, he sealed his words with a ravaging kiss that blazed away any remaining traces of doubt.

His hands tangled in your hair, keeping you molded flush to his solid frame as if you were the single tether anchoring him to this world.

When the need for air finally parted your joined mouths, Michael bored his eyes into yours with hypnotic intensity.

A familiar smolder flickered to life in their whirling depths - a predatory allure reserved only for his empress.

"Tonight," he rasped against your swollen lips, "allow me to worship you again and again, until the nights where you felt alone disappear from your mind, mein juwel..."

[itsthecline]

one conversation part two

maybank!reader x rafe cameron

summary the aftermath of you and rafe ‘talking’ things out

warnings profanity , smut ( fingering , manhandling , squirting , daddy kink , unprotected pinv , choking , creampie ) more of rafe being an honest little baby because he misses his girl , uh oh! kie kie sees!

18+ minors dni

you’re not too sure when you and rafe managed to move to his room , but there you were back in his bed. your hair was thrown around the pillows messily as rafe kissed down your body , muttering apologies as he did so. “promise , i’m gonna make up for everything,” he whispered , planting a kiss on your thigh and looking up at you like you were the moon and the stars, “i love you.”

“i love you too,” you sighed , letting your head hit the pillows again as rafe worked to pull your swimsuit bottoms off. the overalls you were wearing earlier had already been discarded on the floor. “i want you , baby,” you added quietly , softly as though anything could tear this moment away from you. a moment you had been vying for for almost a year, “its been so long.”

“too long,” rafe agreed , pulling his shirt off and leaning over you, “never letting you go again. nothing’s coming between us , okay?” he dipped and kissed you deeply , holding your body tight against his. he missed the feeling of you melting into him. he missed everything about you. you were the one thing in this world that rafe could say kept him grounded.

“tell me you love me again,” you asked him , pulling back to look him in the eye. oh , those ocean blue eyes you missed so much. they were always softer with you , opening up like a vault that only you could reach. it had been so long since you’d been close enough to see them sparkle.

“i love you , y/n maybank,” rafe obliged with a soft chuckle , like it was the easiest thing you’ve ever asked him to do. in all fairness it was. “you’re my god given solace. going to marry you one day.” he threw in , grinding your hips into yours for some relief.

you moaned into his mouth , wanting nothing more than for him to just take you like he usually did , but you knew this was different. you knew that as much as you wanted it rough , rafe needed it to be soft. “i need you to stop drinking so much , baby,” you spoke gently , knowing he’d promise you anything in the moment if you said it sweet enough, “for me?”

“i’ll do whatever you want , princess. anything,” he nodded, “let me make love to you first?” he asked , hand moving between you to run his fingers through your folds , pulling a long overdue whine to escape your lips.

as much as you wanted him to just take you and have his way with your body , you knew that rafe needed it to be soft. “yeah , honey. i’m all yours,” you sighed , feeling him push two fingers into you, “do whatever you want to me.”

rafe’s fingers continued to move in and out of you , prepping you for his cock. you were already leaking around him , not having spent any time with yourself lately to get off — not that it would work without rafe. “oh , i’m gonna,” rafe chuckled deeply , unbuttoning his pants and shoving them down with one hand while his other kept busy, “just want you to cum on my fingers first.”

he pushed his hand in deeper , adding another finger. “fuck , ray! want you,” you cried out , hips meeting his hand in attempt to finish sooner. you needed him , not his fingers.

“you’ve always been so impatient , baby. just let me take care of you for once.” his voice was still soft , but you could hear the irritation, “feels like your pussy is just fine with what i’m doing right now,” he laughed , grabbing your neck and making you look at how you took his fingers , leaking and sucking him in. you cried out , watching his thumb reach for your clit and rub at it in time with his fingers fucking you. “just cum for me and i’ll give you what you want.”

your hips were moving , not being able to help all the squirming you were doing. you let you hand reach down and grab him , stroking his cock in tandem with the way he was fingering you. “m’so close , daddy!”

hearing you call him that again only made him shove his fingers into you harder , adding one more to stretch you just that much more. “oh , yeah? i’m your daddy again? huh?” he mocked you , curling his fingers and hitting that sweet spot in you just right, “cum for your daddy then. fucking cum,” he groaned , feeling your cunt tighten around his fingers while yours were busy jerking him off. your hand let go of him , gripping the sheets instead as you squirted around his fingers , high pitched whine filling the air. “agh— just like that , fuckin’ take it,” he moaned , continuing to fuck you as you kept convulsing under him , spraying more of your release onto his legs and sheets.

“will you—“ your request was cut off by rafe shifting down the bed and licking at your glistening folds, “fuck! daddy , s’too much!” you reached down to push his face away , but he held you tight against his mouth , slurping up your juices until he was satisfied.

“fuck , i’m sorry,” he breathed out , coming up from between your legs , his chin dripping with you, “i’ll give you what you want. you want my dick , huh?” he asked you , stroking your cheek lovingly as you nod before giving you a kiss , letting you taste yourself on his tongue, “already got you fucked out. forgot how easy it was for me to do that to ya.”

you laughed breathlessly for a moment , pulling rafe in to kiss you again. “only you do that,” you assured him , wrapping a leg over his hip and pushing him closer , forcing his cock against you, “missed this so much.”

“turn over for me , baby,” rafe instructed , not even giving you the chance to listen as he manhandled you into a position of his liking, “just like that.”

your face was in the pillows , hands in the sheets as you felt rafe guide himself to your sopping entrance. “really tired of waiting over here,” you whined , wiggling your hips. the tip of him caught your opening , letting him slip into you with a moan.

“so impatient,” rafe repeated from earlier , pushing his hips forward until you reached back and put your hand on his hip, “no , no. you don’t get to choose how you want it anymore,” he chuckled , leaning forward and covering your entire body with his. his arm came around your neck , lifting just enough to choke you as he started thrusting. “fucking missed this pussy so much , baby,” he moaned into your ear.

rafe wasn’t stopping any time soon , that much you knew. there had been so much time that had passed since the last time you guys were together ; more than there had been before. you used to know what to expect when it came to a fuck it out session. it was never after such a long time before. the only thing you knew in the moment was you felt good.

“feel so good , daddy,” you whined , pressing a kiss to his cheek as he grunted in your ear , telling you all of the nasty shit he missed doing to you.

you were still on the brink of euphoria when rafe had started his own journey. “fuck , m’not gonna last long,” he moaned , hips already jerking in less fluid motions, “gonna let me cum in this pussy , baby? huh?”

there weren’t even thoughts in your head anymore. just pure bliss ; physically , emotionally , spiritually. your head nodded before you had the chance to think it through. you weren’t on birth control anymore , and it was stupid , but your body was on a different wavelength.

with another , much louder and prolonged , moan , rafe finished inside of you , continuing to fuck his cum into you. “want that shit to stick,” he grunted , kissing the side of your face as he stilled in you.

the sun was starting to set , and you were still at rafe’s , lying in his bed after a shared shower. “why did you bring her around then?” you wondered aloud , laying on rafe’s chest. it had been picking at you since the enduro ; how loudly rafe was with sofia , how he didn’t hide her from his world.

rafe looked at you , reading your face to see if this was going to be a fight. “are you actually asking me?” he questioned , not being able to decipher your motives, “because i—“

“yes , i’m truly asking why,” you assured him, “not trying to fight. i just wanna know things.”

“we met for the second time at a party,” rafe started , drawing on your skin with his finger lazily, “i was already around everyone when they saw us go and hookup , so it wasn’t a surprise. i mean — it’s not like they like her , but they tolerate it , i guess.” he shrugged like this wasn’t a huge thing.

“why didn’t you do that with me then?” your voice was barely a whisper , not even sure if he heard you entirely.

rafe took a deep breath , looking at the ceiling for a moment before meeting your gaze again. “i think— well , i liked you being just mine , but we didn’t tell anyone because we both agreed that it was smarter that way. she isn’t as — i don’t know,” he gave up toward the end , not knowing how to word what he wants to say , with a huff.

“they don’t like her?” you checked , not wanting to love the fact that another girl was hated , but it did make you feel better knowing she didn’t get that much special treatment.

“not at all,” rafe chuckled, “ruthie — oh , my god , ruthie is a fucking bitch. all of the time. kelce is kelce. the other girls are just as monstrous. you’re actually lucky i love you enough to not bring you around them.” it was a sweet sentiment , and it was true. you would’ve hated having to hangout with rafe’s kooky friends all the time.

so , you just nodded and closed your eyes , letting your body melt into rafe’s. “i love you too,” you happily sighed, “but i gotta go. i don’t know if kie— i just gotta go. can you give me a ride?” the sky had become significantly darker since the last time you looked out the window , and you became painfully aware you still had no idea where your brother was.

“yeah , let’s get you dressed and gone,” rafe agreed , rolling out of bed and picking a shirt out of the closet for you.

the drive was quiet ; you and rafe listening to your music he oh so missed as you held hands the entire time. when he came to pull up to the house , you noticed your truck back in its spot. you let kie borrow it to go looking for jj , and she was already home. a good thing because that means she found your brother , but a very bad thing because she would easily be able to see rafe’s truck if she just looked out a window.

“don’t turn the truck off,” you instructed , not wanting kie to hear the roar of his engine when rafe started it back up to leave, “kie’s home , so um—“

“i’ll see you soon,” rafe spoke for you , a soft smile on his lips, “i love you,” he added , leaning over and pressing a kiss on your temple.

“i’ll text you?” you offered , not wanting to leave just yet. you missed this bubble you and rafe lived in. he nodded , assuring you that would be just fine but also understanding that was your way of telling him not to text you first. anyone could see his name pop up on your phone. better safe than sorry.

you got out of the truck , heading to the porch to walk inside before you stopped and turned when you realized what you forgot. rafe rolled his window down , seeing you rush back to him. “i love you too,” you smiled , leaning in the window to kiss him goodbye.

with that , you were confident you could go to sleep with peace tonight. your strides were full of childlike giddiness , like this was the first time you had hung out with your crush. you were happy again , and it was already so easy—

“how come i just saw you and rafe kiss?”

kiara’s voice startled you , causing you to jump and grab the closest thing to you in defense. “jesus , kie! y’know there’s a guy after all of us right now. it’d be nice if you’d announce your presence more obviously,” you gasped , putting down the skateboard you picked up.

“it’d be nice if you’d start talking,” she hummed , giving you one of her fake smiles she’d only reserved for kooks up until now, “hate for this to be some misunderstanding”

taglist @maybankslover @annatartastic @maroonz @ravenmedows @yootvi @icaqttt @inlovewithmorales

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Sigal Samuel at Vox:

There’s a dominant narrative in the media about why tech billionaires are sucking up to Donald Trump: Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, and Jeff Bezos, all of whom have descended on the nation’s capital for the presidential inauguration, either happily support or have largely acquiesced to Trump because they think he’ll offer lower taxes and friendlier regulations. In other words, it’s just about protecting their own selfish business interests. That narrative is not exactly wrong — Trump has in fact promised massive tax cuts for billionaires — but it leaves out the deeper, darker forces at work here. For the tech bros — or as some say, the broligarchs — this is about much more than just maintaining and growing their riches. It’s about ideology. An ideology inspired by science fiction and fantasy. An ideology that says they are supermen, and supermen should not be subject to rules, because they’re doing something incredibly important: remaking the world in their image. It’s this ideology that makes MAGA a godsend for the broligarchs, who include Musk, Zuck, and Bezos as well as the venture capitalists Peter Thiel and Marc Andreessen. That’s because MAGA is all about granting unchecked power to the powerful. “It’s a sense of complete impunity — including impunity to the laws of nature,” Brooke Harrington, a professor of economic sociology at Dartmouth College who studies the behavior of the ultra-rich, told me. “They reject constraint in all of its forms.” As Harrington has noted, Trump is the perfect avatar for that worldview. He’s a man who incited an attempted coup, who got convicted on 34 felony counts and still won reelection, who notoriously said in reference to sexual assault, “When you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.” So, what is the “anything” that the broligarchs want to do? To understand their vision, we need to realize that their philosophy goes well beyond simple libertarianism. It’s not just that they want a government that won’t tread on them. They want absolutely zero limits on their power. Not those dictated by democratic governments, by financial systems, or by facts. Not even those dictated by death.

The broligarchs’ vision: Science fiction, transhumanism, and immortality

The broligarchs are not a monolith — their politics differ somewhat, and they’ve sometimes been at odds with each other. Remember when Zuck and Musk said they were going to fight each other in a cage match? But here’s something the broligarchs have in common: a passionate love for science fiction and fantasy that has shaped their vision for the future of humanity — and their own roles as its would-be saviors. Zuckerberg’s quest to build the Metaverse, a virtual reality so immersive and compelling that people would want to strap on bulky goggles to interact with each other, is seemingly inspired by the sci-fi author Neal Stephenson. It was actually Stephenson who coined the term “metaverse” in his novel Snow Crash, where characters spend a lot of time interacting in a virtual world of that name. Zuckerberg seems not to have noticed that the book is depicting a dystopia; instead of viewing it as a warning, he’s viewing it as an instruction manual.

Jeff Bezos is inspired by Star Trek, which led him to found a commercial spaceflight venture called Blue Origin, and The High Frontier by physics professor Gerard K. O’Neill, which informs his plan for space colonization (it involves millions of people living in cylindrical tubes). Bezos attended O’Neill’s seminars as an undergraduate at Princeton. Musk, who wants to colonize Mars to “save” humanity from a dying planet, is inspired by one of the masters of American sci-fi, Isaac Asimov. In his Foundation series, Asimov wrote about a hero who must prevent humanity from being thrown into a long dark age after a massive galactic empire collapses. “The lesson I drew from that is you should try to take the set of actions that are likely to prolong civilization, minimize the probability of a dark age and reduce the length of a dark age if there is one,” Musk said. And Andreessen, an early web browser developer who now pushes for aggressive progress in AI with very little regulation, is inspired by superhero stories, writing in his 2023 “Techno-Optimist Manifesto” that we should become “technological supermen” whose “Hero’s Journey” involves “conquering dragons, and bringing home the spoils for our community.” All of these men see themselves as the heroes or protagonists in their own sci-fi saga. And a key part of being a “technological superman” — or übermensch, as the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche would say — is that you’re above the law. Common-sense morality doesn’t apply to you because you’re a superior being on a superior mission. Thiel, it should be noted, is a big Nietzsche fan, though his is an extremely selective reading of the philosopher’s work.

[...]

The broligarchs — because they are in 21st-century Silicon Valley and not 19th-century Germany — have updated and melded this idea with transhumanism, the idea that we can and should use technology to alter human biology and proactively evolve our species.

Transhumanism spread in the mid-1900s thanks to its main popularizer, Julian Huxley, an evolutionary biologist and president of the British Eugenics Society. Huxley influenced the contemporary futurist Ray Kurzweil, who predicted that we’re approaching a time when human intelligence can merge with machine intelligence, becoming unbelievably powerful. “The human species, along with the computational technology it created, will be able to solve age-old problems … and will be in a position to change the nature of mortality in a postbiological future,” Kurzweil wrote in 1999. Kurzweil, in turn, has influenced Silicon Valley heavyweights like Musk, whose company Neuralink explicitly aims at merging human and machine intelligence. For many transhumanists, part of what it means to transcend our human condition is transcending death. And so you find that the broligarchs are very interested in longevity research. Zuckerberg, Bezos, and Thiel have all reportedly invested in startups that are trying to make it possible to live forever. That makes perfect sense when you consider that death currently imposes a limit on us all, and the goal of the broligarchs is to have zero limits.

Vox has an insightful article on the disastrous vision that broligarchs like Elon Musk, Marc Andreessen, Peter Thiel, and Mark Zuckerberg subscribe to.