#And it became language and wine

[masked-alien-lesbian]

KTAW Day 3: Wine/Languages

Wine Aren't You Mine?

Kiara Theron x f!OC brief mention of Liam x Riley, Hana x Raelyn and Penelope x Ezekiel

The lunch Lord Breckenridge hosted for Kiara went well, nothing outwardly stood out to her. His manners were excellent, his conversation was engaging and he was the sort of man her parents could hope for in a son-in-law but...

"How did the date go?" Riley's text message blink back at her from her phone. Kiara bit her lip. She was grateful for Riley's attempt at matchmaking but every date missed the mark somehow. And the reason for that filtered through a row of grapes in her vineyard.

"Jag släppte dig men jag kommer att älska dig för alltid." [I let you go, but I will love you forever.] Kiara turned the corner and saw the most beautiful woman she ever saw singing in her own native language. When Allie looked up, she abruptly stopped and seemed to light up from the inside from the sight of Kiara.

"Your Grace! A good evening to you! You look ever so beautiful as usual." Allie says blushing at her own attempt at flirting.

Kiara smiles back, Allie had came to work at Castelsarrelian vineyards at Monsieur Bêron request. Hailing from Sweden, Allie had studied from the best in Italy before being snatched up, trained and became the head viticulturist after Monsieur Bêron retired. Kiara's mother worked with Monsieur in hauling all the finest French soil to start up their vineyards, Allie was the one who made sure it kept thriving.

"Hallå Ms. Larsson. How are you?" Kiara asks, delighting in the obvious attraction her viticulturist has for her. Allie may have thought she was being sly with her crush on her boss but Kiara had studied people and social cues at a very young age and she noticed how shy Allie became around her, how she blushed and stumbled over her words when Kiara looked at her. Kiara knew nothing could come from this relationship, it was inappropriate but she still found herself itching to touch the Swedish born woman's jaw, to lift her chin, to--Kiara mentally shook her head to clear it.

"I'm well! I was testing the pH levels of quadrant C's soil. After that intense storm we've had, some of the other quadrants soil was swept in quadrant C." Allie says clearly in her element.

"You work hard for me, Ms. Larsson, I'm ever grateful for you, tack. [Thank you]" Kiara says watching Allie's eyes lower coyly.

"Of course, anything you need of me, is yours, your grace." Allie says sending warmth to shoot through Kiara. She needed to get away before she lost her composure. She clears her throat and step back.

"I appreciate it, Ms. Larsson, I will allow you to get back to your work--"

"Wait, please your grace," Allie interrupts, a light touch on Kiara's wrist and big pleading hazel eyes, Kiara suddenly realized she'd throw everything away for this woman and that terrified her.

"The special Malbec that Monsieur cultivated should have aged properly, I was thinking we could taste it and make sure, and perhaps serve it for your parents' anniversary party next week."

"The wine from the last crop Monsieur Bêron oversaw before his retirement? Has it really been that long? That would be a nice touch for mother and father." Kiara says thoughtfully. Allie beam.

"I'll crack a bottle open with some refreshments. Meet me in the wine cellar in five!" Allie says before taking off excitedly.

Kiara looks over the tray of prosciutto, Asiago Tarragon and the bottle of Malbec, all proper appetizers that would pair well with a Malbec. Allie pops the cork and pours the both of them a glass. One taste and Kiara knew it was going to be a hit at her parents' anniversary party. It was a fruit bomb, round, smooth, fleshy...Kiara's eyes swept over Allie's lips.

"So? Your opinion?" Kiara inquires. Allie shrugs, swirls the Malbec in her glass.

"It's good. Definitely a crowd pleaser."

"But not your favorite?" Kiara asks. Allie grins.

"Give me a Shiraz any day of the week. Rich, full-bodied, velvety..." Allie says her eyes fluttering up to meet Kiara's. Kiara takes a sharp breath but let's it out when Allie changes the topic.

Even though Kiara has always tried to keep boundaries between her and the viticulturist, it was just so easy to talk to Allie. Soon she was talking about Riley's matchmaking attempts.

"I-I don't know. Perhaps I'm just too busy to maintain a relationship." Kiara trails off.

"Or perhaps, you're afraid."

"Excusez-moi?" Kiara says an eyebrow raised. Allie smiles kindly.

"You're afraid of opening yourself up to someone, of being vulnerable." Allie looks down and bites her lip. "Perhaps you're afraid of what other people will say or perhaps," Allie breathes out a shaky breath, "perhaps you're concerned that the one you want isn't able to provide for you and Castelsarrelian?" Kiara shakes her head in the negative.

"No, you ARE enough Allie, I-" Kiara trails off as she realized she finally voiced what was between her and Allie. She close her eyes as she mentally face palm but her eyes shot open when she felt Allie take her hands.

"It's rare when you find that one that lights up your soul, you know. If you let it slip away, it can be your biggest mistake." Allie says, Kiara looks away biting her lip. " But I'll never push you, I have too much respect for you." When Allie let go of Kiara's hands, she felt bereft. Kiara looked up to see Allie gathering the plates and their leftovers.

"I'll return these to the kitchens and head on home. Goodnight, your grace, må dina drömmar vara trevliga." [May your dreams be pleasant] Allie says smiling wistfully at Kiara before slipping out of the cellar.

Alone, Kiara contemplates the conversation she just had with Allie. So...they both have feelings for each other...a duchess and her viticulturist...it's not proper, the power imbalance alone, and yet...despite many people's disapproval...Kiara felt an ache that demanded her to go after Allie. She stood up sharply. Perhaps Allie could report to Joelle instead of Kiara. If Penelope could marry a vet, Hana could marry a previously undiscovered artist, and King Liam could marry a waitress, then Kiara could court a viticulturist. And with that firm decision, Kiara went after her.

@kiaratheronappreciationweek

@lizzybeth1986

@sazanes

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

We had one of Steff's comedian friends staying with us on the weekend, lovely lad called Sam from Singapore. He had never been to Wales before, and he requested that we take him to a Welsh restaurant so he could try Welsh food

That's surprisingly difficult, actually. Like a lot of Welsh culture, our culinary traditions have not exactly been applauded over the years, so you don't really see them. But a lucky Google search revealed a brand new one has just opened in SA1 called the Welsh House, so great! Away we went.

Fuck me, they went all in.

It wasn't just the menu (though fuck me, what a menu - one of their 'for the table to share' options was little mini leek and cheddar Welsh cakes with salted butter and they were paralysingly good). It wasn't just that every alcohol was Welsh, even including the wine (surprisingly good btw, called 'Naturiol'.)

The table centerpieces were daffodils. All signs for the toilets were Welsh only. The walls had photos of Wales, modern and historical; the windows had the fleur de lis; the specials board (pork belly in Welsh cider and damson sauce with honey and wild garlic glazed carrots) had dragons on. I realise this is probably normal for country-themed restaurants, but I've never been to one for Wales before.

But the best bit, see, was the music

I clocked, when we walked in, that they were playing If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next by the Manic Street Preachers (you always clock the Manics). Ah, I thought. A Welsh song! In a Welsh restaurant! Ho ho ho.

As they seated us, it became What's New Pussycat. Ah! I thought. Another Welsh song! Fu fu fu.

Then they played Monster by the Automatic and I was like my god are they only playing Welsh music?? That's so cool! What an eclectic mix that's going to be. We should suggest to them they should look into Welsh language music too, really mix it up.

And then they played Anrheoli by Yws Gwynedd and lads, Steff and I lost our shit. We lost our fucking shit. Sam's sitting there, utterly bewildered. The staff are nervously edging away from us. We don't care. It's the first time I have ever heard a Welsh language song played outside of a Welsh language setting. We're so excited.

"They're playing Welsh music!!!" says Steff. "Holy shit!!!"

"Imagine if they played Sebona Fi!" I say, humorously.

"Nah," says Steff. "You can't in a restaurant. There'd be a riot, it's faerie music."

"...what?" says Sam

We explain the cultural phenomenon that is Sebona Fi. The song changes: Primadonna Girl, by Marina and the Diamonds.

"She's Welsh??" says Sam.

"She's from Abergavenny!" we beam.

"I don't know what that means," nods Sam, who is from Singapore.

Next: The Bartender and the Thief, by the Stereophonics. We're in high spirits. The extraordinarily Welsh wine arrives, as does the rarebit on sourdough starter. Sam, a gay man, delightedly orders the faggots and peas.

They play Ben Rhys by Gwilym Bowen Rhys, and we lose our shit again. Sam is now used to this, because comedians are adaptable. "They even have daffodils!" I say, misty eyed. "Is that relevant?" Sam asks, fascinated.

They play Hiraeth, by PLU. Hard to explain that one. Very hard to explain the effect it has when it's played in a restaurant, but Sam looks around the suddenly muted room and whispers "Are we in church?"

"It's about Hiraeth," whispers Steff. "So kind of."

Next: the Masses Against the Classes, by the Manics. Utter tonal whiplash. This playlist is not remotely restaurant appropriate. It's perfect.

"You'd think they'd pick like... a genre," Sam says dreamily. "We just went from church to the barricades."

The faggots arrive. "I forgot it would be a western sized portion," Sam says morosely, of what to me is a normal sized plate of food. He tries one, and brightens.

They play Sebona Fi.

The place erupts.

[fos-tis-zois]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

you were still in the early stages of dating nanami kento, but it was enough to know that the serious and stoic sorcerer had managed to steal your heart. Discovering a side to him which came out only in front of you did things to your heart you didn't know was possible. He had made you smile and blush uncontrollably, much to your embarrassment, from the first date itself. He was so gentlemanly that you did not know how to act around this man. But the unforgettable happened on your fourth date. That was the first time you saw him blush, and your heart skipped such a beat that discovering his little love languages became your life goal.

It was a crisp evening, and you had arranged to meet Nanami at a quaint café he frequented. He was waiting for you at the entrance, dressed impeccably in one of his many sexy suits. But today, his tie was slightly askew. As you approached him, you couldn’t help but notice the minor imperfection in this usual perfectly made man and it made your heart smile.

“Hi, Kento,” you greeted him with a warm smile, standing on your tiptoes to reach his tie. “Let me fix this for you.”

Your fingers gently adjusted the tie, and as you stepped back, you were greeted with the most endearing sight. Nanami’s cheeks were a deep hue of red, and his usually composed eyes were struggling to meet yours. You could hardly believe that such a small gesture could elicit such a reaction from him.

Ever since that evening, it became your mission to uncover more ways to make your perfect man blush. You discovered that surprise homemade lunches were one of those ways. One of your biggest love languages was cooking for people you love. Since Nanami always had little gifts sent to you, you thought of taking a cute bento with a freshly baked mini baguette sandwich filled with tender roast beef, crisp lettuce, and a touch of mustard. It was introduced to you by him because of your shared love of good bread and you thoughtfully wanted him to have a version of yours. 

“The life I have doesn’t grant me much care” he said with a faint blush on his face, with a mixture of love for you but the pain his life has given him that it made your heart cry for him. Kento appreciated quality, and when you packed him a meticulously prepared lunch with all his favorite foods, his appreciative, shy smile made your heart flutter. You were determined to make him feel loved, for all he does for everyone.

Nanami is used to being the protector, so you insisted on taking care of him, even in small ways. He would laugh lightly with a rosy blush and hug you from behind as you insist adamantly in front of your big man that you will handle dinner and all he needs to do is have some wine and tell you about his day.

“You’re too good to me”, he would say in your ear, kissing your earlobes. “You deserve this and so much more, my love” you kiss his cheeks as his head sinks deeper in the crook of your neck..

Planning spontaneous dates showed you another side of him. A visit to a cozy bookstore, or a surprise trip to a quaint café during his lunch break would bring out a softer, more relaxed Nanami, whose rare, genuine smiles made your heart skip a beat. He would show you the books he likes a lot, telling you how he’s been looking for their first editions, while you take mental notes to gift him those books later. Taking him out for his lunch breaks also sometimes showed you how stressful his job was, as he vented about his annoying co-worker and the insane morals of the higher ups in his profession. 

“I have never had such ease talking about my life to someone, y/n. Thank you for being here for me." Kento's gratitude often showed in the form of a rosy blush. You longed to tell him what you would do to bring this smile and contentment on this man’s face. 

Leaving heartfelt notes for him became a habit. You’d slip them into his briefcase or jacket pocket, knowing that he’d find them during his busy day. His texts thanking you were always sweet and sometimes accompanied by a shy confession of how much he loved your notes.

But the easiest way to make him blush was simply by being genuinely happy. Your laughter and joy, especially when caused by something he did or said, never failed to bring a blush to his cheeks and a soft, pleased smile to his lips.

Every little discovery about what made Kento blush was a victory for you. It wasn’t just about the cute reactions; it was about understanding the layers of this complex, wonderful man who had become such an important part of your life. And with each blush, you fell more in love with him, knowing that beneath his stoic exterior was a heart that beat just for you.

hopefully first of manyy nanami fluffs. please reblog if u liked it! suggestions and comments are always always welcome! 💖💖💖

nanami art by artist @/xiaoshy_otp on twitter banner by @anitalenia

[flowerisevil]

For I am yours.

Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen princess original character.

A/N: this was one of the request I received but I accidentally deleted i along with my previous works:( anyways I use an OC for this one sorry, I hope you'll like it.

Disclaimer: mention of past attempted SA, inform me if i miss anything also possible grammatical and typographical errors ahead. English is not my first language

Summary: he was sworn to her, he is hers in any way she requires him.

~°~°~

Elaerys Targaryen, the epitome of grace and beauty in the Seven Kingdoms, many have said she had surpassed the qualification of the beauty of Targaryen woman, they said she was favored by the Sevens for having a such gorgeous features. And Elaerys was much aware of the attention and beauty she acquired, and her face is the exact reason why she have different guards every moon.

Her father, the King had to change her sworn protector every moon because of two reason, they had attempted to took advantage of her, or fell for her beauty. All of them broke their oath to the princess leading them to be exiled from the position and in King's Landing.

"It is none of your fault, Elaerys" her older sister comforted her, as she heard the news that her new sworn protector was caught glimpsing at her bathro door.

"Nyra, t-this is the exact reason why his grace would not allow me to go outside these walls, I want to go out, I want to visit the cities and people!" Elaerys complained, she envy her older sister Rhaenyra when their father allowed her to have her marital tour, Rhaenrya was abled to travel while her stayed in the Keep.

"next moon perhaps father will less strict to you after your name day" Rhaenyra cheered for her as she finished braiding Elaerys white hair.

"you look exactly like mother" her sister added smiling at the sight of her younger sister.

Elaerys bittersweet smile, she loved and hated it the same time, she loved being beautiful no doubt but its the very reason why she's also caged in here.

"Do you think If I get married I will be much more free?" Elaerys asked, her hand scratch the blade of her shoulders anxiously.

Rhaenyra sighed. "It depends but mostly no, when you became a wife you have duties to attend to Elaerys" Rhaenyra pitied her, she knows the exact feeling of being prisoned here in the castle.

Rhaenyra only hugged her to show comfort, she knows when the time has come the King will learn to let her fly on her own wings, after all she is a dragon nonetheless she is made of fire and blood too.

**

Her name day came, and the right time for marriage, the King prepared a grand celebration for her second born daughter, a ball and feast.

Elaerys sat on her seat beside her was her sister Rhaenyra almost drunk from all of the wine she drank tonight. The princess looked around setting her eyes on a familiar deep blue eyes, Ser Harwin Strong.

"You missed him don't you?" Rhaenyra whispered beside her, teasing her sister to its past lover.

Elaerys shrugged her, her sister wasn't wrong but she had decided to stay away from him. He was her almost, if only Ser Harwin is not bounded by too much honor, that he chose his duty than asking for her hand in marriage, but she could not blame him for not risking his position.

"Why don't you tell our father that you want him to marry? I am quite sure he will trust Ser Harwin on your protection, that man can dead someone who will dare to lay a finger on you" Rhaenyra jested as she loudly laughed.

It's not like she did not thought of that but other than his bounded to his duty, Elaerys felt Harwin did not want to do anything with her anymore, she would not want to tie him in a loveless marriage with her forever.

Her eyes searched for him again once again, she looked for him in the dancing crowd, maybe his out there dancing with some other highborn ladies.

"Done looking for that brawny man?" Her eyes promptly looked up to see their cousin Laenor, just like her sister he also knew the past business she and Ser Harwin once had.

Laenor sat on the other empty side chair beside her. "Happy name day cousin, welcome to the right age of marriage" Laenor and Rhaenyra both laughed, looks like their three years in marriage are already taking big impact on each other.

She both sign them to stop when they saw the King approaching beside him was his Hand and another red headed man.

The three youngster Targaryens stood up, bowing to the King before Viserys spoke. "My daughter happy name day, here may I present to you your new sworn protector"

A man stepped forward, wearing a green and silver tunic, his hair looks like an ginger auburn hair close up, pale skin, blue eyed and freckled man reveals himself.

"Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown" the King introduced.

Elaerys eyes darted to Otto, this is his son?

"Hightower? I did not assume Ser Otto has a knight i their family" Rhaenyra commented.

Otto simply smiled, sarcasm filled his face. "Gwayne is Alicent's older brother, my heir to Oldtown"

Laenor spoke first of the three of them. "An honor to meet you Ser Gwayne, I do hope you enjoy your stay here in King's Landing and you will keep an eye at my cousin, the princess she can be very hard to handle sometimes"

It made the group laughed, Gwayne smiled while nodding in acknowledgment, his gaze moved to the princess, Gwayne noticed the discreet look she gave him. He bow in respect but Elaerys only nod and offer him a small smile.

"Thank you your grace, I shall observe Ser Gwayne's skills" Elaerys uttered, it earned a laugh from her father.

As the celebration continued Gwayne stay near her, she thought he would start his duty by tomorrow but the knight stayed close to where she was.

Gwayne was relief and bizarre for the princess, commonly highborn ladies would love this kind of events but instead she sat there and watch the crowd, most specifically he noticed that she's eyeing someone in the crowd.

Gwayne examined her, all of the stories about her graceful beauty, he thought people was just exaggerating again about someone from the Targaryen dynasty but no, her white silver hair neatly dropped down, her lilac eyes, and flawless skin, her entire aspect screams elegance and royalty, she was indeed a princess.

Elaerys was feeling spiritless around this crowd, she wish to have a breath of the air outside, she stood from her seat and walked away from the banquet, she was thankful Laenor and Rhaenyra both left her for a moment so no one would stop her from leaving.

She knew her new sworn protector was following her, it was his duty what else did she expect?

She stopped infront of the empty balcony, she turned around seeing her knight near the open dood to guard it. Silence filled the balcony, Elaerys was quite familiar with that aspect but her knight on the other side seems bothered it.

"Don't you relish the grand celebration inside, princess?" Gwayne spoke, he wasn't use to a such silence.

"I seem to grow tired of it Ser"

"Then why don't you rest on your chamber?"

Elaerys frowned, turning her head to look at her knight, his voice was filled with sarcasm?

"Pardon?"

Gwayne seem to take notice about the change of expression of the princess, "I mean no offense, princess"

After that silence filled them again, until excuse herself to rest no one talked again.

Months had passed Gwayne surprisingly was able to keep his oath and duty, but he did admit it to himself that somehow he catched an attraction to the princess, with her kind and pleasing demeanor he tried his best but it was too late.

They had interacted and shared a lot of unexpected proximity many times, just like right now. Both of them under of one of the trees in Kingswood. Elaerys sneaked outside the King's Landing after hearing the news that the is planning to match him with Tyland Lannister, Gwayne spotted her sneak outside the castle and when he confronted her, the princess plead him and there they are.

"That man age is near his deathbed" Elaerys muttered, a bottle of ale on her right hand, she felt like her head was spinning.

"That is a very rude thing to say princess" Gwayne looked at him and continued "but I very much agree so"

Gwayne watched her reaction, when Elaerys laughed he did the same, relieved that he managed to let out a pretty laugh from her mouth. A few moments later the two shared a deep conversation.

"Ser Gwayne did you ever had a relationship with someone you shouldn't had?"

Gwayne rested his head on the pillar of the tree. "I never had a serious relationship my princess"

"you mean you only dealt with whores in brothels?"

"not only in brothels my princess" Gwayne fixed his armor before speaking again. "But those were before I was appointed as a knight, as I enter knighthood I have left all of those behind"

Elaerys smiled as she nodded. "I do not criticize your Ser for acting like a normal human"

"I do not think you're the type of judging someone without fully knowing them"

A smiles formed on the drunk face of the princess, she drank another sip from her ale, Gwayne did not want to stop her, he knows she had a rough day and he would not neglect her for having freedom for once.

"If you do not mind princess, have you fell for someone you should not have?"

She did. And looks like she was about to again.

Gwayne saw the glint in her eyes, he nodded. "i shall take that as a yes. If I may, who is this lucky Lord then?"

Gwayne can feel his heart beating fast, he was hoping for the answer that he wants. That his name would be the words that would trail off from her mouth.

"Ser Harwin Strong, he was my first lover.."

Gwayne let out a dramatic gasp. "You have a very surprising taste, princess"

Who knows that the man of honor, the one they call the hard Breakbones and the Lord Commander of City Watch fell for the princess beauty?

But who wouldn't? That's the very reason why the King appointed him to this position. His Grace had expected him to not have any romantic attachment to the princess.

Elaerys talked about Harwin for hours and it was making Gwayne's ear fuzz, the constant utter of the name Harwin from the princess pain his ears, maybe letting the princess finish those three bottles of ale was a bad idea, she was intoxicated.

"Ser Gwayne"

Her words caught his attention, finally a good name came out from her pretty lips. As he turned his face to her, he was stunned by their proximity, he hadn't realize that Elaerys already closed the gap between them.

"You shall have your very own oath to me" The princess declared. "I want you to make your own vow and swear it to me" He thought maybe its just one of the princess nonsense game driven by the alcohol but somehow in him felt to take it seriously.

His eyes pierced into her, he suddenly lost all his ability to look away, she was more than beautiful, its not just her hair and eyes, but what her face express and trying to tell that makes her beautiful. As she looked up to him their gaze met, both glued on each other.

"I Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown vow to you my Princess Elaerys Targaryen, that I will do my very best and offer my very last breath serving and protecting you, I shall serve no one but you, and you shall have me for anything you require, for I am yours"

It almost sounded like a marriage vow.

Elaerys beamed at him her hand reaching to cup his cheeks "You are a very beautiful man Ser Gwayne" were the last think she muttered before she drift off to sleep.

Is she always like this? Is this the reason why her past knights all head over heels to her? If yes then he himself is no different from those knights.

"No wonder those men was enchanted by this lovely princess" he exhales, guiding the princess to lay comfortably on the grounds, he cannot risk riding his horse with a wasted princess with him.

He took of his white cloak and placed it on the ground to serve as a sheet of the princess, after placing her to her handmaid bed he leaned and pressed his back on the tree.

He cannot end up like those knights, exiled from their position and in King's Landing. The King trusted him with his daughter and Seven hells the princess is younger than her sister Alicent.

"I am not even sure if she feels the same way" he chuckles.

***

After that night, Elaerys felt a wall that her knight build, he became distant and cold. And she knew the very exact reason why.

She hated that she yearned for him after that night, she hated that she have to pretend everyday that his distance from her did not bother her, she hated that he placed a barrier between them. A lot change after that night, she sometimes caught herself looking at him for too long, glimpsing at his lips, looking or searching for him when she would lose the sight of him.

"I want to go to Rhaenyra" Elaerys spoke while walking through the halls.

"As you wish princess, I shall accompa-"

"I would like to go alone, for the meantime you can have an hour off Ser Gwayne, you have nothing to worry I'll stay inside her chambers" Elaerys explained

He wanted to protest, to not let her take away the only opportunity he have to be close to her, the only chance he can see glance at her for as much as he can, but reading her eyes he sense that he should let her after all he is serving her and he should do whatever she commander him to do.

Elaerys started walking away from him, he can hear the fast click of her shoes showing her urgency.

Elaerys did not bother to knock on her sister's door as she opened it, she walked to Rhaenyra's bed and hugged her.

"What's the problem?" Rhaenyra spoke but the princess keep her head on her older sister's shoulder.

"Rhaenyra, what if I wish to marry someone?" Elaerys lifted her head, facing her sister's confused face.

"and? You make it sound that the man you want to marry is someone who you shouldn't" Rhaenyra replied.

Elaerys did not manage to answer, Rhaenyra had hit the right words. Rhaenyra sat straight concern filled her face.

"It's Ser Gwayne isn't it?"

Elaerys nodded her head dropping ashamed of what she put herself into.

Rhaenyra chuckles as she raised her sister's face. "You have nothing to be ashamed of Elaerys, Ser Gwayne is an honorable knight"

"exactly Rhaenyra he is a knight, my sworn protector, he took an oath, it is treason if we engage into any romantic relations"

"Elaerys sometimes you have to take a risk and know its outcome than not doing anything"

Rhaenyra talked to her like how an older sister would, she gave her advices and guidance of what she should do.

"The decision is on you sister, and whatever it is I will support you" was Rhaenyra's last words.

Is the decision truly on hers?

***

She have thought of her sister words, after all Elaerys is not sure if Gwayne even felt the same.

While walking in Godswood and Gwayne guarding her as usual, she was admiring the fall of leaves from the branches when someone called her from behind.

He knew exactly those deep gentle voice, she turned around and faced the man infront of her.

"Ser Harwin"

Harwin Strong bow to her, his large hand reaching for her as he pressed his lips on her knuckles. Gwayne's face on the other hand grimaced at the sigh, he was not liking the sigh he was having.

"I pass by outside and I saw you and thought I should pay you a visit" Harwin replied.

Elaerys smiled bitterly "How ironic that you only thought of that now" it came out as a whisper but Harwin clearly heard it.

"I will be away for a very long time darling" he tucked a few strands of her hair behind her ear, before he softly cupped her cheeks.

Elaerys expected that she would melt as soon as he does that but she felt nothing instead her eyes looked for Gwayne, as soon as they locked their eyes Gwayne looked away like he saw nothing.

"I do not see any reason for you to inform me Ser Harwin, I have thought you do not want anything to do with-" she stopped her words when Harwin leaned his forehead to hers.

"my Elaerys, forgive me for what I have done, once I come back I promise I will ask for your hand in marriage and I will fight for it no matter-"

Harwin was pushed away from her, she looked at Gwayne who had separated the both of them.

"I expect you are well known on the ethics and policies of touching the princess Ser Harwin, it is treason" Gwayne informed, he stepped forward placing her behind him.

"I meant no harm to the princess, apologies for my insolence"

Gwayne wanted to curse him, he can resist him touching her hands but leaning his forehead to hers? Acting like their a married couple? Fuck that.

Elaerys tried to defend Harwin but Gwayne keep on talking about the boundary Harwin crossed.

"Ser Gwayne, do not worry he meant no harm"

Elaerys looked at Gwayne when he faced her, she can almost read his entire face, it was mixed of emotion, hurt, anxious, possessiveness and jealousy? He was looking intently at her, like he wants to say something.

Gwayne felt his heart sank everytime Elaerys would defend this man, he looked at her with defeat and resignation.

"Ser Harwin you are dismissed" Elaerys command.

"But Elaerys-"

"May the Sevens bless you for your long journey"

Was what Elaerys only answer before she left the Godswood, Harwin gaze dropped on Elaerys fingers that swiftly pulled her knight's hand, dragging him inside the castle.

Gwayne was too clouded too realize that Elaerys was holding his hands, he tried to pull away only for the princess to tighten her grip. Soon they stopped in an empty hallway, Elaerys dropped her grasp to him.

"Ser Gwayne, what is it up with you? You don't to be yourself lately?"

"Princess you have nothing to worry about"

"What was that earlier? You dare to threaten Ser Harwin Strong?"

"He touched you princess, he was too close to you it was improper" Gwayne stood straight, defending his argument.

"Are you jealous of him?" Elaerys blurted out, it was an embarrassing question to ask.

Elaerys can see him frown, she looked away after a few minutes of no answer. "I am sorry Ser Gwayne for that I did not mean to-"

"It was more than jealousy that I felt earlier princess"

Elaerys looked at him, his head was facing down, completely avoiding her eyes.

"I had become one of the knight that broke their oath to you" he added "so when I saw you with Ser Harwin earlier with his forehead resting to yours I was...furious, I wanted to break his face and make sure he would not be able to do that to you again." her sworn protector confessed.

Gwayne sighs before he let out a plain chuckle "How can I ever resist someone like you? I cannot blame those men even Ser Harwin for falling to a such beauty" he added, his words delivered compliments but its voice was filled with hurt.

Gwayne bowed before he excused himself, Elaerys was left there frozen, not a single word even left her lips, she was too stunned to his confession.

Gwayne was no where to be seen the rest of the day after their encounter, Elaerys searched for him, she even asked the servants and other kingsguard but they all said that they did not saw him.

Elaerys has to express herself to him too, he has to know what she felt for him.

Elaerys gave up and was taking rest on her chamber when there was a knock on her doors, she let them in and it revealed Rhaenyra.

"Father....he summons you in the throne room" Rhaenyra informed a comforting smile carved on her lips.

"For what?" She asked but Rhaenyra only shrugged, with a complaining groan, Elaerys stood up before walking with her sister through their way inside the throne room.

As the door opened, the two princess walked infront of the king as they bowed.

"Ah my daughter Elaerys I would like you to meet Lord Cregan Stark, from the North son and heir of Lord Stark" Viserys introduced, the man Cregan walked up to her and bow.

"An honor to meet you princess" he politely greeted.

He looked like a chivalrous man, well men from the North tends to be more honorable than men from here.

"Lord Cregan is here to begin his courtship to you" Elaerys eyes widened at her father's last words.

"Since you have not found someone you wish to marry than I already find one for yours, Lord Cregan is your betrothed from now on" the King commanded.

The princess fisted her hands, "I do not wish to marry him your grace"

"you will not disobey your king, Elaerys"

Elaerys stepped back away from Cregan and face the King.

"Forgive me your grace but I do not plan marrying Lord Cregan and be sent to the North after?"

Viserys looked at Rhaenyra signing her to stop and convince her sister but Rhaenyra looked away like she saw nothing.

"Elaerys, Ser Cregan will protect you"

"By how? Isolating me in a cold place? Father I am a dragon why would you put a fire in a place like North?"

Viserys stood up, even his Hand try his best to calm him down Viserys refused. Elaerys breathed out composing the right words to deliver her message.

"Father...I have someone in my mind that I wish to marry, forgive me" Elaerys said before walking out of the room, she felt suffocated.

Viserys on the other hand was left with frustration, he have thought he would not have a hard time finding a match for his daughter.

"The princess is probably exhausted your grace, her young mind is new to the reality of betrothal and marriage" Rhaenyra defense.

"She said she wish to marry someone, do you know who is this man?"

The people inside the room waited for her answer, she can feel cold sweats forming on her forehead, the King's Hand spoke.

"News had spread in the previous months ago your grace said that the princess Elaerys was caught visiting the quarter of the City Watch and she is often caught in the presence of the Lord Commander of City Watch" Otto announced.

"Saying such gossip and stories about my sister is treason my Lord Hand" Rhaenyra pointed out.

Otto face formed in a small sly smile. "I am only informing the King of what people inside the Keep see, some said the Lord Commander was saw leaving the princess chamber in the middle of the night-"

"Are you questioning my daughter's virtue Otto?"

The Hand stopped his sentence, shock and defeat spread on his face. "I mean no offense you grace"

"Rhaenyra I need to know who is this man?" Viserys turned his attention back to his eldest.

When Rhaenyra did not answered he spoke again. "I command you Rhaenyra, is it true that Harwin had defile your sister?"

"Sevens! No Father!"

"Then what is the truth-"

"She intends to marry Ser Gwayne!"

A loud silence occupied them, Viserys mouth half opened, the shock om Otto's face was a pure sight.

"Elaerys came to me one night, she was scared when she confessed to me that she wanted to marry Gwayne, she said she was afraid of how you will react and what you will do to them" Rhaenyra added more, her head remained high directly looking to the King.

"Gwayne Hightower he poisoned your sister's mind, he seduced her!" Viserys turned to Otto, grabbing the collar of his clothes. "Your son dare to disrespect me by breaking his vow is this the reason why he resigned and decided to go back in Oldtown?"

Otto wanted to unalive him right there, "Your grace I know nothing about this"

Rhaenyra frowned, Ser Gwayne resigned to his position?

****

Elaerys was running through the halls looking for any signs of him but she failed, she visited the quarters of Kingsguard but he was no where to be seen. When she lost her hope, she saw her sister Rhaenyra walking fast towards her.

"Elaerys, Ser Gwayne he is on his horse going back to Oldtown, he resigned to his position" she informed.

"How did you know?" Elaerys looked at her sister the smiled cheekily.

"I tell you later, for now go and find Ser Gwayne and bring him back here." Rhaenyra said before turning back against her.

Elaerys wasted no time as she mounted her dragon Silverwing, as she settle on its back they immediately flee on the sky.

Silverwing was a quick dragon, looking down the ground she searched for any sign of him, she see a few men in horseback with their Hightower sigil, she lead Silverwing towards them.

Gwayne was occupied ever since they left in King's Landing, the King was curios and uneasy when he humbly resigned his position, he had to come up with several reasons. The King even mentioned how he did well on his job.

If he only knew.

He did not want to leave King's Landing, he did not want to leave her, but resigning and leaving his position is the only proper way he could ask for her hand.

His head turned when he heard a voice calling him from behind, he stopped his horse as he saw the princess dismounting her dragon.

"Ser Gwayne" she called her out, Gwayne dismounted himself from his horse as soon as she approached him.

"Princess, what made you come here?" He said bowing his head.

Elaerys raised an eyebrow, crossing her arm as she spoke. "Where are you going?"

His head remained face on the ground, a small smile forming on his lips. "Back to Oldtown princess, the King approved my resignation"

"You are sworn to me Gwayne" Elaerys uttered, she pushed back her hair as she continue "You took a personal vow to me, and now you leaving without even informing me?"

"I see the princess wasn't too intoxicated to remember that" he smirked, he stepped closer to her facing her intense gaze. "Tell me princess, do you wish for me to stay?"

This may be greedy or selfish of him, but he wants to hear her admit it, he wants to hear her say that she wish for him to stay, to stay and be close with each other.

"Gwayne do not leave me" Elaerys was able to utter those words earning a small smile from Gwayne.

"I will come back princess, I have to leave my position in order to properly ask for your hand" he explained, as he tucked a few strands of her hair behind her ear.

He lay his forehead against hers, while he reached for her hand and pressed a kiss on her knuckles before guiding it to wrap around his neck. For a moment peace surrounded them, feeling the warmth of breathe of each other, their skins touching.

"This is how I always dreamed about you princess, leaning on each other, with your face close to me, hands intertwined" he described, his eyes dropping to her lips. He can feel the princess' pulling him closer, her lips claimed his.

Gwayne can feel his heart melt, his hands moved to cup her cheeks, this is all he could ask for.

Elaerys massage the back of his head as they kiss, her heart won't stop beating fast, when they pulled away both catching breathe. Elaerys was flustered after the kiss, she looked away from him her hand remained to where it is.

"Do not ever leave no matter in what circumstances Gwayne"

Gwayne held her chin, making her face him. "I truly haven't forgot my vow, princess" he chuckles.

Gwayne took her hand, as he kneel infront of her. "I am sworn to you Elaerys Targaryen, I will give my very last breath to no one but you, I shall offer my heart and soul to no one else but you..."

Gwayne looked up to her while he rose from his knee and place a kiss on the back of her hand.

"For I am yours princess."

*~🌼

[love-fictional-ppl]

Being Spencer’s First

Summary: basically being Spencer’s first everything

Pairings: switch!virgin!spencer Reid x soft Dom!fem!reader

Warnings: language, smut(duh), oral(male receiving), P in V, unprotected sex, lots of pet names, mommy kink, making out, cum eating, prolly other shit

༶⋆˙⊹｡⋆ʚ♡⃛ɞ ✩ ˛˚.

You may not have necessarily been his first girlfriend, but he was definitely inexperienced relationship wise as well

Spencer is super nervous the first time you two start making out

You’re his first kiss, so needless to say he doesn’t know what he is doing.

You probably work at the bau with Spencer, so after like a particularly hard case you both go back to your apartment. You pull out a couple wine glasses and grab a bottle. Before you know it you’re both tipsy and making out, Spencer is shaking slightly so he pulls away. “Wait, go slow.” He tells you nervously.

Call him things like; baby, sweetheart, pretty boy, handsome, my love, bubba, bub

In return he will call you things, such as; mommy, mama, pretty, angel, Love

Eventually, you get to the point where he’s ready for a blow job. It’s kinda cute to watch him actually.

“What if I cum too quick?” His voice is shaking.

“You cum whenever you want to, bubba.” You respond calmly. You caress his thighs, and see after a few seconds, the rise of his of his chest slowed.

You scoot lower onto the bed, leaning forward you release Spencer’s member from his sweatpants and boxers. It was long, about 8 inches, good girth. Spencer had the prettiest cock you had ever seen, it made your mouth water.

After jerking it a few times, you took his cock into your mouth, bobbing your head on what you could fit. Spencer threw his head back in pleasure, his hips bucked upward into your mouth. You choked slightly but grabbed his hand, a silent invitation to throat fuck you.

Spencer forced your head down, causing you to deep throat. You gagged, nose full of pubic hair.

A pathetic moan came out of Spencer’s mouth, “F-fuck, Mommy, it feels so good.”

Spencer thrusted into your mouth a few more times, then came with a long groan. You struggled to swallow his load, eventually you pulled off of his cock. You licked up the cum and saliva mixture from his abdomen and dick.

“Th-thank you, mama.” Spencer shook from the overstimulation.

“Of course, bubba,” you responded happily.

Spencer quickly became in love with your blowjobs

The little perv also quickly became in love with your boobs

He def loves boob jobs but that’s for another day.

Oh my good how much this boy fell in love with your pussy.

I mean it felt it was made for him. Spencer almost came as soon as he entered. He also definitely ate it before fucking but once again that’s a story for another time.

Spencer stared up at you, mouth and chin glistening with your juices. He was lying naked on the bed with at least 4 pillows propping his back up.

You straddled Spencer’s lap, ready to ride him into the mattress. Gently grabbing his cock, you stroked him a few times then lined him up with your cunt. You kissed Spencer, then went down on his dick. You burned at the stretch, not well prepared, but enjoyed the sensation.

“Oh my god.” Spencer’s head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. He felt like he was about to cum. You underestimated the situation and tried to kiss his bare chest. “Shit, no, just don’t move. I don’t want to cum too quick.”

You grabbed Spencer’s face, forcing him to look you in the eye and told him, “this is about you, baby.” You released his face and grabbed his hands, placing them on your tits. Then you placed your hands on either shoulder and started to ride him.

You bounced on his lap, obscene noises being made. Skin against skin, the sloshing sound of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy, the whines leaving his throat and the moans leaving yours. You felt euphoric.

“Sh-shit, mama, I’m gonna cu-um.” Spencer whined.

Soon you felt a warmth filling you up. You grabbed Spencer’s face and kissed him, hard. You pulled yourself off of his lap, using your index and middle finger you scooped up the cum that leaked out your cunt.

“Open.” You commanded.

Spencer obey easily, you forced your fingers into his mouth. Using his tongue, Spencer lapped your cum mixture off your fingers.

Out of breath, Spencer looked at you dazed, “I wanna do this again.”

You smiled at your beautiful, perverted boy.

Overall I want to fuck the shit out of Spencer.

[fonta-enjoyer]

ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴɴᴏɴꜱ

-ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ-

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ/ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜꜱ, ᴡʟᴡ, ꜱᴀᴘᴘʜɪᴄ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴍᴀʀᴋɪɴɢ, ʙɪᴛɪɴɢ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴏᴋᴀʏ, ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴜꜱ ꜰᴀʀ, ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ɢᴇɴꜱʜɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏ ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍꜱ, ꜱᴏ ʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴɴᴏɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜ'ꜱ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ!

(ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ʙʏ ᴄᴀꜰᴇᴋɪᴛꜱᴜɴᴇ)

ʟᴀᴅʏ ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜ (ᴀʟᴄɪɴᴀ) - 🩸

◈ lady dimitrescu is by far the most possessive out of the dimitrescu's. she often leaves behind plenty of lipstick marks, hickeys, and bite marks to ensure everyone knows that you are hers.

◈ she is ruthless, merciless to anyone else, but when it comes to you she has a massive soft spot

◈ due to her height and strength, she makes it a point to be gentle with you, treating you very delicately

◈ she enjoys man-blood and mixes it into her wines often, but when she met you, you became her favorite drink

◈ when she drinks your blood, she's careful, making sure not to drink you dry. after she's done, she dotes on you so much. she patches you up, gets you water, and then lays with you, holding you in her arms and letting you rest

◈ she takes a lot of joy in buying you things and spoils you rotten. she often buys you clothes and lingerie; she'd buy you anything at the drop of a hat if you asked. it makes her heart swell to see you wear what she bought you

◈ i think that her main love languages would be gift-giving and physical touch

◈ when it comes to things in the bedroom, she's a hard dom, there's absolutely no way in hell you're gonna top this woman

ʙᴇʟᴀ ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜ - 💛

▸ bela dimitrescu isn't too possessive, but the streak is still there for sure in some cases. she may leave some marks behind for a bit of fun

▸i'd like to think that it took her some time to realize she had feelings for you, just based off of the fact that she's most likely very busy either buried in paperwork or dealing with her sisters

▸she's naturally a quiet person, but despite this, she still lets you know just how much she cares for you

▸i saw a headcannon where she is the most touch starved out of the daughers and i honestly like that a lot. of course, she gets affection from lady d and her sisters to an extent. lady d comforts her and holds her when she needs it and i'm sure that daniela is more than willing to give out hugs to her family, but she that's probably all that she'd get. i feel like she'd basically turn into a puddle in your arms whenever you'd hug her

▸she defo seems like her love languages would be words of affirmation and physical touch, just based off of what i've said above. she most likely needs affirmations since she's held to such a high standard; she never feels like she's doing enough.

▸she loves introducing you to her hobbies and doing them together

▸she honestly gives me soft dom vibes

ᴄᴀꜱꜱᴀɴᴅʀᴀ ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜ - 🔪

◎ in terms of possessiveness, cassandra is almost as possessive as her mother. she marks up your neck, your collarbone, and even your shoulders.

◎ she appears bloodthirsty and sadistic on the outside (and can be those things when she needs to be) but you could literally show her any affection and she'd melt on the spot

◎ her love languages would be quality time and acts of service

◎ she adores being in your presence, even if you're just sitting in a comfortable silence

◎ out of all of the sisters, i picture her as a weapon buff, so maybe she taught you self-defense techniques so you could properly fend someone off if a situation arose where she wasn't around

◎ she likes to take walks with you, often showing you around the castle and finding secluded spots where you could get away from the hustle and bustle (or daniela)

◎ she's dominant in bed, good luck trying to top her..

ᴅᴀɴɪᴇʟᴀ ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜ - ⚔️

• daniela isn't possessive per se, she just thinks its fun to mark you up. she enjoys seeing you get all flustered when you look at just how many marks she left.

• she has a lot of energy (and possibly some adhd) so she loves doing all sorts of activities with you

• she tries to flirt with you, but instantly freezes up and gets flustered the second you fire off a comment back

• her love languages are without a doubt physical touch and words of affirmation. her hands are always on you, hugging you, holding you and she's constantly showering you in praises and affections

• she constantly pulls you into the pranks that she and cassandra like to play around the castle which leads to a lot of chaos ensuing, even more so when bela catches wind of your plots..

• she's awful at cooking, period. you swear she could burn water, but she tries to improve for you

• she's 100% a switch, but she leans more on the submissive side

[brunchable]

Captivate Me | Stalker!Bucky Barnes x f!reader. [R 18+]

Word count: 23.6K (oops) Pairings: Obsessed Bucky Barnes x Movie Star Reader. Summary: You've been seeing Bucky for a while. You thought meeting him was pure fate but little did you know every single detail was premeditated. Trying to end things with him would be the greatest mistake of your life. Themes/Warning: SMUT OVER 18s ONLY. Dark Romance, slow-burn STALKING, KIDNAPPING, A LOT OF MANHANDLING *DUBCON?* BDSM (Blindfolded, Bed Restraints), Daddy Kink, Masturbation (M), Filming during sex, domineering acts, degradation, praising, fingering, cunnilingus, Oral (M+F), overstimulation, edging, unprotected piv sex, creampied. A/N: DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU DON'T LIKE DARK ROMANCE. It is giving Joe Goldberg. Also Bucky speaks Romanian here, I used google translate. Please don't come at me.

A/N: AGAIN IF YOU DON'T LIKE DARK ROMANCE, MOVE ON.

I’ve seen you in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different roles, but none of them—none of them—compared to the real thing. You, walking out of that boutique gym, wiping sweat from your forehead like it wasn’t some holy ritual. You didn’t know I was watching. You never do. That’s the thing about being the most famous actress in Hollywood, isn’t it? People only see the surface, the glitter. The carefully curated perfection. But not me. I see the real you. The one behind all that.

When I first saw you, it wasn’t planned. Not exactly. I mean, I knew I’d see you eventually. I made sure of it. The gym, the coffee shop, your early morning run route that you think is private. I don’t leave things to chance. I orchestrate them. And you—oh, you walked right into my world, didn’t you?

You smiled that smile, the one that makes directors fall to their knees for a chance to cast you. But when you smiled at me, it felt different. Real. Like we were speaking a language only we understood.

It wasn’t hard to make you like me. It never is. I’ve done my homework. I know what you need, what you crave. Stability. Someone who gets it, gets you, in a way that all the shallow, empty faces in your world never will. I became that someone for you, carefully crafting each word, each look, until you were hooked.

It’s funny, the little things you let slip. You think you’re so careful, but I see it. The way your shoulders relax when I talk about my “well-paying job,” when I drop hints about my “family's” holiday home. You like that, don’t you? You like that I’m different from the men who chase you for clout or connections. No, I’m something else. 

You didn’t realize I’d planned our first date down to the minute, did you? Or the second, and the third. You thought it was all so natural. You thought it was just happening. Like we were meant to meet, to be together, to be something special. That’s the thing about fate, though—it’s just another tool. And I wield it perfectly.

It didn’t take long for you to fall for me, just like I knew you would. After all, I’m everything you need. Smart, kind, successful—or at least, that’s what you think. I’m whatever you need me to be. So when I suggested a weekend away at my “holiday” home, you said yes. Hesitant, but yes. You must’ve thought it would be a nice escape. Just us, away from the world that always wants something from you.

Except, you didn’t know it wasn’t an escape at all. It was a step closer to where we were always meant to end up.

That’s what I kept telling myself as we stood in the kitchen of that house, the rain drumming softly against the windows. I poured you a glass of wine, said something about how perfect it all felt, about how right we were together. And you—you just stood there, silent, your eyes distant. Something had shifted.

Then you spoke.

“Bucky,” you said, and my heart stopped because I already knew what was coming. “This is going too fast.”

The words hung in the air like poison. I felt my pulse in my throat, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly stifling.

“I don’t think I see a future with us,” you continued, and each word was a dagger. You tried to soften the blow with that sweet voice of yours, telling me I’m a “great guy,” that it’s “nothing personal.” Nothing personal? How could it not be personal? 

You know, I’ve always been good at controlling myself. That’s one of the things you liked about me, isn’t it? How I’m always so calm, so collected. You don’t want the chaos, the mess of Hollywood drama in your real life. No, you want stability, something solid, someone who can be your anchor in the storm of flashing lights and fake smiles.

And I gave you that. I am that. I’ve been perfect for you—perfect in every way.

So why—why are you standing here, telling me that it’s going “too fast”?

The words echoed in my head, making it hard to focus. You kept talking, kept explaining, but it was like I couldn’t hear you anymore. My mind was racing, my chest tightening with something dark, something unfamiliar. 

No, no, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to say it’s too fast when I’ve been so patient, so careful.

You have no idea how long I’ve waited, how meticulously I’ve crafted every single moment between us. Every word, every smile, every touch. This is what we’re supposed to be. You can’t just walk away from that. You can’t just throw it away.

I could feel it bubbling up inside me, the rage, the frustration. It started small, like a flicker of heat behind my eyes, but it was growing, spreading, filling me with something raw and dangerous. I tried to keep it in check, tried to swallow it down. I didn’t want to scare you. That’s not what this was about. This was supposed to be perfect.

But you kept talking, kept saying things that made it worse. Words like “future,” like “great guy,” like “nothing personal.”

Nothing personal? Again.

How dare you? How dare you make it sound like I’m just another guy, like I didn’t plan every single moment of our time together? You think this isn’t personal? You think I’m just going to let you go like all the others? No.

I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to hold it in, trying not to let you see what you were doing to me. But you wouldn’t stop. You wouldn’t shut up. And then you said it—that one final thing that broke me.

“I just don’t feel the same way.”

There it was. The truth, out in the open, sharp and jagged like broken glass. And something inside me snapped. I could feel it, like a wire pulled too tight finally giving way. My pulse thundered in my ears, my breathing shallow and ragged. You didn’t get it. You didn’t see how much I’d done for us, how much I’d sacrificed. You didn’t understand how perfect we could be if you just—just—

I slammed my hand down on the counter next to you, the sound slicing through the air like a gunshot. You jumped, startled, your eyes wide with fear as you flinched, taking a step back from me.

And that—oh, that—was new.

Fear. Real, genuine fear appeared in your eyes like you were finally seeing me for the first time. I should’ve hated it. I should’ve backed off, apologised, done something to make it go away.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because part of me—some dark, twisted part of me—liked it. I liked that you were finally seeing me. The real me. Not the carefully crafted version I’d shown you before, but the one who needed you, the one who couldn’t stand the idea of losing you.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re scaring me.”

I blinked, the words cutting through the fog of anger, but they didn’t have the effect you wanted. Scaring you? No. No, you’re not scared of me. You’re scared of losing control, scared of what it means to be with someone like me, someone who actually cares enough to make sure you stay.

But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I watched you take another step back, your hands trembling slightly, your eyes darting to the door like you were planning to run.

I watched the fear ripple through you, your breathing quickening, your eyes scanning the room like you were calculating the distance to the door. Like you thought you could just run. Like you actually thought you could escape me.

But you can’t.

No, we’ve come too far for that.

I took a step toward you, slow and measured, watching the way you flinched, the way your body tensed like a deer ready to bolt. I didn’t want to hurt you—I didn’t. But you were leaving me no choice. You were making this hard, when it didn’t have to be. I didn’t want it to be this way.

“Bucky…” Your voice was small, fragile. You were trying to reason with me, but it was too late for that. Too late for words. The world outside, the life we had before stepping into this house, it was all fading away. It was just us now, just the truth between us, raw and unfiltered.

“You don’t understand,” I said, my voice low, my hand still pressed firmly against the counter. I could feel the cool granite beneath my palm, grounding me, barely holding back the storm inside. “This is right. We are right for each other. You just… you just don’t see it yet.”

Your eyes darted toward the door again, that brief flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could get away. I could see it in the way your muscles tensed, in the way your feet shifted like you were getting ready to run. And I hated it—hated that you still didn’t understand.

I moved faster than you expected, my hand reaching out to grab your arm before you could make a break for it. You gasped, your eyes wide with terror as I pulled you back, your body colliding with mine. You struggled, kicking, twisting, trying to break free, but I was stronger. I’d always been stronger.

“Let go of me!” you screamed, your voice shrill, panicked. But I didn’t let go. I couldn’t.

You don’t get it. You can’t leave. 

“Stop fighting,” I growled, pulling you closer, your back pressed against my chest. I could feel your heart hammering beneath your skin, the rapid rise and fall of your breath. You were terrified, and part of me—some dark, primal part of me—thrived on that fear. But another part of me hated it. I didn’t want you to be afraid. I wanted you to see that I was doing this for us.

“Please, Bucky… you’re hurting me.”

Those words. They cut through the fog of anger, piercing something deep inside me. My grip loosened for just a second, just long enough for you to break free, to twist out of my hold and make a desperate run for the door.

And you did it.

You yanked the door open, sprinting out into the rain like your life depended on it. You were fast, I’ll give you that.

Desperation makes people faster. 

Your bare feet slapped against the wet pavement, splashing through puddles as you made your way to the car. You thought you were getting away. You thought you were winning.

I followed, just a few paces behind. I let you think you had a chance. Let you scramble to the driver’s side door, your hands shaking as you fumbled with the handle. You were soaked, the rain plastering your hair to your face, but you didn’t stop. You threw open the door, slipping into the car, your fingers trembling as you searched for the keys.

But I was there. Right behind you. And you didn’t have the keys, did you?

“Bucky, please!” you screamed, your voice high and panicked, but it didn’t matter. I yanked the door open before you could lock it, my hand reaching in and grabbing your arm with a force that made you cry out.

You kicked. You screamed. Your nails clawed at my hand, your legs thrashing as I dragged you out of the car, but you weren’t strong enough. You were never going to be strong enough.

“No!” you shrieked, your voice cracking as I hauled you back toward the house, the rain pouring down around us. You fought me every step of the way, your feet slipping in the mud, your body twisting, trying to break free.

But I didn’t let go.

I couldn’t.

“You’re not leaving,” I growled, my voice barely audible over the storm, my grip tightening as I dragged you back inside. Your body was limp now, weak from the struggle, but your eyes—oh, your eyes were still filled with that same fear.

We’re not done. We’re never going to be done.

Not until you see it.

Not until you see me.

× × × ×

Your POV

You wake slowly, your head throbbing, the world around you blurry and disorienting. The sound of the storm outside reaches you first, the rumble of thunder vibrating through the walls, the rain pounding relentlessly against the windows. You blink, trying to make sense of your surroundings. The sheets beneath you are soft—too soft—and they smell like detergent, unfamiliar.

That’s when you feel it. The cold metal around your wrists.

Panic surges through your veins as you jerk upright, or at least, you try to. Your hands are cuffed to the bed, the harsh clink of metal echoing in the dimly lit room as you struggle against them. Your heart pounds in your chest, the fear hitting you like a wave, choking you as you realize—this isn’t a nightmare.

Your breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, your chest heaving as you take in the room. It’s dim, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of a bedside lamp, the corners of the room swallowed by shadows. You’re not in the same clothes you remember. You’re dressed in something clean now, something soft, but it’s not your own. Someone…he changed you.

And then you see him.

Bucky.

He’s sitting in the corner, hidden in the shadows, watching you. His silhouette is dark, unmoving, and it sends a chill down your spine. The storm outside feels like a reflection of the chaos inside your head, the way everything is spinning, nothing making sense.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and when you finally manage to choke out his name, it sounds small, pitiful. 

“Bucky?”

He doesn’t respond. He just keeps watching, like a predator studying its prey. Like he’s waiting for you to say or do something, but you don’t know what. Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. The fear grips you tighter with every second that passes, the realization of your situation crashing down on you like the thunder outside.

“I… I don’t understand.” Your voice is trembling, tears burning at the back of your eyes as you tug helplessly at the cuffs, the metal biting into your skin. “Why are you doing this? Let me go, please.”

Still, he says nothing. The silence stretches on, oppressive, suffocating. You can feel his eyes on you, piercing through the darkness, and it makes your skin crawl. 

You don’t recognize this man, not anymore. The Bucky you thought you knew, the one who smiled at you over dinner, the one who laughed at your jokes, who held your hand… that Bucky is gone. Or maybe he was never real to begin with.

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the tears finally spill over, sliding down your cheeks. “Please, just let me go. I won’t— I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I just want to leave.”

His figure shifts slightly in the chair, the movement so subtle you almost miss it, but it feels like a thunderclap in the tense stillness of the room. Finally, he speaks, his voice low, dark, carrying with it an edge of something you don’t want to name.

“You need to stop thinking of escape,” he says, his words measured. “I’m not your enemy, I’m the one saving you. And one day, you’ll understand that.”

Your stomach drops. There’s something final in the way he says it, something that makes you realize there’s no reasoning with him. No escape.

You’re trapped.

A sob escapes your lips, your body shaking as you pull at the cuffs again, but it’s no use. The storm outside rages on, the wind howling like some terrible omen, and you can’t help but wonder if anyone—anyone at all—can hear you.

You feel your heart hammering in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears as Bucky stands up from the chair, his silhouette dark against the dim light. His movements are slow, and you can’t tear your eyes away from him as he steps out of the shadows. Something glints in his hand, and when he comes closer, you see it.

Your phone.

He’s holding your phone.

Bucky twirls it in his hand like it’s some casual toy, but the sight of it makes your stomach churn. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze fixed on you, and a slow smile spreads across his lips—not the warm, charming smile you once knew, but something colder, calculated.

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing right next to the bed. His presence looms over you, the phone still in his hand as he looks down at you, handcuffed and helpless.

“So,” he says, his voice smooth, unsettlingly calm. “What should you post tonight? Hm?”

You stare at him, your mind racing, trying to make sense of the words. Post? He can't be serious. He wouldn’t—

Bucky’s eyes flicker down to the screen, and with a swipe of his thumb, the display lights up. “You wouldn’t want people to think you’ve gone missing, would you? That might cause a… panic.” He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

Your throat tightens, the tears you’d been holding back threatening to spill over again. You shake your head, more in disbelief than as an answer. He’s playing with you, toying with the very thing that connects you to the world outside this nightmare. And the way he’s handling your phone, so casually, makes it clear—he’s already thought this through.

“Maybe a picture of your feet by the fire?” he muses, tilting his head as if he’s considering the best angle. “Or better yet, one of those ‘cozy night in’ captions. That’ll sell it. Everyone will think you’re just relaxing after a long day. Just another night for Hollywood’s sweetheart.”

His words send ice through your veins. He’s already planned it all out, how to keep up the illusion that you’re fine, that nothing’s wrong. No one will even suspect you’re missing. No one will come looking for you.

You try to speak, to find words, but your voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper. “Please, Bucky, don’t—”

But he ignores your plea, his eyes focused on your phone as he pulls up your social media app. “Smile,” he says mockingly, as though you’re some doll he can dress up for show. “Or don’t. I can manage this on my own. I’ve been watching you for long enough to know exactly what your fans want.”

You feel the tears slip down your cheeks, helplessness gripping you as he takes control of your life in the most terrifying way possible. The world outside keeps spinning, oblivious to the fact that you’re trapped in this nightmare, and he’s holding the one lifeline that could save you, dangling it just out of reach.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, his voice a twisted mockery of comfort. “I’ll keep everyone updated. No one will know anything’s wrong. Not until you’ve had time to understand why you’re really here.”

And as he taps away at your phone, the storm rages on outside, but inside this room, it’s the calm before the real storm—the one you know is coming but can’t escape.

× × × ×

Bucky’s POV 

The thing about phones—your phone, to be specific—is that they’re intimate. More intimate than a diary, more personal than any conversation you’ve ever had. Every swipe, every message, every like, is a little breadcrumb leading back to the real you. The parts you don’t share with the world. And here I am, with your phone in my hand, holding every piece of you in the palm of mine.

I can feel your eyes on me as I scroll through it, your fear practically radiating off you in waves. But I ignore it. I’ve already moved past that phase, the part where I worry about what you’re thinking. You’ll come around eventually, once you see that I’m doing this for us.

For you.

The soft glow of your screen illuminates my face as I unlock it easily—your passcode was one of the first things I learned about you. A four-digit combination, barely a barrier, really. I swipe through your photos first, and there’s a strange comfort in seeing the world through your eyes. Pictures of sunsets, candid moments with co-stars, perfectly posed selfies for your millions of followers. Each photo carefully curated for the world. But I keep scrolling because I know that’s not all there is.

And then I see it. A photo you took of me.

It’s not staged, not some posed couple’s picture for social media. It’s real. I’m asleep—my head turned slightly to the side, my face peaceful, unaware. You took this when you thought I wasn’t watching. The corner of my mouth twitches up, and I can’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction. You couldn’t resist, could you? Even when you didn’t know it, you were drawn to me.

This proves it. We’re connected. Whether you want to admit it or not, you feel it, too. I wasn’t wrong.

I glance up from the phone, just for a moment, to see you watching me, your eyes wide, terrified. You have no idea how much I know, how deep inside your world I already am. I almost want to say something, to tell you how this photo means something. How it confirms that we’re meant to be. But I stay silent, letting the moment stretch between us, savouring it.

I keep scrolling. And that’s when I find them.

The unsolicited photos.

You thought you were careful, that you’d buried them in your messages. But nothing stays hidden from me. A flood of messages from random men—pathetic, desperate attempts to get your attention. Men sending you things you never asked for. 

Filth. 

Unworthy of even a glance from you. The sheer arrogance of it, the entitlement, makes my blood simmer. How many of these men thought they had a chance with you? That they could own a piece of you like I do?

One particular message stands out. A man whose name I don’t recognize, someone you’ve never mentioned. He’s sent you photos of himself, explicit, disgusting. And you—you didn’t block him. You didn’t stop it.

I stare at the messages longer than I should, the jealousy curling tight inside my chest, sharp and poisonous. These men, they think they can have you, that they can come into your life with their disgusting offers and expect something in return. You might not have invited them in, but the fact that they’re here at all makes me sick.

You should’ve told me. You should’ve trusted me to take care of this for you.

I glance back at you, still handcuffed to the bed, tears slipping down your cheeks, and I wonder if you even understand what’s happening here. These men, they aren’t a part of your life anymore. I won’t allow it. You’re mine now. Completely. There won’t be anyone else.

I keep scrolling through your messages, and that’s when I find something else.

A text thread with your friends. The casual banter, the kind of stuff you think I don’t care about. But buried in there, a series of photos you sent them. I pause, my heart speeding up as I open them. 

It’s me, of course. 

One picture in particular stands out—a shot of me shirtless in the kitchen, cooking you breakfast. The light catches my body just right, every muscle defined. And your caption underneath?

“Okay, so you can’t see his face but look at this man. Just look at him.”

You wanted them to see me. To know what you had. You wanted them to be jealous. And they probably were. I smile to myself, imagining the envy your friends must have felt, knowing that you had me, knowing they couldn’t. It’s perfect. You knew I was perfect for you.

I scroll further down the thread, and that’s when I see the message that makes me pause, my breath catching in my throat.

“You guys, I swear to god… he’s so good in bed, I think I’m addicted. Like, I don’t even know how to describe it. I’m wrecked in the best ways.”

Addicted. Addicted to me. And you thought I wouldn’t know. You thought you could hide that, that you could pretend to push me away when deep down, you crave me. You need me.

I can’t help the small, satisfied smile that spreads across my face as I look back at you. You’re trembling, still terrified, but you don’t understand that this—this fear, this desire—it’s all part of the same thing. You don’t have to run from it anymore. From me.

I scroll just a little further and see the final blow. Another photo. This time, it’s intimate. Private. A photo you snapped of me sleeping on top of you, my body nestled against yours, my head buried in the crook of your neck. The angle is careful, my face mostly obscured by my dark hair, but there’s no mistaking the tenderness in that moment. I can feel the warmth of it through the screen.

And then the message beneath it.

“Okay, don’t judge me, but… when Bucky speaks Romanian when we do it... it’s so hot. Like, I can’t even handle it. I don’t even want a kid but I'll carry his kids. Fuck. He’s so hot.”

I feel something inside me snap—not with anger, no, but with something far deeper. You want this. You want me. You’ve been telling your friends, letting them know how much you crave me, need me, even if you didn’t say it out loud to my face. But now? Now I know. And there’s no denying it anymore.

I set the phone down on the edge of the bed and lean closer, my voice low, calm, almost affectionate. “You know,” I murmur, “I never realized how much you needed me. But now I see it. Now, it all makes sense.”

You flinch, pulling back as far as you can, but there’s nowhere to go. Not from me.

“What should you post tonight, hm?” I ask, my tone conversational, like this is any normal evening between us. 

The horror in your eyes is enough to confirm it—you finally understand. You’re not going anywhere.

Because you’re mine. And no one—no one—is going to take you away from me.

× × × × 

I bring the dinner to you, carefully plated, as always. Presentation matters. Even now, when you’re too stubborn to appreciate it, too blinded by your own misplaced anger to see that this—this—is still me taking care of you. 

I set the tray on the bed beside you, the smell of the meal filling the room. You’ve always liked the way I cook, haven’t you? I remember how you used to smile, used to praise the smallest details, like I was doing something so special.

But now, you sit there with your jaw clenched, body stiff, refusing to look at me, refusing to even acknowledge that I’m here, still trying to make sure you’re okay.

“You’re going to eat,” I say softly, but there’s a firmness beneath the words. It’s not a request, not a suggestion. I’ve been patient with you—so patient. But you’re pushing me now, testing the limits of my control, and we both know that can only last so long.

You scoff, turning your head away from the food like a child throwing a tantrum. “I’m not your prisoner, Bucky. You can’t force me to do anything.”

The defiance. That familiar fire burning behind your eyes. I should be frustrated, I should be angry, but honestly? I find it... cute. You’re still trying to fight me, still clinging to the idea that you have some say in this. I lean closer, my hand resting gently on the bed beside you, my voice dropping just enough to let you know I’m not here to argue.

“You are going to eat,” I repeat, my tone calm but unyielding. “Because I’m not going to let you starve yourself.”

You snap your head back to me, your eyes flashing with rage, and for a second, I see the storm building in you. 

“You can’t make me,” you growl, and it’s almost laughable—the way you think you still have control, still have some semblance of power in this situation.

Then, without warning, you spit at me.

The action is so quick, so fueled by your desperation, that for a moment, I’m surprised. The spit lands on my cheek, sliding down slowly, almost in slow motion. And there it is. The fight. The fire. The part of you that still hasn’t fully surrendered.

You tense, your body going rigid, your breath caught in your throat as you wait for me to explode, for the rage to consume me and lash out. This is the part where you expect me to lose it. To become the monster you’ve built up in your head.

But I don’t.

I freeze for just a second, letting the anger stir inside me, feeling it twist and coil. But then, instead of reacting the way you expect, I chuckle. A low, quiet laugh, the sound barely audible over the storm outside. I don’t wipe the spit away. I just sit there, letting it cool on my cheek, my lips curling into a small, almost amused smile.

“I like this,” I murmur, my voice calm, disturbingly calm. “This fight in you. It’s… adorable.”

You flinch, recoiling slightly as you realize I’m not going to snap. I’m not going to lose control, because unlike you, I’m not driven by desperation. I don’t need to. No, I have all the control I need, right here, in this room, with you handcuffed to that bed. I can see it in your eyes—the confusion. You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect me to remain calm.

I lean in just a bit closer, my face only inches from yours now, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You think you can push me, don’t you? That if you fight hard enough, I’ll lose control. But that’s not going to happen. You’re not going to break me. You can’t.”

You’re trembling now, the tears welling up in your eyes, but I don’t feel pity. No, this is something else entirely. This is... satisfaction. You want to fight, but you’re scared, too. And that mix? That’s what makes this so interesting.

I straighten up, slowly wiping the spit from my cheek with the back of my hand, my eyes never leaving yours. “Go ahead. Keep fighting. It doesn’t change anything. I’m still in control. You’ll still eat. You’ll still do what I say.”

Your lip quivers, but you remain silent, glaring at me with all the defiance you can muster. But I can see the cracks forming. I know that deep down, you understand.

“Now,” I say, standing up and moving back toward the corner of the room, watching you carefully. “When you’re ready to eat, the food will be here. And I’ll be right here, too. Always.”

I sit back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, my eyes never leaving you. You still think you can win this. But you can’t. You never could.

And the fact that you haven’t realized that yet? Well, that’s just adorable.

× × × × 

Your POV

The next day.

You wake up to the steady drum of rain against the window, still unrelenting, like the world is stuck in an endless loop of storm and shadow. The room is dim, gray light filtering in through the heavy clouds outside, casting long shadows that stretch across the floor. Something’s different, though. You blink slowly, trying to clear the haze of sleep.

Your wrists. They’re free.

No cuffs. No cold metal biting into your skin. You sit up cautiously, the blankets tucked around you. . . comfortably. Like some twisted lullaby, as if you’d been tucked in after drifting to sleep in the middle of a nightmare.

And the first thing you notice? Bucky isn’t here.

Your heart thuds in your chest, your body still stiff with the memory of yesterday, the taste of panic still lingering like bile in your throat. 

You scan the room carefully, trying not to make any sudden movements as if you might wake the predator lurking nearby.

The chair he always sits in—the one where he watches you—is empty. No sign of him. No footsteps, no steady breathing that you’ve come to expect as the constant reminder of his presence.

Where is he?

The food tray from last night is gone. Cleared away. The bed you’re sitting in feels too normal, too cozy, like some trap waiting to spring. You can’t trust it. You can’t trust anything. Your eyes move to the door. It’s slightly ajar, just a crack, and there’s an unnerving stillness in the air. The house is too quiet.

You slide out of bed, your bare feet sinking into the carpet. Your muscles are tense, ready, every nerve on edge. 

You step closer to the door, careful, listening for anything—footsteps, breathing, a creak of the floorboards. Nothing. Just the sound of the rain.

Your hand touches the doorknob, ready to push it open, when you hear it—a soft thud from down the hall.

Your body freezes, every muscle tensing as you strain to hear. The sound is subtle, distant, but unmistakable. A shuffling, like something—or someone—moving just out of sight.

He’s close.

You open the door cautiously, peeking out into the hallway. It’s dark, barely lit by the gray daylight seeping in from the windows. The house feels alive, as if the walls themselves are watching, breathing. The unease settles in your stomach, cold and heavy. You swallow, your throat tight, and take a step forward.

Another noise. A door creaking open further down the hall.

Your breath catches. Your feet hesitate. But you move forward, each step more careful than the last. Your heart races, every instinct screaming for you to turn around, to hide. But you can’t. You need to know where he is.

And then, you stop.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and there—just inside—you see him.

Bucky.

He’s standing in front of the sink, his back to you. His hands are braced against the counter, his head slightly lowered, as if he’s… thinking. You freeze in place, watching him, your body paralyzed by the tension hanging thick in the air. He doesn’t know you’re here, not yet. He hasn’t heard you.

You could run. You could turn around right now, slip back into the bedroom, and pretend you never saw this. But something about the way he’s standing there—so still—keeps you rooted to the spot.

He moves.

Slowly, he straightens, his shoulders rising as he takes in a deep breath. He turns his head slightly, just enough that you catch the edge of his profile. And then, he speaks.

“I know you’re awake.”

Your stomach drops, a cold wave of dread washing over you.

“I was waiting for you,” he continues, his voice smooth, calm, like he’s talking about the weather. “But I guess you were planning on coming to find me instead.”

You feel the blood drain from your face, your heart pounding in your ears as he turns to face you fully, his eyes meeting yours. There’s a calmness in his expression that unnerves you more than anything else. He isn’t angry. He isn’t surprised.

He knew.

He knew the whole time.

× × × ×

The moment his eyes meet yours, you don’t think—you bolt.

Your feet barely hit the ground as you turn and bolt down the hallway, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest, the sound of your breath ragged in your ears. Every muscle in your body screams to run, to get as far away from him as possible. You know he’s behind you. You can feel it, the tension stretching between you like a taut wire, ready to snap. But you don’t look back. You can’t.

The stairs are ahead, a sharp descent into the unknown, but they’re your only option. Your hand grips the bannister as you take the steps two at a time, your mind racing just as fast. You can hear him moving behind you, not in a rush, not in a panic. No, his footsteps are casual by the way they echo in the hallway above.

You hit the ground floor, your bare feet slipping on the cold tiles, but you manage to catch yourself. You have to hide. You have to be smart. If you don’t, he’ll catch you, and you know exactly what happens if he does.

You dart around the corner, your eyes scanning the room desperately. The house feels like a maze, twisting, unfamiliar. You’ve been here before, but in the haze of fear, everything feels different, distorted. You spot a door—a small one, leading to what looks like a pantry—and no hesitation you dash inside, pulling the door shut behind you.

Darkness swallows you whole, your back pressed against the wall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your shaky breath. 

The air feels thick in the tiny space, every sound amplified. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and you try to force yourself to stay calm. Think, think, think.

The silence stretches out, so thick you can almost hear it. And then—

You hear him.

His voice, soft, almost melodic, drifting through the house like a twisted lullaby.

“Y/N…”

Your body goes rigid. He’s calling for you, like this is some kind of game. A cat and mouse game. He’s playing with you, drawing it out, savoring every second of your panic.

“Where are you?” His voice echoes through the house, sickeningly sweet, and you can hear the smile in it, the amusement. Like this is a joke. Like you, running is nothing but entertainment for him.

You close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, trying to think of what you can do next, but every plan, every thought dissolves into pure terror as his footsteps get closer. The sound of his shoes on the floor is slow. He’s not in a rush. He knows you’re here. Somewhere.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

He sings your name again, drawing it out, each syllable rolling off his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of it. You bite your lip, forcing yourself to stay quiet, your hands trembling as you clutch the inside of the door. You can’t breathe, can’t move. Your heart feels like it’s going to explode in your chest.

You hear him moving through the house, his voice drifting through every corner, getting closer, then further away. 

“You know I’ll find you…” His words are light, teasing, but beneath them lies something dark, something terrifyingly final. “I always do.”

His voice drifts through the hall, teasing, playful, as if this is all just fun for him. The sound of it makes your blood run cold, but you don’t move. You can’t. You tell yourself to stay calm, to think, to be smart. He wants you to panic. He wants you to break. Don’t.

The footsteps draw closer. You hear the soft creak of the floorboards just outside the door, and your body goes rigid. You can feel him on the other side, waiting, listening. You brace yourself, every nerve in your body on edge, ready for him to rip the door open and drag you out.

But he doesn’t.

There’s a long, agonizing pause. You hear him exhale softly, almost as if he’s amused. His presence lingers there, so close you can feel it through the door. The seconds stretch on, unbearable.

And then, he moves. The footsteps retreat, growing fainter, until you hear them no more.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You wait, your body coiled tight, every muscle aching with the tension. 

He’s gone, you tell yourself. He walked away. 

You listen carefully, straining your ears for any sound—nothing. Just the rain. He’s somewhere else in the house, looking for you.

The silence presses down on you, thick and suffocating. You tell yourself you have to move, that this is your chance. You wait a minute longer, then two, your hand still covering your mouth as you count the seconds. 

He’s gone. He’s not there anymore.

Finally, you exhale slowly and shift your weight, your legs cramped and trembling from holding still for so long. You push the door open an inch, peeking out into the hallway.

Empty.

The hallway is bathed in pale, gray light from the rain-soaked windows. No sign of him. Your pulse hammers in your ears, but you push the door open fully now, stepping out as silently as you can manage. The house feels too big, too quiet.

Maybe I can make it. Maybe he didn’t hear me.

You take a cautious step forward, your eyes scanning the empty corridor. Another step, careful, quiet. The air feels cold against your skin, the house eerily still, like the eye of a storm.

You glance in both directions. The hall is empty.

He’s gone.

You make it halfway down the hallway, moving toward the back of the house, your breath coming in shallow huffs. You take a step, then another, your movements calculated and soundless, trying to map out your escape. Each second feels like a victory, a step closer to being free of him. You are smarter than him. You can outthink him.

As you move, you walk backward for a moment, keeping your eyes on the hallway behind you. You don’t trust it—why would you?—so you check, making sure he isn’t sneaking up on you. Your back presses against the wall for stability as you inch toward the exit, ready to make your move.

And then—you feel something.

Something warm. Something solid. Your entire body goes rigid as you feel it—him.

You freeze, terror gripping you before you even have a chance to process the situation. Slowly, painfully slowly, you turn your head, knowing exactly what you’ll see.

Bucky.

He’s standing right behind you, closer than you ever imagined he could be, his chest pressed against your back, his breath steady. How did he move so silently? How did he manage to be right here, right on top of you, without a single sound?

Your heart slams against your ribcage as you try to pull away, but his hand is already on your arm, gentle but firm, holding you in place. The smile on his face is unsettling, a mixture of amusement and something far darker. He knew. He always knew.

“You were trying to sneak away, weren’t you?” His voice is soft, too soft, like this is all just a lighthearted conversation between two people who aren’t trapped in a nightmare. “I could feel it.”

His fingers tighten around your arm, not painfully, but just enough to remind you that he’s not letting go. That he sees you, even in your cleverness, even in your silence.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, his lips just inches from your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I like that. But quiet doesn’t mean I won’t find you.”

“I was just…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, but it catches in your throat. You can feel him watching you, his eyes scanning your face, reading every thought before you’ve even formed it.

“Just what?” he asks, his tone almost playful, like he’s toying with you, like this is nothing more than a game. His fingers brush your skin, tracing lazy circles, and it sends a wave of nausea through you.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mind is racing, but the words won’t come.

He leans in closer, his breath warm against the side of your neck, and you can’t stop the way your body tenses, every nerve screaming with terror.

“I told you, Y/N,” he whispers, his voice so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the rain. “I’ll always know where you are.”

Your breath catches, and you feel his hand shift, sliding down your arm, fingers curling around your wrist. He pulls you closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you, suffocating.

You want to scream, to pull away, but you know it won’t do any good. You’ve been clever, careful—but not enough. You underestimated him.

You force yourself to breathe, to think through the thick fog of panic that clouds your mind. Every instinct screams at you to do something, anything to get away, but Bucky’s grip is firm, his presence all-consuming. His hand is still around your wrist, holding you in place, as if you belong here. As if there was never a question of where you should be.

“I see that look,” he murmurs, his voice so low it almost blends with the sound of the rain. “You’re thinking. Calculating.”

You swallow hard, your heart slamming against your ribs. Of course, you’re thinking. You’re always thinking. You’re looking for the smallest crack in the situation, the tiniest escape route. But he knows. He sees it in you.

“You always think you can figure me out, don’t you?” His breath tickles the side of your face, and you flinch, trying to pull away even though you know it’s futile.

Your mind races, but his presence is like a cage, keeping you trapped, making every idea seem impossible. You can feel the tension tightening, every second a countdown to whatever he’s planning next. His thumb moves in circles over your wrist, a gesture that might seem comforting if it weren’t so... controlling.

Then he releases you.

The sudden absence of his grip is jarring. You stumble backward a step, your body instinctively retreating, but you catch yourself before you fall. You stare at him, shocked that he’s let go, that he’s giving you space.

Bucky just smiles, watching you. He's toying with you, letting you think you have a chance when deep down, you know he’s still in control.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his voice soft and measured. “But you have to stop running. You’re making this harder on yourself.”

Your skin prickles with dread as you try to process his words. He’s letting you go, but it’s not real freedom. It’s a leash—an invisible one, stretched just enough to let you feel like you’re in control. But he’s still holding the end of it, ready to pull you back the moment you step too far.

You stand there, frozen, every muscle in your body screaming to run, but your mind knows better. He’s faster than you. Stronger. More dangerous.

He’s waiting. Waiting for you to make a move, to see what you’ll do next. And you know, whatever you do, he’ll be ready.

“I can wait all day,” he says, tilting his head slightly, as if he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll choose. “But you won’t make it far.”

Your mouth goes dry as you take a shaky breath, your eyes darting to the door, the only possible exit. The rain is still hammering down outside, loud and relentless, but it’s the only thing between you and whatever comes next.

But you know if you run now, it’ll be exactly what he wants.

So, you make a decision.

Instead of bolting, instead of giving in to the panic rising in your chest, you take step forward. Toward him.

His eyes flicker with something—surprise? Amusement? You can’t tell—but it doesn’t matter. You’re not playing the game the way he wants you to anymore. You’re taking control, even if it’s just for a moment.

“Then stop pretending this is some game,” you say, your voice steady, even though you feel anything but. “What do you want?”

He takes a step closer, closing the distance you just created, and you can feel the tension coil between you again, tighter than before.

“You know what I want,” he says softly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You don’t dare break it, waiting for him to speak, to reveal the thing that’s been lurking in the shadows between you both since the moment you met. The way he’s looking at you now, with that dark, unreadable intensity, makes your skin crawl. Your question hangs in the air, and you can’t tell if he’s stalling, or if he’s just savouring the moment—savouring you.

Then he leans in, just a fraction closer, his voice lowering to that chilling, intimate whisper that makes every nerve in your body scream for you to run.

“What I want,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, “is simple. I want you to stop fighting it. To stop pretending this isn’t what you need. What you want.”

You stiffen, your pulse skyrocketing, because it’s not the answer you were expecting. There’s a raw edge to his words, a dangerous undertone that tells you he’s been thinking about this for a long time—planning it.

“I want you to see that this, us—” he gestures vaguely between you, his eyes never leaving yours—“is inevitable. You can run, hide, resist, but you’ll always end up right. back. here.”

You feel a chill run through your veins as his words sink in. He doesn’t just want to keep you here, doesn’t just want your compliance. He wants your submission. He wants you to accept this twisted reality he’s created, to fall in line with whatever fantasy he’s been building in his head.

Your breath hitches, but you manage to hold his gaze, even as your mind reels with panic. 

“You’re insane,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the fear clawing at your insides. “This isn’t love, Bucky.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” he says softly, his smile returning, more dangerous than ever. “But I know you, Y/N. I’ve watched you. I’ve studied you. And you can’t hide from the truth forever.”

“I know what you need,” he whispers, his voice softer now, almost... tender. “And when you finally stop running, when you stop fighting it, you’ll see it too.”

Your chest tightens, your mind racing to find something—anything—to say that might break this twisted spell he’s trying to weave. But you know, deep down, that no matter what you say, he’s already convinced himself that this is real. That you are his.

And that’s when it hits you.

What he wants isn’t just to keep you here, to cage you like some prize. He wants you to choose it. To accept him, this situation, this twisted version of love he’s built in his mind. He wants you to believe it, to fall into his arms willingly.

But you won’t. You can’t.

“I’ll never give you what you want,” you repeat, your voice defiant, even though the fear tightens in your chest. “I’ll never see this the way you do.”

For a moment, the silence between you thickens. You think maybe he’ll finally snap, maybe this will be the moment he loses control. But instead, his smile deepens, and the amusement in his eyes takes on a sharper, more sinister edge.

“Is that right?” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. “Because, according to your texts... that’s not what you’ve been telling your friends.”

Before you can even process his words, he’s already pulling out your phone again, holding it between you like a trophy. His thumb glided over the screen, his eyes flickering with the satisfaction of someone who’s about to wield power in the most insidious way.

“Let’s see what we have here, shall we?” he murmurs, not even looking at you as he pulls up your messages. “Ah, here’s a good one.”

He clears his throat theatrically before reading aloud, his voice dripping with false amusement. “He’s got this look when he’s on top of me. Like, I swear, it could melt your soul. I think I’m done for.”

Your stomach turns as the words leave his lips, each syllable twisting into something vile as he quotes your own words back to you. You remember sending that, of course. You’d been giddy, drunk on lust and naivety, texting your friends in a moment of bliss that feels a lifetime away now.

Bucky’s eyes flick to you, watching your reaction with that same unsettling calm. “Done for, huh?” he teases. “That’s not exactly the defiance you’re showing me right now.”

You clench your fists at your sides, trying to steady your breath, but he’s already scrolling again. His thumb pauses, and he smirks as if he’s found something even better.

“Oh, this one’s great,” he says, looking at you with raised eyebrows. “Is he big?” he reads with a dramatic pause, glancing at you. “Girl, you have no idea. Let's just say I’m not getting out of bed anytime soon.”

Heat floods your face, not with the memory, but with the sheer horror of hearing him say it out loud. Your body goes rigid as the humiliation washes over you, but Bucky—he just chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Well, I appreciate the enthusiasm,” he says, the smugness in his voice unbearable. “It’s good to know I’ve been leaving an impression.”

He swipes again, his smirk growing. “Let’s see... oh, what’s this?” His voice takes on an almost sing-song quality as he reads the next one. “He’s so attentive, it’s like he knows what I want before I do. Honestly, I think he’s perfect. He’s in my head, like... all the time.”

Your throat tightens, and you force yourself to look at him, your heart thundering in your chest. He’s savouring every moment of this, twisting your words into a weapon, using them to deepen his control over you.

He steps closer, eyes glinting, before reading the next one. “There’s something about him... something that makes me feel like I could lose myself. In a good way. Like, I don’t even care anymore. I just want him.”

He leans in, his breath grazing your ear as he whispers, “You just want me, huh? It seems like the girl who wrote this was much more open to the idea of us.”

You jerk your head away, disgusted by how easily he’s taken everything private, every vulnerability, and turned it into another chain to bind you with. You grit your teeth, but he’s still scrolling.

“One more,” he says with false sweetness, pausing for effect as he reads the final message. “I think I’m falling for him. For real. He’s just... I don’t know. He makes me feel safe, like no one else ever has.”

He lets the words hang in the air, his smile fading just a little as he watches your reaction.

“And that,” he says softly, “is the part I like the most.”

His voice lowers, his face inches from yours now. “You felt safe with me. And you know why? Because deep down, you want to. You want to believe I’m the one who can protect you, give you everything you need. And I will. You just have to stop fighting it.”

Your stomach twists as his words sink in, as he lays bare the twisted reality he’s built around you. He wants you to choose this, to let him be the one who controls everything. And he’s using your own desires, your own words, to manipulate you.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears, his infuriating chuckle echoing through your bones, and you can’t stand it anymore. The phone—the embodiment of everything he’s stolen from you—dangles just out of reach, held by his towering frame like it’s a toy, a prize he knows you can’t win.

Your teeth grit, hands curling into fists. The room feels like it’s shrinking, the air too thick to breathe. He’s mocking you. Smiling. Enjoying this.

“Give it to me!” you spit, your voice sharp and desperate, the words cutting through the tense air like glass.

His smile widens, the amusement in his eyes deepening, like your demand only adds fuel to his fire. He raises the phone higher, just enough to make you reach again, to make the gap between you and your freedom feel all the more impossible.

“What was that?” he teases, voice calm, soft—almost too soft. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

You take a step forward, pushing against his chest with all the force you can muster. “I said give it to me!” You try to leap, your fingers brushing against the edge of the phone, but he pulls it back effortlessly, his hand now resting on your waist as if steadying you—as if you need his help.

His chuckle rumbles low, and it makes your skin crawl. “Y/N…” he says, dragging out your name, the amusement thick in his voice. “You really think you can just take it? Like it’s that simple?”

You shove harder against him, your breath coming in short, angry bursts, trying to wriggle free from his grasp, but his hand stays firm on your waist, not letting you get any real distance. “It’s mine! You don’t get to—”

Before you can finish, you jump again, practically climbing him in your attempt to grab the phone. You’re fully pressing against his chest now, using every bit of strength you have, your body coiled with frustration and fury as you reach for the device. But it’s no use. His arm is longer, his height an insurmountable barrier.

He tilts his head slightly, watching you with that insufferable grin, his free hand catching your waist to stop you from going any higher.

“Keep trying, sweetheart,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your skin as you struggle. “But you’re not going to get it.”

His voice is patronizing, soaked with amusement, and it only makes you more desperate, more furious. You plant your feet harder, pushing up with all your strength, but he doesn’t even move. You’re climbing a wall that won’t budge, and the realization stings.

“Give. It. To. Me.” Your voice is tight, angry, each word spat out through gritted teeth as you dig your nails into his arm, still trying to claw your way up, but the phone remains out of reach.

He’s barely even trying to stop you, just lifting the phone higher, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly as he holds you in place. His chuckle deepens, a low rumble of satisfaction.

“Why are you fighting so hard for something that’s already mine?” he asks, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “These words... you gave them to me. You already handed me your trust.”

You try to twist out of his grasp, your breath catching in your throat, but his hand stays firm, his body unyielding.

“You don’t own me,” you snap, your voice shaking with both rage and humiliation. “You don’t get to decide—”

His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you back down to the ground, your feet slipping on the floor as you stumble back, breathless and furious. He pockets the phone slowly, as if to remind you that it’s not going anywhere.

His eyes meet yours, dark and amused, his voice low and taunting. “Oh, I’m not deciding anything,” he murmurs, his smile twisting. “You already did.”

Bucky stands over you, tall and unyielding, his shadow looming, making the space around you feel smaller, tighter. His lips curl into that same infuriating smirk, the one that makes your blood boil and sends a thrill of something you don’t want to acknowledge coursing through your veins.

“Asshole,” you mutter again, glaring up at him, refusing to let him see the fear—or worse, the heat—burning inside you.

His eyes gleam with amusement. He kneels slowly, bringing himself to your level, but still towering over you in that way that makes you feel completely trapped, even as you’re free to move.

“What was that?” he asks softly, his voice barely a murmur, though you know he heard you the first time.

You hate how your body betrays you, hate that he knows it too. You bite your lip, trying to steady yourself, to not let him see how much he’s rattling you. But he’s watching you, every small movement, every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. 

You try to push yourself away from him, to put some distance between you, but his hand tightens on your waist, just enough to keep you in place. 

“Say it again,” he whispers, his lips grazing your ear now, sending a jolt of something electric through your body that you wish wasn’t there.

“I said you’re an asshole,” you snap, louder this time, your voice sharp and angry. 

He chuckles, low and dark, and the sound makes your skin prickle with a mix of fury and something you don’t want to acknowledge. 

“I like it when you fight,” he murmurs, his voice soft and teasing, his breath warm against your neck. “It’s cute.”

The heat of his breath on your skin makes you shudder involuntarily, and you grit your teeth, trying to suppress the way your body reacts to him. You want to shove him away, to regain some semblance of control, but your body feels frozen, caught between the urge to push him back and something else entirely. Something you refuse to admit is there.

“Let me go.” you manage, but your voice falters, quieter than you intended, betraying you.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, his hand slides up your side, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His fingers brush against your ribs, the touch light but possessive, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Do you really want me to?” he whispers, his lips now barely an inch from your neck. His words send a shiver racing through your body, and you grit your teeth, determined not to let him see how much he’s affecting you.

“Bucky...” you start, trying to sound firm, trying to hold onto the anger that’s slipping through your fingers, but your voice falters as you realise how close he is, how the heat between you is suffocating.

He smirks again, his thumb brushing over your waist in a way that sends an involuntary tremor through you. “You can say my name all you want,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that makes your stomach twist. “But we both know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”

Your body tenses at his words, both from the insult and the way his hand moves, as if he’s unravelling you, piece by piece. You try to pull back again, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you that you’re not going anywhere.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?” you snap, trying to regain some ground, some sense of control.

He chuckles again, that same low, maddening sound that sets your nerves on edge. 

“I know more than you think,” he says, his hand moving higher, his fingers brushing against the curve of your ribs now, his touch sending sparks through your skin. “You’ve been trying to fight this from the beginning, but we both know where this is going.”

The space between you is shrinking, the heat between your bodies unbearable, and you can feel the tension pulling you in, your body betraying you in the worst possible way. You bite your lip, trying to focus, to remember why you hate him, why you should be pushing him away. 

But he’s so close now, his lips barely a breath away from your skin, and you can feel his words more than hear them as he leans in, his voice a whisper that sends a tremor through your entire body.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck, and for a moment, you can’t think, can’t breathe, as the world narrows to just the two of you.

You should push him away. You want to push him away. But instead, you’re sitting there, heart racing, torn between the anger burning inside you and the heat building between you. And Bucky knows it. He sees it in your eyes, in the way your breath catches, and that only makes his smirk grow wider.

“Just admit it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “You want this as much as I do.”

Your breath hitches, your fists clenching as you fight the urge to react, to give him the satisfaction. But the tension between you is unbearable now, suffocating, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep fighting it.

Bucky tilts his head to the side, his eyes dark and hooded, slowly drifting down to your lips. His lips are so close to yours now, hovering millimetres away, teasing you, taunting you with the possibility of something more. 

But he doesn’t close the gap. He just hovers there, waiting, watching your reaction, drawing it out. His smirk deepens, satisfied, as if he’s savoring the way you’re teetering on the edge, caught between your instinct to pull away and the pull of something undeniable between you.

Your mind races, the rational part of you screaming to shove him away, to stop this before it goes any further. But your body—your traitorous body—responds to the heat between you, every nerve alight, betraying the internal conflict waging within you. 

"You're holding back," he whispers, his voice low, taunting, the words vibrating in the air between you. His breath brushes your skin, so close you can almost feel his lips move against yours, but still, he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of closing the distance.

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to keep your expression defiant. “You think I’m just going to give in?” you uttered firmly.

Bucky’s smirk grows. He’s not just playing with your emotions; he’s studying you, every breath, every reaction.

“I think you like this,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as silk, the words wrapping around you, making it harder to breathe. “This tension between us, this fight. You crave it.”

His lips are so close you can almost taste the heat of him, but he continues to hold back, leaving you on the brink, trapped in the space between resistance and temptation.

“You’re wrong,” you manage, though your voice falters slightly, betraying you. You hate that he’s gotten this far, that he’s managed to chip away at your defenses, but you refuse to let him see just how much he’s affecting you.

“Am I?” he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours you can barely stand it. His hand tightens slightly on your waist, pulling you closer, but still, he keeps you waiting, holding you in this unbearable tension.

He leans in again, his breath ghosting over your lips, his voice a soft murmur. "I can feel it, Y/N. You're on the edge. Just let go."

Your heart pounds in your chest, every 

Bucky watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing as if he’s weighing your silence, calculating your resistance. Then his smirk returns, a little darker this time, as though he’s decided something in that moment.

"You’re going to see it my way," he murmurs, his voice low, full of certainty. "And I’m going to prove it to you."

His arm wraps around your waist firmly, and before you can react, you’re lifted off the floor. Your breath catches as he throws you over his shoulder with ease, like you weigh nothing. You let out an involuntary gasp, your hands instinctively grabbing at his back, trying to steady yourself as your body hangs over him.

“Bucky!” you protest, your voice sharper now, but it’s drowned out by the sound of his footsteps as he starts walking back toward the stairs.

“Shh,” he says softly, his tone almost playful, but there’s an edge to it, a finality that makes your stomach twist. “You’ll thank me later.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you’re carried back toward the bedroom. You push against his back, but his grip doesn’t loosen, and the casual strength he holds you with only makes your pulse race faster.

You struggle against him, trying to twist out of his grasp, but he only tightens his hold, his voice calm, unbothered. “Fighting me only makes it harder for you, Y/N.”

Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts as he carries you up the stairs, the panic and tension growing with each step. You know where he’s taking you, and the thought of being trapped in that bedroom again sends a chill through your body.

“Put me down!” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear, but Bucky only chuckles softly.

“Oh, I will,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. 

You feel your body shift slightly as Bucky pushes open the door to the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you, and your heart pounds in your ears as you realise there’s no escaping him now.

"Put me down!" you demand, trying to keep your voice steady, though every fiber of your being is on high alert.

Bucky throws you onto the bed with effortless strength. The world spins for a split second, and you land with a bounce, the mattress swallowing your weight. You gasp, disoriented, struggling to regain your composure as you push yourself up on your elbows.

Bucky stands at the foot of the bed, his eyes gleaming with that same infuriating confidence, his smirk widening as he watches your reaction.

"You—" you start, the anger rising in your chest, but before you can finish, he interrupts you, his voice filled with mock innocence.

“What? You told me to put you down,” he says, shrugging casually, as if tossing you onto the bed was the most natural thing in the world. His tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s an edge beneath it—a dark undercurrent that makes it clear he’s still fully in control.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond, caught between the absurdity of his reply and the tension hanging thick in the air. His casual playfulness only heightens the unnerving sense of power he holds over you, as if even your resistance is something he finds amusing.

You narrow your eyes at him, refusing to let him see just how rattled you are. “You know exactly what I meant,” you snap, keeping your voice firm, even as your pulse quickens under his unrelenting gaze.

He tilts his head, feigning innocence again, that infuriating smirk never leaving his lips. “I just follow instructions, doll,” he says, his voice low and teasing, but his eyes tell a different story—dark, dangerous, and full of intent.

You sit up straighter, fighting the feeling of vulnerability that creeps over you, and meet his gaze with unwavering defiance. "You’re not as clever as you think," you say, keeping your tone sharp.

His smirk widens, and he steps closer to the bed, his movements slow, he’s savoring the tension between you. "Oh, I think we both know how clever I am," he replies, his voice dropping to a smooth murmur. 

You sit up slightly, propped on your elbows, your pulse quickening as he approaches. Bucky moves swiftly, his hands coming down on either side of you, caging you in. His body looms over yours, and the mattress dips under the weight of him, pinning you in place. 

The sudden proximity steals the breath from your lungs, and your eyes dart up to meet his. The intensity of his gaze hits you like a physical force, his pupils are blown wide, dilated. His face is so close now that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, his presence suffocating, overwhelming.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

You’re hyper aware of everything—his hands gripping the mattress on either side of you, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the intoxicating scent of him invading your senses. 

You try to look anywhere else, anywhere but where his gaze is leading you. But it’s impossible. His stare pulls at you, like a gravitational force, dragging you into his orbit. And all you can think about is how close he is. Too close. Your heart thuds in your chest, each beat louder than the last, echoing in the silence between you.

Your eyes flicker—just for a second—down to his lips.

You curse yourself instantly for it, but it’s too late. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His smirk deepens, barely perceptible, but you feel it like a jolt of electricity. That knowing look, that arrogant satisfaction that he’s in control, and you’re fighting a battle you can’t win.

You force your eyes back up, meeting his once more, desperate to regain some sense of control, some measure of defiance. But the tension between you is unbearable now, thick like a vice tightening around your chest. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving only the charged space between your lips, the millimeters separating you from him.

Every nerve in your body is on edge, bracing for something you’re not even sure you want to resist.

Bucky leans in just a fraction more, his lips hovering so close to yours that the distance is almost unbearable. His breath mingles with yours, warm and steady, and for a moment, you’re not sure if it’s your heart or his that’s pounding in your ears.

You try—desperately—not to look at his lips again, but it’s like trying to ignore gravity.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The silence is louder than any words he could say. You know what he’s waiting for. He’s waiting for you to break, to give in to the pull you’ve both been fighting for what feels like forever.

Your hands clench at your sides, every muscle in your body tight with the effort of holding back, of not giving in to the dangerous allure of his proximity. But it’s so hard to breathe, so hard to think when he’s this close, when his eyes are this intense, when his lips are right there, almost touching yours.

And just when you think you can’t hold out any longer, that you’ll snap under the pressure of the moment, Bucky’s voice cuts through the silence, low and husky, barely above a whisper.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his breath brushing your lips, sending another shiver down your spine. “Don’t look away.”

You think about defying him, about turning your head and breaking free from the suffocating tension. He was on top of you, all that hard muscle pinning you down to where you couldn’t move. You could feel him everywhere, especially his cock, which was thick against your belly. Fighting him only turned him on, and now you were thinking about sex.

And you hate that he’s right.

Just when the air feels too thick to breathe, he pulls away.

The shift is sudden, leaving you lying there on the bed, breathless and confused. Your heart pounds in your ears, and you can’t quite make sense of what just happened. One second, he was so close—too close—and the next, he’s stepping back, putting space between you.

You blink, trying to catch your breath, your mind scrambling to process the whirlwind of emotions and sensations that have left you dizzy and disoriented. The heat from his body lingers on your skin, but his absence feels colder than you expected.

Bucky stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at you, his face now unreadable. The smirk is gone, replaced by a cool, detached expression that makes your stomach churn. It’s as if the moment you shared—the one that left you teetering on the edge—never happened. His eyes, once dark and intense, are now distant, cold.

“Be a good girl and stay there,” he says, his voice flat, authoritative. There's no teasing in his tone now, just a command.

The words hang in the air, and you find yourself frozen, unable to move, unsure whether it's from the weight of his command or the confusion swirling in your chest. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that he’s pulled back, leaving you stranded in the wake of something you didn’t quite understand—and maybe weren’t ready for.

He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't check to see if you’ll obey. He simply turns, walking away, leaving you lying there on the bed, torn between the need to push back and the sinking realisation that he’s still in control, no matter how much space he puts between you.

× × × ×

Bucky’s POV

There’s a moment when power shifts—when control is no longer just something you hold, but something you feel, deep in your bones. I see it in your eyes, the flicker of confusion, of vulnerability, as I step away from the bed. You think you understand what’s happening, that you have a handle on your own defiance, but the truth is, you’re already exactly where I want you. And isn’t that the beauty of it?

The tension between us was intoxicating, wasn’t it? The way you looked at me, fighting the pull, the temptation, the inevitable. I gave you space to breathe, to think. But now, it’s time to decide what comes next.

I step out of the bedroom, the door closing behind me with the softest click. You probably think this is your moment to regroup, maybe catch your breath, wonder where I’ve gone. But, let’s be honest, I’m never really gone, am I? I’m in your thoughts right now, circling your every breath, every heartbeat, while you lie there and try to pretend you can fight this.

I move down the hallway, not in a hurry. I savor this, the anticipation hanging in the air between us. When I reach the room, it’s quiet. Still. Organized. Everything in this space has been meticulously laid out, prepared for this moment. Choices, all of them deliberate. I don’t rush this, because why would I? I like to take my time. And you? You’ll feel that patience in every step I take.

I look over the table, where everything is waiting. The blindfold catches my eye first. Simple, soft. It’s always the smallest things that strip away the most control, isn’t it? You rely on your sight, that sense of security you have when you can gauge what’s coming, what I’m doing. The blindfold removes that. You’ll be left with nothing but the sound of my voice and the weight of your own breath. Your heart will race faster the moment it goes dark. You’ll feel it—your world narrowing, closing in.

But there’s more. My fingers brush against the bed restraints. These are designed to remind you of something fundamental: the boundaries I set are not negotiable. No matter how hard you might try, these restraints are proof that you’re not getting away. You’ll strain against them, at first, testing your limits, feeling that surge of defiance before you realize just how futile it is. That moment, when your body gives in to the restraint—that’s when you’ll understand that the control was never yours to begin with.

I pick them both up—the blindfold in one hand, the restraints in the other. But before heading back to you, I stop, glancing at myself in the mirror in this room. The tension in the air, the power of what’s coming next, calls for something more. Something raw. I remove my shirt, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air hits my skin, but it does nothing to temper the heat building inside. This isn’t just about control anymore; it’s about presence. Dominance.

× × × × 

YOUR POV

The door creaks open slowly, and you’re already on your feet. You don’t know what your plan is—if you even have one—but lying there, waiting like some docile thing, that’s not you. You can feel the tension in your legs, every muscle taut as you stand by the bed, trying to control your breathing, trying to look like you’ve made a conscious decision, even though the truth is, you don’t know what you’re going to do next.

And then he appears.

Bucky steps back into the room, shirtless. His bare chest catches your eye, the light cutting sharp angles across his skin, emphasizing every line of muscle. For a moment, it steals your breath. Not because of how he looks—but because it’s another calculated move. He’s always thinking, always pushing, and now this is about more than just words or actions—it’s about his very presence. It fills the room, like he’s claiming the space itself.

Your eyes instinctively flick down to his hands. He’s holding something—dark fabric and... yes, restraints. The blindfold dangles from his fingers, the soft black material barely catching the light. The restraints, sleek and unyielding, swing lightly from his other hand.

And then he notices you.

He stops, just inside the doorway, and for a moment, the air between you shifts. His eyes darken, and you catch the subtle frown that pulls at the corner of his mouth as he takes in the fact that you’re no longer on the bed. The smallest hint of irritation flickers across his face, quickly replaced by that cool, composed exterior. But it was there. You saw it.

Good.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he considers you, and for a moment, neither of you move. It’s a silent standoff, and you can feel the weight of his disapproval pressing against you. 

But then, a slow, exhale leaves his lips, and his expression shifts. He takes a step forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His frown is gone, replaced by something colder, more calculating.

“You’re out of bed,” he says, his voice low, calm, but there’s an edge to it, as though he’s daring you to explain. “Lie down.”

You don’t. You stand your ground, refusing to retreat, even though your pulse is hammering in your chest. You know this won’t change the inevitable, but you’re not going to make it easy for him. 

“Don’t fight me,” he whispers, his voice low and smooth. “It will be easier for you if you don’t make trouble.” 

“But I like trouble,” You said without thinking.

You hadn’t thought about how this would come across, though. Your vpice thick with defiance, you realize what you’ve done. You’ve just challenged him. Again.

His expression went hard, a little scary. “I will give you the count of three. If you’re not in bed before then, there will be consequences.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. He isn’t bluffing.

Your gaze flickers down to his hands, and you see them—the blindfold, the restraints. He’s holding them loosely, his fingers flexing as if he’s already deciding exactly how to use them. 

“One. . .”

He takes a step forward, his eyes locked on you, his presence overwhelming in the small space. You feel your pulse spike, But you stand your ground, glaring back at him, the fire of your own defiance still flickering even as fear claws at your throat.

“Two. . .”

The sound of the second number sends a rush of panic through you. He’s not going to wait much longer. You know that. But you can’t bring yourself to back down.

“Three.”

The word comes out soft, but the weight behind it is crushing. He doesn’t give you time to react. His hand moves in a blur, reaching for you, and before you can take a breath, he’s closed the distance between you, his grip firm but not painful as he grabs your wrist.

The blindfold and restraints in his other hand hang there, a silent threat, a promise of what’s to come.

“You made your choice,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours, and the dark amusement in his eyes is gone now. “Now, you'll have to deal with the consequences…” He pauses, his gaze flickering over you, and a wicked smile curls on his lips. "And trust me, sweetheart, you're going to feel every single one of them."

And you know, as he pulls you toward the bed, that this game is over.

But the consequences? They’re just beginning.

“No!” you grunted, you bucked and kicked out with your legs, hoping like hell you caught him in the junk, “Get off me!”

Bucky barely flinches, his grip tightening as he maneuvers effortlessly to pin you down. The way he handles you—strong, unyielding—sends a fresh wave of panic through your body.

“Nice try,” he mutters, his voice calm, controlled, that terrifying composure still in place. “But it’s going to take a lot more than that to stop me.”

His hand moves swiftly to your wrist, his fingers wrapping around it with ease. You feel the smooth leather strap, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s threading it through the buckle.

You buck again, a surge of panic flooding your chest, but his knee presses firmly into your legs, pinning you down. He moves quickly, efficiently, pulling your arm to the side as the leather restraint tightens around your wrist with a sharp pull.

The soft creak of leather is the only sound as he secures the second strap to your other wrist, buckling it in place, leaving you spread wide, helpless. Your chest heaves with the effort, but it’s too late—the leather holds fast, unyielding.

"See?" he says, his voice low, that dangerous smile tugging at his lips again. “You can fight all you want, but it’s only going to make this more interesting for me.”

“I hate you!”

He didn’t answer as he strode toward the end of the bed. His strong naked chest was distracting in the greyness of daylight, with a myriad of scars and rough marks criss-crossing his skin like a road map. This was a cruel man, unyielding and unafraid of violence.

You pressed your lips together when he produced a set of the same restraints at the foot of the bed. 

Oh, shit. 

Bucky grabbed your ankle and worked the cuff over your foot. 

“You don’t need to do this,” you rushed out, bargaining.“I’m not going anywhere.” Thanks to the wrist restraints.

The cuff pulled tight on your right leg. Satisfied, Bucky moved to the other side and you started taking deep breaths, fighting the urge to kick and fight. What was he planning? Why did he need you spread-eagle on the bed?

When you were tied down, he climbed onto the bed, his muscles shifting as he crawled between your thighs, and your nerves twitched and twisted in your belly. This wasn’t good.

He stops in front of you and slips the blindfold over your eyes, plunging you into darkness. Your breath hitches, and you feel a surge of panic rising in your chest. You try to pull away, he grabs your chin, holding you in place. 

You can feel the heat of him, the way his body is so close to yours, and it makes you feel trapped, helpless. Every sense is heightened now that you can’t see. Every sound, every movement, every touch feels amplified, and you hate it. You hate how vulnerable you are.

With a swift, almost ruthless motion, Bucky grabs the delicate fabric of your nightgown, and in one clean, forceful pull, it rips in half. The sound of the tear echoes through the room, loud and raw, the fragile material giving way under his hands. The shredded pieces dangle from his fingers for a brief moment before they fall to the floor, discarded. 

His palms slid up your thighs and under your nightie and goose bumps broke out all along your skin. “Should I let you come, little girl?” he says, his voice a seductive whisper in your ear. 

Heat bloomed in your pussy, those words charged in ways you couldn’t begin to unpack. Was he really going to play the daddy card right now? Fuck. It was like he could see into your mind on how best to manipulate you. 

“Don’t,” You pleaded, not even caring that you sounded weak.

He pushed your panties to the side, gently tracing your entrance with his middle finger. “Just as I thought. Wet.” He brought his finger to his mouth and licked your arousal off. “You like that, when I call you little girl.”

“No, I don’t,” You said, your chest heaving with the force of your breath. “You don’t need to do this.” 

“Do you ache inside?” He slipped his finger directly into your channel, pressing deep until he was completely seated. Then he curled his finger, hitting a spot that you'd sworn was an urban myth.

Your back bowed off the bed, limbs pulling tight against the restraints, and you bit your lip to stay quiet. You did not want to think about how good any part of him felt inside you, how that finger wasn’t nearly enough. 

“Please,” you panted, not sure what you were asking for. He pumped his hand, the friction both delicious and frustrating. Then he added another finger, going slow until it was in, and you whimpered. He’s playing with you, you know it and he’s enjoying every second of it.

“You can feel it huh?” He said, “Your pussy is sucking in my fingers. So greedy. Don’t worry. I am going to take very good care of you.”

You held your breath. You didn’t know what was about to happen. You only knew it was going to be bad. If he teased you, it would be awful. Worse than awful. If he actually pleasured you, if you surrendered to him, it would be humiliating. He would gain the upper hand, and that was what scared you most. 

Licking you dry lips, you forced out, “I don’t need you to take care of me. Let me take care of you instead.”

He pumped his fingers lazily, in and out, in and out, dragging against your sensitive tissues. You inhaled sharply, the pleasure streaking through you like lightning. 

“Hmm keep telling yourself that.” He said like he doesn’t believe you, because he actually doesn't.

Your body strained toward the source of that bliss, chasing it and making a liar out of yourself. 

“Yes, I do. If you just—please—don't.” You could barely keep track of the conversation as he fucked you with his fingers.

“Hear how wet your pussy is for me?” The slick sounds filled the bedroom and you wanted to die of shame. He chuckled.

“Go fuck yourself!” you snapped, hoping your words would have some bite.

“Why would I? When you're right here, dripping and ready for me?” Bucky murmured, then flicked his tongue unexpectedly over your clit. You tried to keep your expression from revealing anything you were feeling, but when he twisted and pumped at the same time, you moaned deep in your throat.

Then he started eating you out. He licked and sucked like you were a meal and he was starving, his attention focused on your clit, swirling and sucking, and you suddenly knew what you had been missing out on all these years. Using the flat of his tongue, he massaged your clit, then drew it into his mouth to suck on it, again. At the same time, he strummed your clit with his tongue, rubbing and pressing. Bucky mastered your body in seconds, like some sort of pussy wizard, because you were instantly on the verge of coming. Your thighs started shaking and your lungs couldn’t pull in air.

And he stopped. 

You gasped, lurching, you tried to bring yourself closer to where you think his face is, where his breath felt hot. You could feel him smirking.

× × × ×

Bucky’s POV

Your thighs are trembling now, shaking in that way that tells me you're teetering on the edge, every muscle in your body straining. I watch, fascinated, as your lungs struggle to pull in air, your body begging for relief, for release. 

And then, I stop.

You gasp, a desperate sound, your body lurching as you try to chase what I've just taken from you. You try to bring yourself closer, your movements frantic, instinctive, as if by sheer will alone. Your head turns, your lips parting, reaching for where you think my face is—where my breath felt hot against your skin moments ago.

But I don't move. I smirk, watching the way your body fights itself, craving more but knowing I control every last part of this moment. 

"You're so predictable," I murmur, my voice low, almost mocking, but there's a darkness in it that lingers. "Always wanting more... always needing to be just a little closer, don't you?”

I run my hands down your sides, feeling every tense muscle beneath my fingertips, relishing the way your body responds to even the lightest touch. You arch, trying to make contact, to feel something—anything. But then, my hands lift off you, and the absence of touch sends a ripple of frustration through you. I can feel it, the tension mounting, the need rising higher. 

I reach across for the bullet vibrator, my fingers curling around the small device. I press the button, the faint hum vibrating in my hand as I adjust it to the lowest setting. The sound is barely audible over your labored breathing, but you know. You feel what's coming next. 

I lean down, my lips brushing your ear, my breath hot against your skin. "You know how this works," I whisper, my voice soft, almost tender. "I decide when. I decide how much. And you? You're going to beg for it." 

You can feel the vibration ever so slightly as I circle the air above your lovely hard nipples. I massage the bullet extremely gently around the outer edge of one of your nipples and then do the same with the other. I move it in slow circles, like a promise I’ve yet to fulfil. I can see the way your body responds—tense, trembling, straining for something more. 

“You feel that?” I murmur, my voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Just enough to drive you insane, isn’t it? Just enough to remind you that I hold everything you want in the palm of my hand.”

You shudder, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body arching slightly as you try to press closer to the source of the vibration. The frustration is written all over your face, and it’s beautiful, so beautiful. I watch you, drinking in every inch of your reaction, savouring the power I have over you in this moment.

“You love it,” I whisper, my breath brushing against your ear, sending another shiver down your spine. “You love that you can’t control this. That I can make you beg for something as simple as this.”

“Just... do it,” you gasp, your voice trembling with frustration, but there’s still a spark in it, something stubborn. “Stop playing games.”

I chuckle softly, amused by your words. Stop playing games? Oh, but you and I both know that this is the game, and you’re playing it just as much as I am. You’re caught between wanting more and hating that you have to ask for it, and that’s what makes this so deliciously satisfying.

“Is that what you want?” I ask, lowering the vibrator just a little, letting it barely skim the surface of your areola—just enough for you to feel it, but not enough to satisfy. “You think you’re ready for more? You think you deserve it?”

You grit your teeth, trying to stay composed, but I can see the cracks forming. The frustration, the need. It’s all there, simmering just beneath the surface.

“Please…” you whisper, barely audible, and there it is—that hint of desperation I’ve been waiting for.

I smile, triumphant, and press the button to increase the intensity just slightly, letting the vibration pulse more firmly against your breast. 

“That’s better,” I murmur, my voice low, “But I’ll need more than that if you really want it.”

You gasp, your body reacting to the sudden change in sensation, your breath hitching as you bite back another plea. And I know, without a doubt, you’ll give me what I want.

You bite your lip, stifling another sound as the vibrations skate across your skin, and I watch with fascination as you try to maintain your composure. Your chest rises and falls with each laboured breath, but you’re still clinging to that last bit of resistance. You haven’t said it.

The word. The name.

I let the silence stretch out between us, the vibrator humming softly against your nipple, just enough to keep you on edge but nowhere near enough to tip you over it. You know what I want, and I know you’re holding onto it. That delicious defiance. The last weapon you think you have.

But I have all the time in the world.

“You’re holding out,” I murmur, my voice soft, almost a purr. “I can feel it. You’re so close, but you’re fighting it. Why?” I bring my face closer, my breath hot against your neck as I whisper, “You know what will get you what you want.”

You’re fighting me, refusing to give in to the game. I can almost see the wheels turning in your mind—I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Say it,” I murmur, my lips brushing your ear now, the vibration of the toy a steady hum against your skin. “You know what I’m waiting for. Just say it, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Your lips part, and for a second, I think you might give in. But then, through clenched teeth, you growl, “I’m not saying it.”

I raise an eyebrow, amused by your defiance. You’re trying so hard to resist, even though your body is betraying you, trembling under the light touch of the vibrator.

“We both know you want to say it, go on,” I whisper, my voice soft, dark, full of promise. “Say it. Say what I know you’re dying to say.”

You want to give in, but you’re too proud to make it easy. And so, in the smallest, most defiant voice, you mutter, “I don’t need to say it.”

I chuckle softly, shaking my head as I pull the vibrator away for a moment, denying you the one thing you want most. 

“Oh, you’ll say it,” I say, my voice calm, certain. “Because you know that’s how you get what you need.”

I reach down, pressing the button again, increasing the intensity just a little more. I bring it close, hovering over your skin but not quite touching. The tease. The torment.

“You want Daddy to make it better, don’t you?” I finally whisper, my voice almost a growl, low and intimate, right at your ear.

You think you can outlast me. You think your silence is some kind of victory, but I can see right through you. The stubbornness is admirable, really. I almost want to let you hold onto it for a little longer. Almost.

But then again, why deny myself the pleasure of watching you break?

I lower the vibrator back down, this time pressing it directly against your nipple—not the teasing, ghosting touch from earlier, but real contact. You moaned, your body arching against the restraints as the sudden sensation hits you, and I press the button again, increasing the intensity. The vibrations pulse through you, low and constant, just enough to drive you crazy.

To see you this turned on and into it at this early stage makes me want to burst. I continue to tease your nipples with the bullet, making you wriggle with pleasure as you lean your head back into the pillow. I watch your beautiful face intently as the vibrations gently massage your nipples—you look amazing— radiant, sexy, fuckable—and I am so excited to have you in this position—but I am taking my time. 

I want you to be wetter than you have ever been, have more orgasms than you have ever had and have you moaning more than you have ever moaned.

I lean in, my mouth hovering near your ear, my breath hot against your skin. “You’re close to saying it,” I whisper, my voice low, knowing. “I can feel it. You’re just one word away.”

You grit your teeth, trying to hold on—the way they’re starting to lose focus, the way your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps. You’re teetering on the edge, and you know it.

I smirk, watching you struggle, your body trembling under the relentless vibrations, your mind fighting the inevitable. 

“Still not saying it?” I ask softly, almost amused. “You think you’re winning by holding out? By staying quiet?”

I tilt my head, studying you, and then my hand moves—slow, deliberate—between your thighs. Whike gently stroking the vibrating bullet down the side of your body, making you wriggle. As I get to your hips, you open your legs further, wanting the vibrations on your clit. I stroke the bullet up from your hip and across the top of your beautifully shaved pubic line, as you thrust your crotch forward, wanting it. 

I resist the urge to give you what you want immediately—instead lightly running the bullet down the side of your pussy, being careful not to touch your luscious pussy lips. I position myself in between your legs as the bullet gets closer and closer to your clit. As it edges nearer, I see your pussy glisten from its wetness—oh my God it looks amazing and I love how you have your legs open, allowing me to see it all. How I want to devour it, again—but there is something you need to say first.

You whimper, your body shaking, your breath ragged. I can feel it—you’re so close to giving in.

And then, just as I feel you start to unravel, I pull back. I stop everything. The vibrator, the pressure—it all stops.

You gasp, your body lurching forward, desperate for the sensation to continue. You try to press closer, try to make contact, but I keep my distance, pulling away just enough to leave you hanging in agonising anticipation.

Your body trembles, your frustration spilling over as you try to catch your breath, and I know you’re about to break. You need this, and you know it.

I lean in, my lips brushing your ear, my voice soft but commanding. “Say it,” I murmured, the final push. “Say it, or I’ll stop this right now. I’ll leave you like this, desperate, aching, with nothing.”

Your breath hitches, and I can see the war playing out in your mind. The defiance, the pride—it’s all crumbling beneath the weight of your need. You’re trembling, your body screaming for more, and you know I have the power to give it to you. But you have to say it.

“Say it,” I repeat, my voice a low growl. “Say it, and I’ll give you what you want.”

For a moment, I think you’ll hold out just a little longer. But then, with a trembling breath, you whisper the word, barely audible, the last piece of your pride shattering. The bullet is now hovering just above your clit and I slowly press down—I smile satisfyingly and your legs open up further to reveal your lovely wet pussy.

“Daddy…”

I smile, victorious, and without hesitation, I press the vibrator back against you, harder this time, increasing the intensity, my hand moving in sync with the relentless pulse.

“There we go,” I murmur, my voice dark and satisfied. “Good girl.”

The sight is driving me mad—but I am focused on giving you as much pleasure as you can handle. I slowly rub it up and down your clit as the vibrations run through you. You slowly lift your hips forward, wanting the vibrations lower down, which I oblige. The bullet is edging closer to your glistening pussy—but then I reach across and spread your beautiful lips apart with my fingers—and start to brush the bullet up one and then down the other, in circular motions. This is driving you wild as it edges closer to entering you. I move the bullet down ever so slightly so it is resting, waiting to go in—but then move it all the way up to your clit.

The fact you don't know what's coming next is driving you mad—which makes you look even sexier, if that is possible. You’re at the mercy of what comes next, and the fact that you can’t predict it is pushing you to the edge. You hate it, don’t you? But it also pulls you in. It makes you irresistible.

I go to the next level of vibrations and flick the bullet down from your clit, entering you ever so slightly and then move it back up to your clit, vibrating all of your core. As I do this, you open your legs further, now fully relaxed and turned on and let out a sexy moan—wanting more and more. 

All that fight, all that defiance, just to end up here? It’s almost poetic. It makes me wonder—how will you explain this to your friends? Will you tell them how easily you gave in, how all that stubbornness melted away? Or will you keep this secret tucked away, something only we’ll know?

For the first time, you try to move your arms down to control the pleasure—but then realise you are tied up and I am in control, and let your arms drop behind agan. It's at this point it is time to take it up a level.

You've always been a freak, haven’t you? I saw the signs, the little hints you thought were so subtle. Makes me wonder if this whole act—the defiance, the resistance—is just your way of pretending you aren’t begging for it. You don’t want control, not really. You want to be pushed to the edge, and I’m more than happy to take you there.

I turn the bullet off, giving you some relief from the pleasure for a few seconds - then lean forward and kiss the inside of your left thigh—moving across to the right thigh—but pause over your wet pussy—my mouth just millimeters from your glistening lips—and let out a breath of excitement that you can feel—then move to your right thigh and kiss the inside.

Jesus—if only you could see yourself right now. I almost want to take a video, something to remember this by, a little keepsake of how you look when you finally let go. And then I remember… your phone’s already in my pocket.

I hover over you, taking my time, savoring the moment. With careful precision, I pull it out and position the phone in just the right angle, the best view of you—completely vulnerable, completely mine.

Maybe you’ll watch this back later. Maybe you’ll see yourself the way I see you now—completely undone, stripped of that defiance you cling to so desperately. It’ll be a reminder, a little piece of this moment that you can never escape. And I’ll watch you realise, all over again, how much you need me.

You shift beneath me, your breath shaky, and then, through the haze of tension, your voice breaks the silence. “What are you doing?” The blindfold makes your tone sharper, more vulnerable—unsure of what’s coming next.

You can’t see me, but I know you’re feeling everything. “Tell me,” you whisper, almost a demand, though your voice trembles at the edges. Even blindfolded, you’re still trying to cling to some control.

“Is that how you ask?” I reply, my voice calm, but with that edge of authority you’re trying so hard to ignore. You tense, knowing exactly what I’m getting at, but you’re stubborn, always trying to hold onto that last bit of control.

I lean in closer, my breath warm against your ear. “You know what I want to hear. Try again.”

Your lips twitched what I think is annoyance, “Daddy, please tell me what you’re doing.”

I lean in, my breath barely brushing your ear, “You want to know what I’m doing? I’m setting your phone right here,” I say, patting the bedside table. “Perfectly positioned. Just in case you want to watch this later—see how you look when you let go.”

You shift beneath me, tense, trying to decipher every sound, every movement. “I want you to remember exactly what happens next,” I continue, my fingers trailing lightly down your side. “Because you asked for this. And now, you’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

You are aching for more—so I reach for the wand, turn it on and apply it directly to your clit, sending new sensations through your body. I am moving the wand back and forth from your clit to your juicy pussy, vibrations covering all of you. As I move it all around your beautiful pussy, I can hear and see how wet you are. The circular motion around all of your pussy is taking you to orgasm—but then I stop suddenly, and you catch your breath. 

“No!” you shouted. “Don’t stop. Oh, God.” 

I pressed a kiss to your thigh. “Beg me, sweetheart. Beg me to make you come.” 

“Why are you doing this to me? You fucking psychopath!” 

I know you were right there, hovering on the edge, air sawing in and out of your lungs. You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry. You wanted to claw my face with your fingernails. I know you’re wanting to crawl into my lap and ride my cock to orgasm. 

“Those are not the words. Try again. “Say it and I’ll let you come.”

It is now time to up it again, so I squeeze some pleasure gel in my hand and smother the top of the wand in it. I then grab the bullet and rub more pleasure gel on that too. I now have the wand in one hand and the bullet in the other both vibrating and ready to make you cum. I press the wand gently onto your clit as the bullet slowly enters you, making you take a deep breath and blurt out

“Fuck, Daddy—Please make me come.”

From the look on your face and the words coming out of your mouth, I know you are in ecstasy and it makes my cock throb so much. I ask you to tell me how it feels and you say ‘Amazing, Daddy, please don't stop, I love it.’ Your words and sounds as you take the pleasure turn me on so much.

My eyes darted towards the camera, my eyes communicating: Are you watching? Do you hear yourself?

Your legs are fully open now as I continue to work the bullet in and out of you slowly and the wand on your clit. You are so wet so I decide to switch things up—I take the bullet and gently rub it up and down your clit whilst pointing the wand directly at your pussy. I start to slowly push the wand head against your pussy lips and flick it up and down, the dual vibrations sending you into a frenzy. Oh my God—you look sensational, irresistible—I am in total ecstasy just watching your reactions to the vibrating and your orgasms. 

Your legs, spread apart more, trembling mote, and as I slowly pull the bullet back, your pussy pushes it out and a squirt of your juices shoot out at me. I bet you heard yourself yelling as if from a distance, the high so unbelievably good, better than any drug you'd ever tried. It seemed to go on for days but was probably only seconds. As you came down, the shame crept in to replace the euphoria.

I have never heard or seen you do this before and it makes me even harder, if that is possible. It's like unwrapping a gift that you didn’t even know you wanted, but suddenly can’t imagine living without. I almost want to thank you for the privilege—almost. But that would ruin the moment, wouldn't it?

I slowly start to pull the bullet back again, and it happens again—your beautiful pussy pushes out the bullet and squirts your juices all over my hand. I can now see a wet patch underneath you, which drives me wild. The sight of you orgasming, squirting and gushing is almost too much. I wave the wand all around your soaking wet pussy, juices gushing out of you as I do. I turn the bullet and wand off and just sit there looking at your pulsating and dripping wet pussy and then your gorgeous face as you recover. I am in total awe—

I glance down at the mess you’ve made, my lips curling into a slow, almost proud smile. “Well, would you look at that,” I murmur, teasing, with a hint of mockery. “Miss perfect, always so put together, now completely… undone.”

I lean in, my breath warm against your ear, enjoying the way you squirm at the sound of my voice. “It’s almost impressive, really. I never thought you’d let things get this messy. But here you are, all flustered and out of sorts. Makes me wonder if you secretly like it this way.”

I chuckle softly, pulling back just enough to see the reaction play out on your face. “And honestly? I think it's kind of adorable. Watching you, of all people, fall apart like this.”

I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. “I guess being a messy girl suits you.”

You grit your teeth, your voice dripping with frustration as you snap, “Fuck you.” The words hit the air like you’re hoping they’ll cut me, but all I feel is amusement curling in my chest, that familiar, sick satisfaction.

“Ooo, fuck me, huh?” I echo, my voice dripping with mockery, like I’m savoring the taste of your defiance. “That’s adorable. Are you giving me hints?”

You growl in frustration, the sound barely contained, your annoyance bubbling over. I laugh softly, watching you struggle against the moment. “Oh, don’t be mad. I’m just trying to keep up with your subtle suggestions,” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “But I guess someone’s a little touchy, aren’t they?”

The frustration in your eyes behind the black silk only makes the moment sweeter. You’re trying so hard to fight, to stay defiant, but I can see right through it. And it’s entertaining.

Without breaking my smirk, I glance over at the camera on the bedside, locking eyes with it for a moment, letting the weight of this moment be captured.

I turn my gaze back to you, the satisfaction in my smile only deepening. “See? It’s all right here, caught on tape. You’ll thank me for it later.”

I move myself upwards, leaning over you, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you pant, every breath shaky and uneven. My fingers trace gently across your cheek, I lean in slowly, my lips hovering just above yours, my breath mingling with yours. I intend for it to be gentle, just a small taste of power, but then—you moved.

You push upward, taking control of the kiss, pulling me into it with a hunger I didn’t expect. For a split second, I freeze, caught off guard by the way you turn the tables, the way stuck your tongue down my throat passionately. 

You’re not just reacting. You’re taking.

I am taken aback as I thought you were recovering but then you whisper in my ear, “I need your cock in my mouth whilst you fuck me with the rabbit.” 

Insatiable. 

I’m frozen, my mind racing to catch up with what I just heard.

“Oh my god…” I murmur, half to myself, the disbelief quickly melting into a slow, satisfied smile. I pull back, just enough to look at you, the amusement and intrigue sparking in my eyes.

I shake my head slightly, chuckling. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?” I pause, before I lean in close again, my voice dropping to a low whisper.

“But if you want that…” I tease, my lips brushing against your ear, “you’re going to have to say the magic word.” My smirk deepens, waiting for that final surrender. 

“Daddy,” you drawled so seductively, “Please put your cock in my mouth, I want to suck it while I come.” 

Music to my ears.

I lean forward and kissed you again, sucking on your tongue. I can see that you want your hands free to feel me, you can hear me unzipping my jeans, the sound of it makes you writhe with excitement—but no, you don’t get to have that privilege yet.

I move to the side of you, on my knees and reach back to get the rabbit, gently stroking it down your chest, in between your tits. As I get near your pussy, I squeeze some pleasure gel all over it and then turn it on, the ears and the shaft vibrating on the lowest setting. I rub the tip downwards on your clit, you tilt your head up as I move forward on my knees and your mouth is already open, waiting for it. 

Whilst you are waiting to taste my throbbing rock-hard cock, I slide the rabbit down further, gliding across your wet pussy lips and then I reposition it so the tip is resting against your pussy, ready and waiting to enter you.

As I move my hips forward slowly and my cock starts to enter your eager mouth, I do the same with the rabbit inside your pussy. Inch by inch my cock feels your mouth as the rabbit fills you. The slow rhythm of my cock sliding to the back of your throat and then to the edge of your lips is matched with the rabbit doing the same to your pussy—slow and gentle strokes, all the way in and then all the way out, just resting on your lips. The noises you make as the rabbit enters you fully, the ears vibrating your clit, are sensational and matched by the sight of your mouth wrapped around my cock and arms stretched across the bed, tied helplessly but taking all that I have to give.

You start to speed up sucking my cock, slurping on it, loving it filling your mouth  and this is my queue to match that speed and rhythm with the rabbit—you are so wet that it is gliding in and out of you. All the way in and then out again. Still not fast—but not slow anymore—as you rock your head back and then thrust forward, taking all of me in your mouth. You then slow down and lick around my tip, and I do the same with the rabbit, just the tip rubbing around your open pussy. Then you push forward and take my cock, upto my balls, all the way in your mouth and I slowly push the rabbit all the way in you—as far as it can go, the ears in perfect position to stimulate your clit again. You hold me there in your mouth, not moving at all, and I do the same with the rabbit. This is so passionate and sexy—I could shoot my cum down your throat now—but no way. 

I continue to match your speed and rhythm with the rabbit, letting you have some control. But now it's time for me to take that control back—and taste your smooth, shaven, delicious pussy. So I slowly and gently slide the rabbit out of you as I also pull my cock out of your mouth. As both leave you, you let out the most gorgeous and sexy moan, and—

Was that a smile?

Oh, I saw it. You tried to hide it, but there it was, slipping through for just a moment. And honestly? That’s a huge turn-on. 

I move to the end of the bed, in between your legs, my mouth inches away from your amazing pussy. I can't tell you how gorgeous it is—the mere sight of it makes me want to come. I push your knees as far apart as they can go to admire your soaking wet pussy. I can see your clit bulging, wanting attention. I can see your lips slightly spread apart and shining from your wetness. I follow your lips down, drinking in this magnificent sight —until my eyes lock on to your pussy, which is aching to be filled.

I slowly edge my mouth close to you, and then take one giant lick, from the bottom of your pussy to the top, with the whole of my tongue.

“Oh my f—uck,” you arched wildly against the restraints. You’re so sensitive now, “Bucky—Daddy. . .”

"Please," you whisper, your voice shaky, hesitant, like you’re not sure if you should even say it. But you do. And it’s music to my ears, “I want you. . .”

I tilt my head slightly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Oh, baby,” I murmur, my tone dripping with amusement, “you want me? I think I need a little more than that.”

I watch you squirm, enjoying every second of your hesitation, savoring the way you’re trying so hard to find the right words. “Come on now,” I add, my voice soft but laced with command. “I need to hear exactly what you want. You’re already begging—why stop there?”

I chuckle lightly, leaning in closer. “Let’s not play shy now, not after how far you’ve come.”

Using my thumb and finger on each side, I prize open your pussy lips. You are so open and I can see you pulsating. You push your buttocks into the mattress, which elevates your pussy ever so slightly—meaning my tongue is at the exact height and pointing directly at you. 

“Your cock daddy. . .please, I need to feel you inside me.”

I chuckle, “Soon, my good girl.”

I push my head forward until my tongue enters your pussy, your juices flowing out either side of my tongue. They taste amazing as they ooze into my mouth. I didn’t stop, either, fucking you with his tongue, growling as I held your legs open as wide as they would go. 

“You are so wet,” he snarled. “I fucking love it!” 

“So good,” you muttered, long past the point of coherence. “Yes, it’s so good.”

The corners of your mouth lifting as you let out a satisfying smile, your hands gripping the slack length of the restraights tightly. The whole sight of you, as well as your wetness and taste is utopia—I never want this to end.

× × × ×

YOUR POV

After a few more thrusts of his tongue, he shifted to you clit, but there was no teasing this time. He licked you ruthlessly, relentlessly, until you began shaking, your hips rocking as you chased a second orgasm. You nearly levitated off the bed when it finally crested, your body splintering apart into a million pieces, destroyed. 

“James!” You screamed his name and strained against the ties holding you down as it went on and on, wave after wave of white-hot bliss.

The sudden yank of the blindfold pulls you from the haze you’ve been drowning in. Light filters in slowly, and your vision, still blurry from the darkness, begins to sharpen. The world starts to come into focus, and your eyes immediately lock onto him.

Bucky came up on his knees and began furiously jerking his cock, eyes hooded, mouth hanging open as he grunted. His gaze locked on your swollen pussy until his movements grew uncoordinated, his hips stuttering, and hot jets lashed all over your belly and chest. Like he was marking you. 

Oh my god—did the camera catch that?

He squeezed to get every drop of come out of his dick and onto your body, then sat on his haunches, chest heaving. You were covered in him, the liquid cooling on your bare flesh. Pleasured and used by the last man you should ever be attracted to.

Now he was stroking his dick again, the muscles in his arm flexing as he pumped that giant rod between his legs. God, he had a gorgeous cock and you felt an answering tug in your lower half.

You watched his fist squeeze the head of his cock. A bead of moisture appeared on the tip and he used his thumb to smear it all over the head. You inadvertently licked your lips, missing his taste, and waves of heat rolled through your limbs, settling in your core.

“You like watching me work my cock?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, as if he already knows the answer.

“No.” you said stubbornly.

He tilts his head slightly, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. “I’m starting to think no means yes.”

Bucky moves closer, and despite every ounce of stubbornness in you, your body betrays you again. It’s like your body is inviting him, reacting on instinct, craving what your mind is still refusing to admit. Your pussy was swollen, slick. Primed for sex.

“Deschide larg picioarele pentru mine. Mică târfă.” You heard Bucky growl in his throat.

“What?”

“Open your legs wide for me, little slut.”

God, you wanted to hate him for that, but a blast of heat tore through you. 

“Jesus,” you whispered as you widened your legs slightly. “You’re such a dick.” 

“Hmm. Do you like to be called names, Y/N?” He let go of his cock and placed his hands on either side of his hips, displaying himself for you. “Do you like your hair pulled? Do you like to wear a man’s come on your face?”

Shit, when he asked those things in his low Romanian-accented voice, it sounded like pure sex. No doubt Bucky fucked like a beast, rough and dirty. He hadn’t shown you that side of him yet. The men you had been with treated you politely, like you were made of glass. 

“Is that what you like to do to women in bed?”

Ignoring your question, he stared at your body, placing himself between your legs. “I wish you were sitting on my face right now. I would lick you and bite you, suck on your clit until you passed out. I want to pull on your skin with my teeth until it stings, then make you come so hard you squirt all over me.”

You stared at his wide cock, which jutted out proudly from his body, bobbing in his movement, with its smooth skin and veins along the side. You imagined that thickness drilling inside you, splitting you in half and filling you up. Your pussy clenched around the emptiness and you moaned.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” 

You licked your lips as you stared at his erection, too turned on to lie. 

“Yes.” Bucky raised his brows, “. . .Daddy.”

He grabbed himself again, strong fingers wrapping around the shaft as he pulled, teasingly rubbing his head against your tender pussy.

“I would fuck you so good. Deep and hard. I would give you all my come, everything I am saving up in my balls just for you.” 

“God, don’t you ever shut up?” Your legs were shaking, your movements uncoordinated because you were so turned on. So close. So needy. 

“And you’ll take it, yes?” he continued, clearly not caring that this was a one-sided conversation. “I have never seen a woman so hungry for it. Didn’t those boys in Hollywood know how to fuck you? I bet they left you unsatisfied.”

Fuck why is he dragging this out so much?!

Hands resting on your thighs, you began crooning, “Can’t you see how wet I am, Daddy? Can you see how turned on I am by watching you jerk that big cock of yours? I bet you have to use lube when you fuck, you’re so big. Do the women scream when you’re pounding inside them? Do you make them bleed, leave their pussies raw?”

“That fucking mouth,” Bucky murmurs, a low, satisfied growl escaping as a slow grin spreads across his face. The crown of his dick dragged against your entrance, teasing, and you actually tilted your hips, eager for the invasion. “That’s it. You’re ready for me.” 

You were beyond denial, beyond caring. “Yes,” you admitted to him. 

“Show me. Take me inside.”

This was so dirty. So wrong. Yet your body was humming, almost burning alive with lust. There was an embarrassing amount of wetness between your legs, more than you would’ve thought possible considering the circumstances.

You adjusted your hips, seeking, and the head of his cock slipped inside you. Fuck, yes. You didn’t stop, continuing to rock your hips, writhing underneath him, to bring him deeper. You were wild for it, desperate to reach the finish, toward the explosive orgasm you knew awaited you. 

“Shh,” he said in your ear. “I’ll give you what you need.”

He took over then, but pressed in much slower than you expected. The beginning had been about domination and strength, but now he invaded so carefully, like he wanted you to feel every twitch and tiny movement. 

This was almost seduction, and it was worse than the chaos of moments ago. But there was no stopping it. You craved this, needed it. With a growl, he gave a final thrust of his hips and filled you completely, and the air left your lungs in a rush. He was hot and hard and so big, his dick impaling you, with the heavy weight of his body and restraints preventing you from moving. All you could do was lie there and take it. 

Which made it a thousand times hotter. 

“Fuck,” he said on a long exhale, then whispered a long string of another language that sounded both bewildered and excited.

Ragged breaths gusted against your cheek as he began to move, his hips meeting your pelvis. “You are mine, Y/N. Until I decide otherwise this pussy belongs to me.”

You couldn’t respond, because his dick was destroying you in the very best way. You loved the way he felt inside you, like there was no room for anything else. No insecurities or worries, no past or future. Just this, right here. Perspiration coated your skin and he surrounded you, his cock pounding, pounding, pounding into your body. The pleasure built and you closed your eyes, focusing on the orgasm just out of reach.

The sounds of skin slapping and heavy breathing filled the room. He fucked you like it was his purpose in life, completely dedicated to the task and never slowing down for a second. With every savage thrust you slid a little on the mattress, and you were so close to coming, your muscles clenching and straining . . . . 

“You belong to me. Say it, doll.” 

The words twisted inside you, driving you higher, and the walls of your pussy contracted around his cock. 

“Fuck!” he grunted. “Do that again.”

You squeezed around him once more, and he groaned. “Tell me. Let me hear you say it.” 

His fingers slid between your body and the mattress, moving lower until he found your clit. He rubbed you in tight circles. “Let me hear you say you belong to me.” 

The words fell from your mouth on a gasp. “I belong to you, Daddy.” 

Everything changed. He rode you even harder, without mercy, his fingers never leaving your clit, “Vino pentru mine, mica mea curvă frumoasă.”

Come for me, my beautiful little slut.

The combination of the words along with the stimulation became too much. Shocks raced up from your toes as the orgasm rushed over you. Your brain went offline, everything going blank for a long moment as the euphoria transported you into space. 

“God, yes! Oh, fuck,” you heard yourself shout from far away while you shook uncontrollably. When your climax finally ebbed, he moved to his knees, releasing your legs from the restraints and lifted your hips to change the angle. 

“Yes! Shove it deep, come inside me, Daddy.”

It allowed him deeper, and after a few pumps he swelled inside you, his hips stuttering just before hot jets of come filled your pussy. 

“Oh fuck, ah!” he roared, his fingertips sinking into your flesh. No doubt you would be covered in bruises tomorrow. That should’ve horrified you, but it didn’t. After a moment, his movements slowed but he kept rocking, his dick still pulsing inside you. 

“Take it all, baby,” he crooned and lowered to kiss your chest spine. “Take all of my come. You earned it. Ești o fată atât de bună.” 

You’re such a good girl.

Fuck, you wished he would stop saying things like that. You flushed from head to toe and basked in the praise. He continued peppering your skin with kisses, displaying a tenderness you hadn’t expected. You melted like hot candle wax on the floor.

“Ești frumoasă,” he murmured as he dropped kisses along your chest. “Ești perfectă.”

You’re so beautiful. You’re perfect.

You felt butterflies in the deepest pit of your stomach. You’re not supposed to like that but you do.

Big hands swept up your back and you felt free from your restraints completely and then over your hip as he lifted you, angling your face toward his. 

“I need you,” he whispered and kissed you.

You fell into the kiss eagerly, softening for him and letting him take your mouth. You could feel his urgency, his desperation, and it fed your own. His fingers grabbed a fistful of your hair to hold you in place as his tongue and lips devoured you. 

The kiss went on and on, and your body responded as it always did to this man, your pussy getting more wet and swollen. You loved the way he kissed, with such absolute force and reverence. Like he longed to destroy and cherish you at the same time. Your skin crawled with need, a thousand pinpricks that made you feel alive and powerful. Bold, as if you could do anything. 

You decided to take a risk. You flipped it around so now you’re on top. You started moving your hand south, over his ribs and down his abs. His mouth broke off from yours and he waited, his breath coming fast. He didn’t stop you, so you continued toward his crotch, and your palm skimmed his sweat-slick muscles. 

He was glorious, a marble statue came to life. 

You found his cock, thick and hard against his belly, and you gave it a gentle brush, a tease, before continuing to his balls. He grunted when you rolled and squeezed their weight with your fingers. Most men loved to have their balls played with, and Bucky was no different. 

He spread his thighs to give you more room and you caressed him, exploring. When your hand swept the length of his dick, he jerked and rocked his hips, silently asking for more. You stroked him slowly and he exhaled against your cheek, strong fingers digging into your skin, the room quiet except for both your breathing. 

You liked having him at your mercy for a change. Your lower half began to throb as you worked him. You knew what it was like to have this big dick inside you and your pussy was weeping for it. You weren't sure he’d allow you on top, but you really wanted to ride him just this once.

You slid your leg over his hips to straddle him. He held onto your waist and the feel of all his strength and power beneath you made your mouth water. His gaze was locked on your pussy as you grabbed his cock and lined him up at your entrance. You began feeding him inside, sinking down slowly, loving the stretch and burn as he took up all the space in your body. 

“Fuck, James,” You whispered, his full name falling from your lips while you paused to let yourself adjust. 

“Da, frumoasa mea fetiță,” he said softly, “Take me inside.”

A rush of arousal went through your core and he slid deeper. You gasped, hovering between pleasure and pain, and his thumb found your clit, rubbing and pressing. Tingles cascaded along the backs of your thighs, through your belly, and soon he was fully seated. 

Goddamn, he was a lot. 

You began slowly moving your hips, sliding his dick in and out of you while grinding on his pelvis. You clit dragged between you at the end of every stroke, and it sent streaks of white-hot need along your bloodstream. Though the room was dark, you locked eyes with him, and you could see the new arousal and possessiveness staring up at you. This felt so real. So intimate. Like he could see inside you, past all your deepest insecurities to your very soul. This is what he wanted.

You focused on your pleasure and churned your hips, loving the way his length tunnelled in and out of your channel, the friction unbelievably good. You tossed your hair and arched your back, giving him a show as you rode him. 

“God, yes,” you moaned. “I want to do this all day.” 

“Feel how hard I am?” His whisper filled your head like smoke, taking you higher. “That is all for you. Just you, comoara mea.”

The unguarded hunger and lust in his expression spurred you on, so you moved faster, and the bliss soon built and coiled inside you like a spring. When you placed your hands on his chest for leverage you half-expected him to shove you off, take over, and pin you to the mattress. Surprisingly he didn’t, so you dug your nails into his flesh, holding on as you continued to fuck him. 

“Oh, shit.” you eyes slammed shut. You were so close, the orgasm was right there. 

“Look at me,” he said sharply. “Look at me while you use my dick to get off.”

You did as he commanded, so you were staring at one another when you started to come a second later. The orgasm swept through you like a tsunami, waves and waves that chased everything else away. 

Your mind went blank, his beautiful face your only anchor as you trembled and shook. The walls of your pussy squeezed him in rhythmic pulses and his lips parted on a hiss. 

Before you’d even come down, he lifted you slightly and began pounding up from below. His feet were braced on the mattress, and each powerful thrust rocked the bed and sent the headboard into the wall with a bang. 

Bending, you placed your face directly above his, your mouths inches apart. You were close enough to feel his breath as he grunted and huffed. You don’t know what made me say it, but you started talking. 

“That’s it, daddy. Give me all of your come. Every bit of it, deep inside. Make me your good girl.”

“Fuck!” His body went taut beneath you, and you could feel him swell just before he flooded your insides again with hot lashes of his come. He held you still, his fingers clamped around your hips so hard you knew you’d have bruises to add to the collection. 

“You are mine,” he ground out, his big body jerking beneath you.

Finally he sagged into the bed. You tried to catch your breath, your body sprawled on top of him like a rag doll. He was still inside you, and you could feel our sticky mess leaking out of you as he softened. 

He stared at the ceiling, arms wide, chest heaving, while sweat rolled down his temples and into his thick dark hair. You both stayed like that for a long time, neither of you speaking. You didn’t have a clue as to what to say. You felt destroyed in the very best way.

He dragged a hand down his face. Gently rolling you off to his side.

“Soak in the hot tub,” he said and pushed to his feet. “Otherwise you will be sore later.”

He didn’t help you up or even look in your direction. Instead, he jerked on some clothes and walked out of the bedroom, leaving you on the bed. Naked, filled with his come, and unshackled.

Your body still tingles from the aftershocks as you reach over to the bedside table, your hand trembling slightly as you grab your phone. Bucky had placed it there earlier, so casually, like it was just part of the routine. But now, the weight of it feels different, heavier.

You swipe the screen, the familiar glow illuminating the dimly lit room. Your thumb hovers for a second before you press play. The video begins, and there you are—captured in the heat of the moment, vulnerable, raw.

You feel a strange mixture of curiosity and disbelief watching yourself like this, seeing everything from a perspective that isn’t your own. Your breath catches in your throat as the sound of his voice, low and commanding, fills the room again. Each word, each movement, feels magnified, more intense than you remember.

As the video plays, you notice the moment when Bucky shifts, his gaze no longer on you but directly into the camera. That smirk, the one you’ve seen a thousand times, is aimed at the lens—not at you. For a second, it’s as if he’s performing for the camera, not for you, and the realisation sends a shiver down your spine.

He knew. He knew you’d be watching this later, knew exactly how it would feel for you to see him like this, his eyes focused on the camera while you were completely unaware. The deliberate way he captured the moment, not just for you but for himself too, is unsettling—and somehow, impossibly, it draws you in even more.

It was all planned. A reminder that even in the heat of it, Bucky was always one step ahead.

[achaoticeternal]

bewitched.

AEMOND TARGARYEN X FEM!READER

summary: more word has arrived to you regarding your husbands infidelity. as he returns to you, you present him with a choice.  word count: 2k warnings: drinking. strong language. angst. adultery. pain. a/n: see end of the piece for author’s note

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

choose your own ending...

— ending 1.

— ending 2.

— ending 3.

— ending 4.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“My lady,” Your chambermaid spoke from the doorway, returning with a fresh pitcher of wine as you had requested, “Should I see the children to bed?”

“Please do,” Your voice was soft, the words fragile in your solemn state.

“It might be best for you to rest, rather than await the return of Prince Aemond.”

Her words were gentle, simply advising you to take care of yourself. But the fires of hurt and betrayal were already lit. 

“What makes you believe that I am awaiting my husband?” With words more venomous than you intended, you bid her leave.

At the sound of the door shutting, you stood and moved toward the pitcher and chalice left idly by the fireplace. You poured the deep red liquid and lifted the cup to your lips, taking a generous gulp.  The dull burn allowed some relief to your heightened senses. But you also knew that the alcohol only added fuel to your fire. 

Rain began to pour over King’s Landing, softly thudding against the windows and stone of the castle walls. Usually, the rain would lull you to sleep, but it seemed the thunder of the skies only spurred you to continue drowning away the ache in your heart. Your eyes flickered over the second chalice that had been placed on the silver tray with your pitcher. It seemed that the servants expected Aemond to return to the Keep tonight. You were not sure if you wish for him to return or for him to drown in the heavy rains that poured from the sky. 

As if the fool perfectly timed you, you glanced out the window to see the silhouette of Vhagar descending toward the Dragon Pits. In a drunken frenzy, you pulled the curtain to cover it, instead, the velvet fabric came down at your harsh tug. 

The frustration would nearly boil over, but you did not allow the simple issues to push you over the threshold. As the Queen had often advised you, it was important that a lady bite her tongue and keep her composure even when she is by her lonesome. If someone saw the illusion of a proper lady shatter, it would be nearly impossible to recover from. She even revealed to you how she had come by this knowledge, sharing with you the events that occurred the night Aemond became the one-eyed prince.  

Swiftly, you moved back toward the fireplace, picking up the parcel that a raven had delivered directly to you just this morning. It appeared blank to the simple eye, but when you hovered the note over the fire, the message revealed itself. The contents of it were simple, but completely shattered something inside of you:

She is with child. 

Though the news had shocked you, the existence of the other woman did not. When Aemond and Daeron laid siege to Harrenhal and the Riverlands, word had traveled through the courts regarding the princes bedding other women. At the time, you had bit your tongue, excusing your husband’s infidelity as you convinced yourself it was just something he used to relieve his stress from battlefields. 

But even after the marches through the Riverlands were claimed to be successful and at an end, Aemond would sometimes fly off to Harrenhal. He would say that he was just ensuring the hold that the Greens had on the region, yet you never believed his lies. 

It was said that Harrenhal was cursed, blood mixed into the stone that built it. You believed the stories true after the great fire took the lives of Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin when you were a child yourself. But now a curse had attached itself to your husband and kept him crawling back to the towers of Harrenhal. 

The door cracked open, the hinges creaking as he entered, exhaustion painted over his face. Aemond was completely drenched, his hair now scrunched into waves rather than falling perfectly straight. Most of his leather overlayer had been discarded for the servants to see to, leaving him in a black tunic and pants with his riding boots.

It took him a few moments, but Aemond quickly came to realize that you were resting by the fire rather than fast asleep in your shared bed. 

“Should you not be sleeping, dear wife?” Aemond called out to you while readying himself to turn into bed. 

“Sleep has… escaped me recently,” You replied, eyes remaining on the fire. Only at his words did the nerves begin to spur inside you. How would he react when you told him? What would tomorrow bring? None of it really mattered, you supposed, as long as you didn’t allow your nerves to get the best of you. 

Now in his proper bedclothes, Aemond began to approach the fireplace. He noticed the half-empty pitcher of wine, slightly shocked that you were partaking this late at night. Usually, you would reserve yourself to only enjoying wine at dinners or feasts, not in your marriage chambers. His eye flickered to the second chalice that sat empty on the silver platter. His slender fingers reached to grasp it, “Would this cup be for me?”

You turned your head, looking between the pitcher and chalice but never into his eye, “The maid brought it with her, probably as a formality. No one expected you back tonight.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed at the tone you spoke with, and it caught the prince off guard when you returned your gaze to the fire rather than continuing to speak with him. He poured his own chalice with wine and allowed himself to enjoy it. He stayed in place, unwavering from his position as he looked down on you.

The air went still… the taste of the wine began to sour in his mouth. He sensed something to be out of place, yet he could not pinpoint it. Usually, you would be elated to see him, but recently you were far more reserved from your husband. Aemond was not sure if he should be upset or concerned, but did not ponder on the thought too much as he allowed himself to attend to his duties rather than his wife. 

With a sigh and a light cough to clear his throat, the prince finally spoke once more, “Come to bed…”

The pause settled again before your soft chuckle hung in the air. Quickly, you stood from your seated position and drowned the remainder of your chalice in one swig. You moved to the table and refilled your cup till the pitcher ran dry. Instead of crossing to your bed, you remained standing, only turned away from the man. This behavior caused Aemond to clench his jaw, subduing his urge to correct such disobedience. 

“Will you not come to bed with me?” Aemond summoned you again. 

Once more you chuckled at him, not sparing him any sort of look from you. Just the cruel chuckle of your acknowledgment. 

“Your husband demands—”

“My husband demands me of nothing,” You interrupted him, “And he would do well to find another bed to sleep in or find himself in tonight.”

At your words, Aemond crossed toward you, attempting to snatch the half-drunk chalice of wine from your hands, “It seems you have overindulged yourself. It would do you well to sleep before—”

“Before what? Before I continue to act out of turn?” With a fierce determination, your fingers clutched down onto the chalice so that Aemond could not separate it from you. Your words dripped with poison, “Or before you return to Harrenhal and bed the whore witch?”

At the mention of Alys, both you and Aemond let go of the goblet at the same time and simply watched it fall to the ground, red liquid covering the tile floors. 

“It would do you well not to speak of things you do not know or understand.”

“I understand it quite plainly that my husband is now an adulterer, just like his eldest brother and his damned uncle. It seems that disloyalty to marriage is quite a common trait among Targaryen men.”

Quickly, Aemond’s hand came to your throat, gripping the flesh to show how serious he was being, yet not hard enough to asphyxiate you, “Did you not understand my words before, my stupid little wife? It would do you well not to speak of things you do not know…”

“Oh? But I do know…” Your hands grabbed at his forearms, nails sinking into the flesh so that he would release you, “And it would do you well to learn just how smart your wife is…”

“I have known… I have known about Alys since your first rampage through the Riverlands. For moons, I remained confined to the Red Keep from your orders, and when they came to deliver news of you and your victories, I cheered. I still cheered when the maids told me the rumors between you and Alys, because I was grateful to the Seven that you were alive. Because I was still foolish enough to love you far more than you deserve.”

Tears threatened to spill over, but you swallowed them back. You would not allow Aemond the pleasure of your tears, only the fire of your anger. 

“She promised me security for my life and the lives of my men,” Aemond attempted to justify himself, “I could not risk it—”

“You could have offered her gold, offered her a title, or anything else besides your body! Instead, you break your vows. And you did not stop there, because you continue to fly back to Harrenhal whenever you desire the witch’s cunt to the point where your son and daughter could not even recognize you if they ever saw you!” You huffed out, scanning his face for any sign of emotion, anything at all.

“You have allowed your lust to overcome you, disappointing your wife, your mother, and the Seven. Worst of all, you shall now have your own bastard. At least this bastard will not be raised of the Street of Silk as your brother’s bastards have.”

“How did you know?” Aemond’s voice cracked while he asked the question, “How do you know she is pregnant?”

A smirk played on your lips at the question, “It seems that the Master of Whispers is a very devoted friend of the Queen, and with the Queen being your mother, she deemed it important enough to share the news with me, your faithful wife.”

His face went pale at the realization of how many people were aware of his infidelity. While Aemond remained silent, you twisted the knife deeper into his chest. You had been tortured with this knowledge for so long that you now enjoyed the pained expression on his face.

“I have always been good to you, devoted to you. Where others cowered from you, I loved you. Despite the warnings of your blood lust and deformity, I loved you and gave you two perfect children who study just as diligently as you once did. So while you found yourself in the arms of another woman, I tried not to curse your name and assure our children that all was well, even if their father would not be present for them. But now, I look at you like a curse upon my life. You have allowed yourself to be corrupted outside our marriage, and I can no longer offer you salvation for your selfishness…”

“What would you have me do?”

You laughed mockingly at his question. Instead of providing a proper answer, you only glared further into his good eye.

“Please,” Aemond gritted his teeth, hating that he allowed himself to beg an answer from you, “Just tell me what I should do!”

“I can not simply tell you what to do. That would be to easy - what lesson would you have learned?” You shook your head and a shuddering breath escaped you.

“You have to make a choice, Aemond,” Your hand gripped his wrist, forcing him to remain attentive to your words, “Either you atone for the sin your committed and the hurt you’ve caused or you reside in Harrenhal for the rest of your days…”

“This is a choice only you can make — a wife or a witch?”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n: I am considering making a follow-up to this one-shot, a blurb about the outcome of the options that Aemond has... maybe...

[f1fnatic]

LIAR ⤿ c. sainz 55

→ ( in which. . . ) you and carlos have been dating for three years. carlos started to grow distant. after charles shows you a picture of his infidelity, you catch him in the act after a day at work.

→ ( fanfic genre. . . ) written

→ ( pairing. . . ) cheater!carlos sainz x longtime!girlfriend!reader

→ (content warnings/disclaimers. . . ) mentions of sex, language, yelling, cheating, alcohol consumption, angst

→ ( author's note. . . ) this was my first time writing angst/cheating. it was fun experimenting with this type of writing. i hope you enjoy! see end for more.

→ ( masterlist )

"you fucking liar!" echoed through the otherwise quiet apartment. hurried footsteps sounded from the hallway, another pair following the first close behind. was this what everything came to? walking out on your supposed soulmate after years together? how did you get here? and what did you do to deserve this?

one week prior ↴

you had noticed the distance growing. carlos was becoming closed off and almost secretive. he didn't confide in you as much as he used to. you didn't think twice about it and assumed it was something to do with work. ferrari had been going through a rough patch, both him and charles struggling to start or finish a race for the past three weeks.

you understood how stressful being a driver was. you had been around formula 1 for a while now, because of him. you and carlos met when he drove for redbull, in 2015. the two of you started dating shortly after in 2017.

you were always there for him, through thick and thin. through the blood, sweat, and tears. after every win, podium, loss, dnf, dns, etc. you understood how hard it was for him to perform well but not get the results wanted.

so, when you received a picture of carlos with another woman, a blond, on his lap, hands on his shoulders and lips touching, you were livid. charles had sent it to you, with a simple caption that read "i am sorry." it was the after-party of a not-so-successful qatar grand prix.

rage, confusion, sadness, and disgust coursed through your veins. the thought of him finding comfort in a woman who wasn't you made you sick. your hands shook, eyes blurred, and breath quickened.

you could not believe that carlos would ever cheat, especially on you. you had given him everything. love, attention, comfort, and compassion. and this is what he gave you in return? you had sacrificed so much to make him happy. you felt useless. had you thrown away six years of your life just to get cheated on? did he feel guilty? did he regret his choice to kiss a random girl? thoughts sped through your mind.

what did you do until he got home? your apartment no longer felt like a home. it felt gross and unnatural to be in there. to think that the person you shared it with was sharing a different room across the world. did he share your bed with someone else as well? the pictures of the two of you that hung on the wall seemed to mock you.

every passing minute became more and more painful. could you act like everything was fine when he eventually did get home? or would you lose it immediately the second he walked in through the front door?

unfortunately, you knew that only time would tell.

present day ↴

today was the day that carlos got home. you were at work, trying to distract yourself from the inevitable conflict about to occur. you reached the front door of your shared apartment. shaking hands held the key and you placed it in the lock and turned it. pushing open the door, the apartment was quiet, suspiciously quiet.

you noticed that the kitchen was a mess. plates and cooking utensils were in the sink, dirty and waiting to be washed. two wine glasses left discarded on the quartz bar. a bottle of red cabernet left opened and almost empty. one of the glasses had lipstick stains littered around the rim.

your heartbeat quickened. adrenaline began to pump through your body. you quickly toed off your shoes, and your feet ached after a long day. you also discarded your purse and jacket, making your way to your and carlos' bedroom.

as you got closer, you heard moaning. your heart dropped to your stomach. you opened the door as soon as you reached it. low and behold, it was carlos and the same blond from the picture that charles sent you. the blond was on top of carlos, head back and mouth open in euphoria. carlos had the same expression as her on his face.

tears immediately welled in your eyes and quickly fell. you felt defeated. it was one thing to see a picture of your boyfriend kissing another girl, but to catch him with that same girl in the bed that you shared, in the same bed that he fucked you in, was different.

finally, carlos opened his eyes and noticed you in the doorway. his hands found the blond's hips to stop her from moving. his eyes widened with guilt and surprise; mouth wide open in shock.

"y-y/n?!" he shouted. the blond turned to look at you and god, she was pretty. you partially understood why he did it. she covered herself with one of the loose sheets and unstrattled carlos, allowing him to get up.

"y/n, i can explain-" he starts.

"explain what, carlos?!" you shout, cutting him off. "how on earth can you explain me walking in on you fucking another girl in our bed?!"

"it was a simple mistake, mi amor, that's all." he tried to reason, smiling meekly. the nickname that once held so much love now held nothing. the name that made butterflies flutter in your stomach now made them sink.

"you fucking liar!" you screamed. "this was on purpose!" it echoed through the now quiet apartment. you turned your back on the pair and walked away. your hurried footsteps sounded from the hallway, carlos' pair following yours closely behind.

"y/n, stop!" he yelled, grabbing your wrist and turning you around to face him.

"do not fucking touch me!" you say, yanking your wrist from his grip. the complete and utter audacity he had to try to attempt to explain why he cheated. "was i not enough for you? did i do something wrong? did i not fuck you the right way? did i not get you off fast enough? huh, carlos? what made you decide to throw away six years together huh? six fucking years!"

carlos stares at you, his brown eyes that you thought were breathtaking were now filling you with disdain. "tell me carlos!"

"i-i don't know why," he stutters, turning his gaze to the floor, taking a sudden interest in the hardwood paneling. "you were enough, you still are enough. please y/n, we can move past this. i was drunk and stupid, my judgement was clouded." he tries to reason, reaching to grab both of your hands.

"no, stop it. no amount of time can get me to forgive you for this. i will never forgive you, carlos." you said his name with such disgust that he flinched. "charles showed me a picture of you kissing her in qatar in a bar during an after-party. i have known for a week. but to think that you would take her into our home and fuck her?"

"wait, wait, wait. charles texted you?" carlos questioned. there was anger present in his voice. "why the fuck did he text you?" it seemed that he was upset at the fact that charles told you he cheated.

i scoff, crossing my arms. "unbelievable, you are unbelievable. you cheated on me and you are caught up on the fact that your teammate texted me proof? how much of an egotistical cunt do you have to be?"

"me? i'm the unbelievable one? you're the one walking out on me because of a stupid, drunken mistake." he says nonchalantly, glossing over the insult. it's almost like he didn't care that your relationship was ending.

"fuck you, carlos. i am done. we are done. do not call me, do not try to find me to convince me to come back to you." the tears were flowing vigorously down your cheeks. you knew your makeup was running, but you didn't care. "i am fucking done. thanks for nothing. i hope have fun fucking that slut and that you are happy with the choice you made." you finish, walking away through the home that once brought you so much joy to be in.

you gathered your things. purse, shoes, phone, coat, and keys. you would get everything else later. you opened the door and then slammed it once stepping outside. it was then when every emotion hit you at once. violent sobs wracked your body making you shake. you slid down the door hugging yourself. you could not believe it. you don't know if you ever would.

after eventually calming down, you decide to call the one person who made you aware of this whole situation. you clicked on his contact's name and then the call button. you placed your phone on your ear to hear two rings before he picked up.

"hello? y/n? why are you calling." asked the voice.

"charles," you pause. the question of 'was this a good idea?' ran through your head. but, at this point you didn't care. carlos and what he thought was the least of your worries. "i need you to pick me up."

low key happy with this one, wrote it last night and like where it went. i think i might turn it into a charles x reader :P let me know in the comments if you want that :) thank you for reading! as usual, feedback and requests are welcome; make sure to leave a comment and kudos! (only if you want :P)

[d3add0vedonoteat]

Chicken Soup for Carmy

⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️ harsh language, sexism and violence in one scene (not from Carmy). Hurt/comfort, fluff.

A/N: I’m literally feral for this man. I’m sick atm and I started thinking about taking care of Carmy while I was making chicken soup. Bonus combo with Carmy protecting you from an asshole customer. Not proofread bc my brain is rotting. Plz be nice this is my first time posting a fic 🥺

-

It was cold. You braced yourself against the harsh Chicago wind as you made your way briskly down the street. After a late night phone call from your brother sent you into a spiral, you couldn’t sleep. You’d been tossing and turning all night until finally, at 4am, you flung off the covers and got dressed. It wasn’t a surprise that you’d come here. This place consumed all your mind and your heart since you started working here a few months ago. You used your key to unlock the door in the alley, sighing with relief as the warmth of The Beef welcomed you inside. It was quiet, the lights were down, it was peaceful. You slipped off your sneakers trading in your kitchen clogs and tucked your things safely away in your locker. You tied your handkerchief on your head as you moved. It was so comforting, the routine of The Beef’s prep work. You felt so at home, moving from the prep area to the walk in, diligently beginning the tasks that didn’t need to be started for a few more hours. He would understand. You thought to yourself as you began to prepare fresh stock for the day. He was a man after your own heart, your boss, Carmen Berzatto.

Avoidant, chaotically emotional, one wrong thing away from a complete meltdown, that you both disguised as workaholic tendencies. As you finely chopped onions, your mind quieted. Everything was shut out except for the task at hand. Your brother’s angry voice on the phone accusing you: “you never come home! You don’t even care about us! You can’t take come take care of your own mother?!” was drowned out by the rhythmic pound of your knife on the cutting board. You were in the zone.

Until a voice startled you out of your bubble. “Chef?” You jolted, looking up at the man before you. Carmy’s hair was messier than usual, the bags under his eyes were deeper and more purple. His lips were parted with each soft breath he took. He gave you a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?”

“I uh-” your mouth felt dry and you tripped over your words, as usual when he set those intense blue eyes on you. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Carmy nodded, not pushing you any further. All he said before moving toward the office was a simple: “Heard, Chef.”

You watched him go, noticing the slump of his shoulders and the labor of his normally spry step. There was no mistaking it, Carmen was sick. You stared at the office door for a long moment before you made up your mind.

You set a heavy bottomed pot on the stove with some olive oil. Your hands moved with well practiced efficiency as you chopped garlic and onions, celery and carrots. The garlic and onions went in first. Then the celery. A sprig of thyme and a dash of white wine. While that simmered you quickly seared some chicken breast and chopped it into perfectly bite sized pieces. All into the pot with chicken stock and water, tightly covered to develop the flavors. Next came the pasta. You cracked eggs into the well of flour, mixing and kneading until it became a smooth golden dough. You carefully, tenderly rolled the dough and cut it into thick, short noodles. A bath in hot water to cook, then they too joined the pot. In no time at all, you were ladling a generous portion into a bowl. You set a toasted piece of chibatta on the side, grabbed a spoon, and took a deep breath in an attempt to settle your nerves. Softly, you knocked on the office door.

“Yeah?” His voice responded.

“Chef?” You entered, nervous. Words failing you as they so often did in his presence, you set the bowl before him. Carmy’s eyes widened. The aroma made his mouth water. He looked to you, gaze softening. “You made me chicken soup?”

Your cheeks grew warm. “Y-yeah, I mean chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”

Carmy couldn’t believe you. You noticed? He smiled at you. You were so beautiful. You were always so confident and sure on the line, delegating with efficiency, respect, and authority. He had hired you the second you stepped into The Beef. Your resume was impressive but there was something in the way you carried yourself that truly earned the golden reputation you had in the culinary industry. But you were different with him, in the occasional moments like this where it was just you and him. Shy, almost bashful, gentle, and soft. He loved it. He wanted more of it. He lifted the spoon, bringing a bite to his lips.

“Gotta get a little of everything.” You muttered, eagerly awaiting his response.

Carmy shot you a sideways smile. It was good. No, it was better than good. The warm broth slid down his throat and each bite exploded with a depth of flavor he couldn’t believe. It was pure comfort. It reminded him of being a little kid staying home sick from school. Curled up on the couch while Jerry Springer played, eating crackers and ginger ale until his mom would bring a bowl of chicken noodle soup. But this soup, your soup, was more than that. People always talk about cooking with love but he swore he could taste it. Each ingredient had been so carefully handled. Perfectly chopped vegetables, moist and flavorful chicken. The warm feeling in his chest grew as he inspected the bowl.

“Did uh, did you make this pasta fresh?” He asked, eyeing you.

“Yeah, it’s better that way.” You blushed.

“Thank you, chef.” He said. “It’s really, really good.” Carmy looked down, suddenly feeling heavy. The fear of closeness set into him and all he could think about was how he’d fuck this up. “You-you didn’t have to make this for me.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” You insisted. “It was no big deal.” You began to leave, giving him one last truthful smile. “I like taking care of you.”

“I like taking care of you.” Your words rattled through Carmy’s mind all day. Throughout all of lunch, prep, and dinner he couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said. The soup you had made was the first thing he’d eaten in too long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him and you’d just done it because you noticed he wasn’t feeling well. No motive, no games, just tender love and concern.

Love.

Carmy shook his head to try and shake the thought from his mind. No, no, no there was no way you actually cared about him. Not like that. You were just being nice.

That’s just who you are; nice. You were always so kind. The way you’d help Marcus workshop pastries, the way you’d make Tina laugh and listen to her talk about whatever trouble Louis had gotten in, how you’d encourage Sydney and remind her that she can do this. Even the way you’d throw snark right back at Richie or how’d you’d always set aside a portion of Family for Fak and Sugar, even Pete. You were always thinking of others. Carmy wasn’t special.

Yeah. Not special.

Carmy insisted the thought as he scrubbed the grill. Not special. Not special. Not special.

“Carmy?” There you were. You were always there. You had a thick denim jacket on, bag on your shoulder, knit beanie pulled down over your hair. Your brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Carmy shook his head. “I’m fine… you uh- you heading out?”

You shrugged, hoisting your bag a little higher on your shoulder and eyeing him skeptically. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah, in a bit.”

You chuckled, more exasperated than humorous. “No.”

“What?” Carmy asked, confused.

“No, you’re leaving too.” You insisted. You were feeling bold. Months of long looks and his hand on your lower back every time he passed you had culminated tonight.

You had taken over the front for Richie while he ducked out to take a call from his daughter. You’d insisted. It was slammed for dinner but everything was going fairly smooth until an irate customer approached you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He’d asked, slamming his plate onto the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean are you retarded or something?” He continued. You were stunned into silence. You had never had anyone speak to you like that. “How hard is it to make a fucking sandwich? I know your tits are bigger than your brain but Jesus fucking Christ it’s not hard!”

“I-I…” you were shaking. “I’m sorry that you’re not satisfied, sir. If you like, we can-”

“Not satisfied?!” He screamed. “How can I be satisfied with this piece of shit!”

He hurled the sandwich at you. It hit you in the chest, toppings and sauce splattering everywhere. Before you even knew what was happening, a blur of messy curls shot past you. Carmy launched over the counter, tackling the man. His fist collided with the man’s face over and over while Richie and Fak rushed after him. There was a cacophony of yells as Richie pulled Carmy back. “Get your girl!” Richie yelled. “Cousin! Go get your girl!”

Fak and Richie dragged the man out and threw him into the street. Carmy’s hands grasped your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” He wiped the sauce splatters from your brow. “Look at me.”

Carmy burned with anger as he watched you shake. Your white shirt and blue apron were covered in the sandwich. He imagined what you would do for him if he was in your position. How you’d care for him, how you’d tend to him… so he tried to do what you would. Gently he guided you to your feet and wrapped his arm around your waist. He practically carried you to his office where he sat you on the couch and quickly went to grab a clean shirt from his own locker. You were in the same place he left you when he returned. Carmy knelt before you, taking your face in his hands once more.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Tears welled in your eyes and you collapsed into his arms. He smoothed his hand over you back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over again. He felt like he was on fire. The feeling of you clinging to him, nuzzling your face into his neck, the smell of you, how you fit in his arms… it was too much. He wanted to run away and never speak to you again. He wanted to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted to scream. He wanted to feel your lips against his. He wanted to find the piece of shit that yelled at you and rip him to pieces. He wanted your chicken soup every time he was sick.

All those feelings were closing in on Carmy once again as he stared at you across the kitchen. You still had his t shirt on. You were looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, uh… what did you say?” Carmy’s voice was softer than he expected.

“I said I’ll walk home with you.”

“Oh, no that’s okay. Ive got to-“

“Carmy,” you stepped closer. Your voice was firm but so tender. “You need to get some rest. Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.”

He couldn’t help but smile back at you. “Alright…” he conceded.

The two of you braced yourselves against the cold and hurried down the sidewalk side by side. You argued about who would walk who home. Carmy insisted on walking you to your apartment but you protested on the grounds that he’d just go back to the restaurant once he dropped you off.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But you have to call me when you get to your place so I know you made it home!”

Carmy looked at the ground, smiling. The warmth in his chest from your soup was steadily turning into a molten pool of lava.

“Heard.” He grinned. You wanted to know he’d made it home. You wanted to make sure he rested. I like taking care of you.

“Well, I’m just up here.” Your voice stopped his thoughts from spiraling before it could even start. Carmy’s brow furrowed. “What?” You asked, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

“You live over there?”

“Yeah? Like a block down?”

There was a beat of silence before Carmy let out a breathy laugh. “I live right there.” He pointed to the building on the other side of the street.

“No shit!” You laughed in earnest. Your hand came to rest on his arm. “Guess I’m gonna be walking you home more often.”

Carmy’s entire body was on fire. He could imagine the tingle of your soft hand on his skin through all the layers of clothing. He wanted to hold you close again like in his office, but this time you wouldn’t be crying. A deep pit opened in his stomach. How long before he made you cry? How long before he fucked it all up? Until you hated him and quit the restaurant and everything fell apart because he-

“Hey,” your voice. Always your voice that brought him back. When he looked over at you it was like everything but your face faded into a blurry background. You were all Carmy could see. “Do you want to come to mine? I haven’t eaten and I KNOW you haven’t either.”

Carmy’s heart fluttered. “O-okay.” He started, his confidence rising when he noticed your hand was still in his arm. “Only if you let me cook you something.”

“Ooh,” you smiled. “I’d never turn that down!”

Carmy chuckled, feeling lighter for the first time in years as he walked so close beside you that your shoulders brushed. “It won’t be as good as your chicken soup.”

[jacevelaryonswife]

The way that you move

It wasn’t appropriate for a lady of respect to desire the lusts of the flesh, but the fire in your bowels kept your mind trapped in a single and delicious setting

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader

warnings: porn with 10% of plot. p in v sex. english is not my first language. 1,1k.

Even if it’s recent, your marriage to Prince Jacaerys was very promising and pleasant due to the commitment employed by both parts. Your husband was very polite, good-natured and kind, and you strove to be the proper and loving lady wife that Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir needed. In addition, the engagement period was charming and prepared the ground for a young and happy union, much better than most of the weddings of the other court ladies in all aspects. Or almost all because unfortunately not everything was flowers. The subject in question referred to the misfortune moment of bed that tormented you and your husband.

Neither of you had experience, which made it a little traumatic for both of you, especially painful for you but quite fast too, proving to be a great relief (not crookedly for Jace). Throughout the act the prince remained redder than a ripe tomato and hated several aspects that were part of that situation, the first was not being able to reverse the pain you felt, because he didn’t know the female body to bring some relief to his good wife and because it ended up faster than dornish wine in celebrations. The precocity wasn’t at all bad for the situation, but it wasn’t exactly the virtue that a man should be proud of — but it served to your beautiful face was no longer dented with discomfort.

He apologized vehemently after that and assured that he didn't want to hurt you and that you didn't need to do it again without wanting to, a really sweet gesture that had you waving to him and ensuring that everything was fine. “My mother said the first contacts are painful for the chaste ladies,” you said. And in fact it was terribly uncomfortable, until last night...

Gods, what was that? It was the best physical feeling you felt in your life and it seemed so profane to admit it while letting pleasurable sounds escape your throat. It was so good! And that was the problem!

How should you approach your husband about repeating that night? It wasn’t appropriate for a lady of respect to desire the lusts of the flesh, but the fire in your bowels kept your mind trapped in a single and delicious setting, so your only mission that day was to find a demure way to ask your sweet Jace to make you come as your friends had instructed. What a scandal! There was no way to say this out loud, not even other ways to approach the topic seemed decent! Everything seemed like a complete disaster until the moon emerged and the inhabitants of Dragonstone gathered in your chambers, just like your husband and you.

The thick sheet that wrapped your body was responsible for hiding most of the bold and light blue lacy dress you wore, but it didn’t go unnoticed by the watchful eye of Prince Jacaerys, especially when he joined you in bed. That was the ideal moment to execute your plan in the urgency of the last minutes, which consisted solely of action.

"Jace, husband, can I kiss you?" You tried to contain the anxiety of what you wanted to happen next by leaning over it gently.

“Of course you can, my love,” he smiled sweetly and his beautiful brown eyes shone with tenderness. He was so adorable.

After many attempts (some slow and others sloppy) you understood a part of the mechanics of kisses and began to appreciate and perform the art often. His full and terribly soft lips were pressed so pleasantly against yours in the initially chaste kiss, who became sensual and lustful thanks to your desire. Oh, you couldn't wait any longer.

Climbing on his hips, you interrupted the kiss to face those beautiful brown eyes. "I want to do what we did last night."

“D-do you, my lady?” He asked surprised, "do you really want to?"

“Yes, husband,” you purred and kissed him deliciously again, playing with his tongue as you moved your intimacy dressed over his groin, making you both sigh. “I want it now,” you said during the kiss, sitting in the center of his body to remove the dress and expose your naked body.

The poor prince followed the whole situation astonished, stunned by his newly existing disinhibition but not a little dissatisfied (just worried). "M-my lady, shouldn't we wait until you're ready?"

“I'm already, my prince, I've been ready since the first rays of sunshine,” you knew what he was referring to and learned from the other ladies that the moisture between the thighs was a positive indication. And you've been uncomfortable wet since you woke up. "Do you want that?"

“I do,” he nodded hypnotized, holding his soft hips to squeeze the flesh gently.

It was not secret that the prince has never been with a woman before and the fact never bothered him, but he would like to have experience to properly satisfy his wife in pleasure meetings. He quickly flipped through a book on the subject as his cheeks warmed up and his limb hardened shamefully. After that he tried to remember some information to use at the moment, such as knowing that women needed time and a certain humidity so that they could feel pleasure, however, almost all reasoning was lost when your hands released his masculinity and involved him. He grunted low in response, breathing hard to prepare for the- Seven heavens!

You sank deliciously into the thick and soft shaft, ecstatic by the indiscriminate sensation of being filled. There was no way for something so good to be considered depravity, no, it was totally adequate, it was so right to jump freely on the cock of your charming Jacaerys and enjoy what he had to offer. The prince was so confused, drunk and excited by the way everything happened that he was dazzled by the beast that mounted him ardently. If in the previous times he made an effort not to end quickly, this time he was begging the seven heavens for the moment to last.

“Take off your tunic, my love, I want to see you,” you said between sighs, moving up and down constantly, moaning shamelessly.

He did what was asked, sitting in bed with you on your lap just to kiss you fervently and pull you down with him, moving your hips with yours. The gesture was much appreciated when his legs got tired of doing all the hard work, limiting himself to rubbing against his groin while he repeated the action, the constant and strong friction.

“Wait! Wait! I need some time... I-I want this to last,” he said between heavy breaths, almost begging.

"Right, right."

— "It's hard to describe, it's intense, hot and your whole body shudders at the sensation. It's probably the best thing you'll feel in your life."

Your friend Belinda's explanation of the apex of female pleasure returned to surrounding your mind again, making you yearn to discover such a sensation. It was torturous to accommodate your husband inside and not be able not to move your hips, even though it was for good reason. And he, well, he was almost exploding with pleasure.

Jace pulled you for an excited and demanding kiss, very different from the ones you used to share but just as good. Good? No, better. His tongue touched yours in a different and sloppy way, which would strumble you

The prince wasn’t blind about women but never dared to give himself to a pleasure before the wedding — he was less man for that. He thought he wouldn’t be so affected by carnal pleasure, but he could not deny that the attraction he felt for his beautiful wife increased every day and each time you lay down together. He longed for it more quietly.

“Keep going, my love,” he held your buttocks when you remained in the same position, moving your hips experimentally to keep up with your pace.

“Yes, husband,” you sighed numb, kissing him again as you moved sloppyly, dragging your hips against his groin. Gods, how good it was.

Although he was loving the position he was in, Jace felt a sudden urge to cage your body against the bed, so he turned you lovingly to take control and pushed your hips against his at a constant pace that stole the air from both of you. The thought that happened in your head was indecent, but it was the complete reality of the situation. It wasn't love made between you and your husband, no, you were fucking with all the lust there was.

He rested his face on your neck as he hit you deeply, the delicious and maddening friction building a euphoria in your unknown stomach and making your walls squeeze madly. “Jace!” You moaned loudly, scratching his back as you held him more between your legs. “Oh! Jace!” Your sight turned white and your whole body spasmed on bed, the most wonderful feeling in the world numbing your senses.

That was too much for him. Both the grip around his cock, as well as your sounds, as well as the call by his name and his own limit sent him to the apex in the blink of an eye, grunting in your ear in such a sensual and deep way that it made you squeeze even more. For the seven, what had just happened?

Such pleasure from such indecency made him hot, confused and red like wine. Your breaths were heavy and agitated, stabilizing slowly and silently on the soft bed as you sighed satisfied with what had just happened. "So that's how it feel? Now I understand why some people indulge in promiscuity," you commented in a good mood, feeling your body return to normal. "We will do this more often, yes, husband?"

Who was he to deny your request? (Especially on the content of the request).

"Of course, my lady." Yes, your husband was perfect.

═════════════════════

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jace velaryon: @howyouloveyourdragon

[thatbloodymuggle]

MASTERMIND (vi)

SIX - FROM ASHES

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 7.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, lots of plot building, reader-centric, non-canon usage of real history

A/N: no eris in this chapter, but he'll be back soon🫠

“No luck?” the High Lord of the Night Court drums his fingers along the oak of his armchair.

“She’s stubborn as a mule,” a disgruntled Cassian slumps into his usual spot at the meeting table, “I think I’d have better luck convincing Tamlin to join our court.”

Rhys’s leisure finger-tapping halts, his knuckles turning white as he grips the arms of his chair so tightly it starts to splinter. Beside him, Cassian runs a hand through his unruly hair, shoulders tense. And across from him, Mor’s despondent eyes study the stem of her wine glass as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The rest of the table is a mixture of similar states of frustration, anger, and worry: Azriel’s jaw ticks, Feyre’s hopeful smile falters, Amren’s eyes roll. Everyone shifts with unease at the thick tension in the air, hallmarked by the glaringly obvious empty seat between Mor and Cassian. Well, everyone except Nesta, whose stone-cold expression doesn’t so much as twitch at the admittedly predictable news.

It’s been three months. Three months since you returned to the House of Wind in a heap of heartbreak. Three months of Azriel’s shadows chasing you down as you hop from court to court like a vagabond. Three months filled with visits from nearly every member of the Inner Circle. But despite their best attempts, their most heart-wrenching pleas, you remain steadfast: you are not the woman you used to be, and until you can find her, the Night Court cannot be your home.

“Where is she now?” Feyre breaks the heavy silence.

“Winter Court,” Azriel grunts, “She moved from Dawn last week.”

“And now that she knows we’ve found her, she’s probably gone already,” Cassian grumbles, face still sour from his rather unpleasant encounter with you.

The waning wood of Rhys’s chair finally snaps, sending pieces of splintered oak flying through the air. Feyre winces beside him, and for the first time Mor’s eyes move from the crystal glass. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” Rhys seethes, “We’ve given her space. She’s had her fun running around like a nomad. It’s time for her to come back home.”

Azriel grunts in agreement, the muscles underneath his sculpted arms flexing as he crosses them across the table. Feyre pulls her bottom lip between her teeth in contemplation.

“We can’t force her back here if she’s not ready,” Feyre counters softly.

“Yes, we can,” Amren snaps, “Ready or not, serving in this court is her duty.”

 “If we force her against her will, she’ll never forgive us,” Cassian grumbles, his wings fluttering slightly in a sign of irritation, “She made that painfully clear today.”

Mor sets her wine glass down on the table, and the soft clink draws everyone’s attention. They all stare, waiting with bated breath for her to speak.

During the first few weeks of your disappearance, Mor was an emotional wreck. She visited you each time she caught wind of your new location. She couldn’t stand to see her sister, her own flesh and blood, destroyed by the same male who hurt her centuries ago. But as the weeks stretched into months, and each visit became more and more reviled, she’d begun losing hope. It was a pain like no other—being unable to connect to the one person she loves unequivocally. The emptiness in your eyes, the disdain in your lips, only grew with each attempt, until she’d given up completely. Until she’d resigned herself to sulking in the corner of the room, staring at inanimate objects with a permanent frown on her face. 

“Leave her be,” Mor’s uncharacteristically cold tone slices through the air, “If she wants to wallow in her own self-pity, then let her.”

Azriel shifts in discomfort. His shadows swirl around the empty chair, as if mourning your absence. His wings twitch behind him, itching to search every inch of Prythian until he relocates you—or throttles Eris Vanserra’s throat.

The aftermath of your abrupt departure was explosive, to say the least. Watching you return bloodied and bare at the hands of him was far too familiar. It was a sight Azriel had witnessed once centuries ago—one he so deeply wishes could be cleansed from his memories forever. Once the panic that accompanied your return had settled, it was a blazing fury that took its place. The second the Autumn Court heir stepped into the Spring Court for his monthly meeting with Cassian, the Spymaster had him pinned against a tree with the Truthteller to his throat. It took every ounce of his will power, along with Cassian’s incessant reminder that Eris would be no use dead, to keep Azriel from slitting his throat on the spot. 

With your unabating avoidance of the topic, the Inner Circle is still ignorant to the details of your affair. Azriel, on the other hand, knew from the second he laid eyes on you, crumpled and broken on the living room floor. The rest of the Night Court entourage was quick to catch on—but it was him, the true limerence, who knew it from the start. And with his centuries spent pining after a female who can never love him back, he is unable to fathom the notion of a male rejecting a bond gifted by the Mother herself.

“She needs us,” Azriel avoids Mor’s penetrating gaze, “We cannot leave family behind.”

Red, hot ire contorts onto Mor’s features, but her retort is cut short by Rhys’s commanding tone.

“So we don’t force her,” Rhys crosses his arms over the table, “We deliver a message. Tell her that if she wants to keep her position in this court’s assembly, she is to report back to the House of Wind within the week—otherwise, we’ll find someone else to fill her position.”

Nesta, who’s been eerily quiet, scoffs humorlessly, “If you think that’s going to work, then you must truly be dense.” Rhys’s nostrils flare and he grinds his teeth. Cassian places a steadying hand on her thigh underneath the table, but the eldest Archeron sister continues, “If you’re going to give her an ultimatum, you might as well chain her up and lock her here. She’s far too intelligent, more than all of you combined, might I add, to fall for something as foolish as reverse psychology.”

Rhys leans forward and a menacing snarl curls onto his lips at his sister-in-law’s insubordination. Feyre shoots a warning glance at her sister, but the damage has already been done. 

“I’m not chaining anyone up,” the High Lord seethes.

“It sure seems that way,” Nesta retaliates, ignoring Cassian’s blunt nails digging into her thigh through her leathers, “It’s your fault she’s too traumatized to come back here. You sent her there. You encouraged her to get close to him. So maybe you should stop projecting, and give her the space she needs to sort her shit out.”

 Pure, unbridled rage blazes in Rhys’s violet eyes. His fists slam against the table, sending red liquid sloshing out of Mor’s glass. Feyre flinches, and the two Illyrian warriors keep their eyes down. But despite the fury pouring from the High Lord, Nesta keeps her chin held high, her eyes narrowed in a punishing glare. 

“The only person at fault is that Autumn Court piece of scum, girl,” Amren snaps, her cold eyes just as deadly as Nesta’s, “We’d be better off getting rid of him, once and for all.”

“He’s no use dead,” Feyre counters, placing a steadying hand on her mate’s shoulder.

“He’s not much use alive either,” Azriel grumbles.

 “I’m done with this conversation,” Mor abruptly stands from the table, her doe eyes void of emotion, “Do what you will. I don’t care.”

“Sit down,” Rhys’s tone is commanding, leaving no room for debate. She purses her lips, but reluctantly follows his instructions. Mor diverts her gaze back to the stem of the wine glass, retreating to her earlier fascination with the unfascinating object. “As much pleasure as I’d take in seeing the light leave the bastard’s eyes, we’re not killing Eris,” Rhys reasons, “And as it stands, I see no better option than leveraging her position as a member of this court’s politics.”

Nesta narrows her eyes, and he matches her glare. 

“It’s worth a try. We’ve all tried reasoning with her, and it’s only pushed her further,” Amren affirms before grumbling under her breath, “Stupid girl.”

Rhys relaxes back into his seat, but the tension in his shoulders remains, “Well, then if we’re all in agreement, I can draft a—”

“Let me talk to her,” Nesta interrupts.

“No,” the syllables roll off Rhys’s tongue before she can even finish her sentence.

The table falls silent when Feyre immediately retaliates, “Yes.”

The High Lord and Lady stare at one another, each unrelenting. The youngest Acheron sister cocks a brow, as if challenging her mate. Her pink lips are pulled tight, shoulders back; leaving no question that she is, in fact, his equal. Rhys bristles as Nesta’s voice sounds through the air once again, but keeps his gaze trained on Feyre.

“Clearly, all of you have failed miserably getting through to her,” Nesta’s cold tone softens slightly as Cassian kicks her foot underneath the table, “I’ve—” she falters, “I’ve been there before—in that seemingly impenetrable darkness. So let me talk to her.”

The anger laced onto Rhys’s features wavers, his lips dipping into a frown. His hard gaze softens, and he releases a long sigh. “If the High Lady wishes it, then so be it,” he relents.

Feyre fights the triumphant smile tugging at her rosy lips. Nesta does not.

With that, the plan slowly unfurls. Azriel will begin his search first thing in the morning, and once he relocates you, Nesta will pay you a visit. Much to her displeasure, Rhys still insists on writing his stupid letter for her to deliver. However, with agitation clear in the air, Nesta decides to let him have this small victory—if only to preserve his fragile ego. Through it all, Mor’s eyes don’t waver from her wine glass. But despite her detachment, a small sliver of hope dares to break through the solemn room. Everyone is wary, for hope has proven time and time again to be futile. And still, they can’t help but latch on to it for dear life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A wise philosopher once said, “By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.” But in all Confucius’s wisdom, you wholeheartedly believe his list should be reordered. 

First should be imitation, which you agree is easiest. You’ve acquired wisdom through imitation for as long as you can remember. From immersing yourself between endless shelves of books, to regurgitating the words of Prythian’s most treasured scholars, you are well practiced in imitation. And despite its short-sightedness, it has granted you wisdom, albeit superficial.

Second, in your mind, is experience. In your 70 years of existence, you’ve only recently started to dip your toes into this derivative of wisdom. And it is your precisely your thirst for wisdom that has driven you to seek experience in the first place. It’s that insatiable hunger, like a demon lurking on your shoulder, that initiated the cascade of experiences that has stripped away your sense of self entirely, leaving you an empty canvas, ready to be remolded. But despite the soul-shattering pain that has come along with experience, you don’t agree with Confucius. For reflection is far more bitter.

How does one practice introspection when they’ve lost their sense of self? When all there is to reflect on is an empty void, filled only by imitation and limited experience? It was meant to be an impossible feat, you suppose. If wisdom was so easy to come by, then wars wouldn’t ignite. Hate wouldn’t fester. And love would prevail.

It’s that void that plagues your mind as you stare into the crystal-clear lake below, shimmering with the reflection of a ghost of a woman. Even as you stretch your lips and wiggle your fingers, watching how it mirrors in the water, you don’t recognize the being staring back. The irony of it is glaring—staring at your physical reflection in search of that otherworldly one. But what else can you do when you’ve traversed all travelable land, met every breed of faerie, and still your only semblance of self is that tug deep in your chest that grows duller each day?

The woman in the lake ripples as a bright, orange fish breaks the surface briefly before swimming back down into its depths. With a long sigh, you peel your eyes from the crystal-clear water and divert your gaze to the surrounding trees. They shine a deep, emerald green underneath the beating sun. After several days spent traversing the mountains, creeks, and valleys of the Day Court, you’ve found that this little nook, tucked quietly along the southern border, is your favorite.

The rolling hills and warming, golden rays are something out of a children’s book. The nights are short; a stark contrast to the beautiful darkness of Velaris. And although you do miss the winking stars and smiling moon, something about this place feels…calming.

During the first two months of your excursion, you stayed far away from Night and Day, and you avoided Autumn like the plague. Feeling so disconnected from yourself, you opted for the more foreign parts of Prythian. A week in Summer, followed by a few days in Spring, before venturing into Dawn. Winter was your favorite. Without a real home, and with a handful of supplies, the biting winds were vicious—but they numbed the ache in your chest. That is, until you were sniffed out for…what is it, the sixteenth time now?

Your lips dip into a scowl at the thought. Each time you feel like you’re on the brink of something—of some kind of clarity, some self-discovery—Azriel’s meddling shadows rip you away from solitude. You know that your family means well. But telling them, time and time again, to kindly fuck off is becoming rather tedious. You’re not heartless; it’s quite the opposite, really. Each time you look into their eyes—their pitiful, dejected eyes—it rouses a storm of emotions deep inside your gut. You can’t stand the way they look at you like some helpless, wounded animal that bites at any helping hand. The way they look at you like you’re broken. It’s an unwelcome confirmation of your deepest fear: that you are, in fact, irreparable, crippled by the only person who’s made you feel alive. 

So, you continue to bite at their helping hands, constantly moving in search of that stupid introspection Confucius speaks so highly of. It’s how you’ve found yourself here, in the place that your mother once lived in, the place she once loved. It’s odd; exploring land that is technically your home, but that you’ve never seen before. You can’t help but wonder what your life would look like had you grown up outside the walls of that library. You imagine that you and your mother would have lived in a quaint cottage in this little nook in the south, where the hills stretch so far into the horizon, they seem infinite. You imagine you would have grown up swimming in this lake, climbing the luscious, green trees until your fingers splintered. 

The soft smile on your lips drops instantly as you catch sight of a dark movement in your peripheral. You whip around, just in time to see tendrils of shadows retreat into the trees. A scowl contorts onto your features. The stupid Spymaster should have known that his shadows wouldn’t fare well in the blistering daylight of this court. 

“Fool,” you shout out into the air. Only the birds chirp back—but you know the message was received.

You reluctantly haul yourself from the grass and begin your trek back to your temporary abode. The grass quivers beneath your stomping feet. Is a week of peace and quiet so much to ask? How many hurtful words does it take for them to give up? You don’t slow down as you approach the abandoned cottage. The hinges of the broken door groan in protest as you swing it open. Sun rays peak through the holes in the roof, shining down onto the dirty, wooden floorboards. It smells of rust and mildew, a testament to its centuries of neglect. But with only a handful of coins left in your pocket, it does the job.

Your hands tremble with agitation as you haphazardly throw your few personal belongings, strewn about the small house, into your single bag. You don’t have time to spare. Azriel surely knows he was caught, and he no doubt alerted Rhys immediately. Someone will be here soon with another futile plea to bring you home. You can only hope that you’ll be out of here before they arrive. Just as you snap the buttons of your bag shut, the hinges of the door groan again behind you.

You squint your eyes shut and clench your jaw, willing yourself to maintain some semblance of composure. You can tell by their light footsteps that it’s not one of the males—thank the Mother, because if Cassian returned he would be hobbling back to Velaris missing a limb.

“Isn’t this charming?”

That aloof tone could only belong to one person. Your tight grip on your bag loosens slightly, and your eyes widen with surprise. You turn slowly, brows furrowed as you take in Nesta’s appearance. Her golden-brown hair is braided on top of her head as usual, not a strand out of place. She wanders around the dreadful space, studying each dust-covered corner as if you’re not there. The initial shock fades, and the frown returns to your face.

“I didn’t know you were doing Rhys’s dirty work now,” you retort coolly. 

She pauses her mindless exploration and turns on her heels. Her cold eyes are striking, as always, and she doesn’t hide her scrutinizing gaze as she scans you from head to toe. You’ve looked better, it says. Nesta looks dreadfully bored as she replies, “I’m not—Well, I suppose I am,” she pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from her brassiere, “He requested that I deliver this. But if I were you, I’d burn it.”

Your eye the letter in her hand warily, as if touching it will somehow transport you back to the House of Wind. Nesta rolls her eyes and waves the parchment in her hand, “If you don’t take it, then I’m going to have to answer to his bruised ego.”

Reluctantly, you take the letter from her waiting hand and blindly set it aside, “Is that it?”

“Pretty much,” she quips.

“You’re not going to grovel and plea for me to come home?” you cross your arms over your chest.

“I don’t grovel,” she scoffs.

The tension in your body unfurls slightly, but you remain alert. You know Nesta is honest—but why on Earth would Rhys send her here?

“I’ll see myself out then,” the eldest Archeron sister juts her chin slightly in a farewell nod. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, watching intently as she turns on her heel and strides back towards the broken door.

“Wait,” you blurt before you can stop yourself. She pauses, ears perked expectantly. Maybe it’s her complete nonchalance, or her abrupt bluntness. But the way Nesta looks at you, like a real person and not some kicked puppy, strikes a chord within you. It stirs a realization that it’s not company you want to avoid, but rather the wrong kind of company.

“You can stay, if you’d like,” your voice is hesitant, but doesn’t waver.

Nesta turns slowly. Her icy eyes remain, but a ghost of a smile plays on her rosy lips, “Okay. But not in this dump.”

You roll your eyes at the way she crinkles her nose in response to the mildew seeping through the walls. You’re sure you don’t smell much better, not having had a proper bath in at least a week.

“Fine,” you deadpan, “We can walk.”

Nesta lets you lead the way, out of the abandoned cottage and into the green beauty of Day. The sun shines as brightly as ever as you fall into a comfortable rhythm, striding leisurely side by side. You note the wonderment in Nesta’s piercing eyes, drinking in the sweet breeze that hallmarks the Day Court. 

“I’m surprised it took you so long to venture here,” she remarks, “I’m not sure I’ve seen such…serenity before.”

You shrug as you step over a fallen log, “It’s nice.” Understatement of the century. “I quite liked Winter, though.”

Nesta snorts, “What did you squat in there? An igloo?”

She can surely feel your glare burning holes in the side of her head, but her eyes remain trained on the full-bodied trees above. 

“A tupiq, actually,” you retort. In retrospect, an igloo would have been better. “I liked the cold. It was…numbing.”

An unspoken tension hangs in the otherwise crisp air. You’re not sure why the small sliver of vulnerability rolls off your tongue. It’s not a new revelation—but saying it aloud, for someone else to hear, is different.

“A stark contrast to the blazing inferno that drove you here,” Nesta states flagrantly. 

A dull tug deep in your chest halts you in your tracks. Your eyes narrow to slits, and Nesta finally meets your punishing gaze.

“What’s your play here?” you hiss.

She quirks a brow, “There’s no play. I didn’t realize Eris was a dirty word.”

His name rolls so nonchalantly off her tongue, and you physically stumble back with a wince. You haven’t heard his name in months. It was a boundary not even your half-sister dared to breech during her many unwelcome visits. Hearing that four-letter name brings on a swirl of feelings you’ve tried for so long to suppress. Nesta’s piercing expression softens slightly as she observes the change in your demeanor. She opens her mouth to apologize, but you speak before she has the chance.

“It’s not—he’s…he’s not,” you try, and fail, to keep your voice steady.

She nods slowly and wets her lips before replying, “Well, I’m glad you’re not letting a male dictate your life.”

Your lips curl into a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The irony of it is sobering. Despite your expert avoidance of any thoughts plagued by him, he has dictated your life from the moment you left Velaris. You’ve run like a coward, chased by his ghost, in search of some mirage of clarity that he has made unattainable. 

“I noticed your copy of Confucius’s Analects,” Nesta halts your rapid spiral, “In that shithole you’ve been squatting in. Interesting choice, given your…light packing.”

You can’t help but glance at the lake in the distance. Déjà vu washes over you as you’re reminded of your earlier musings by the crystal-clear water. 

 “I didn’t know you’ve read his works,” you reply simply.

Nesta shrugs and examines her long nails, picking at the cuticles, “I might have indulged myself in your personal copy while you were in Autumn.”

A faint smile plays at your lips, “You’ve outgrown your smut books?”

“Not in the slightest,” she laughs unabashedly, “Just thought I’d supplement them with some light reading.”

Ancient philosophy is hardly light reading. But this is Nesta you’re talking to.

“What did you think?” you ask, eyes still trained on the blue in the horizon.

She sits down on a nearby log, picking at her nails in thought. You seat yourself on a large rock across the path.

“I agree with most of his musings,” she hums, “Although I find them to be rather unremarkable. I find it silly that the world still marvels a regular, old male, as if his theories were anything more than common sense.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Nesta’s pessimism shouldn’t surprise you—yet you’re still taken aback by her blatant disregard for one of history’s most renowned scholars.

“I think you underestimate the acuity of the general population.”

She shrugs, “All I’m saying is keeping my nose stuck in books written by senile males is futile when I have a mind sharper than theirs,” she pauses, “Maybe one written by a female as wise as you would be more worth my time.”

You scoff, “I’m far from wise.”

“I think you’re plenty wise,” Nesta holds your gaze, “If you dare to believe it.”

Goosebumps prickle along your arms, and you’re not sure if it’s from the billowing breeze or Nesta’s candidness. You avoid her gaze, opting instead to stare out at the blue in the horizon. Silver lines your eyes as you mull over her words. Perhaps she is right—reading about introspection does not grant one knowledge. It’s merely another form of imitation. And maybe if you looked within yourself for long enough, you’d see what she sees—that wisdom comes from within. You blink back tears, and your bottom lip quivers.

“I miss you all. More than you know,” you barely speak above a whisper, “But every time I look at them—every time I look at her…it feels like drowning. Like gasping for air, and water rushing in. Because I can’t be the friend, the sister they want me to me.”

The billowing breeze stops, leaving the air around you deadly quiet. The trees seem to lean in, holding their breath as they wait for your next words.

“I can’t look them in the eye when all I can see, touch, taste, feel is…is Eris.”

The onlooking trees shudder as you utter his name for the first time in three months. And for the first time in three months, a hairline crack appears in the walls you’ve so carefully constructed. The floodgate hasn’t broken, but a single tear slips out. It descends the apple of your cheek and into the corner of your trembling lips. The droplet stirs something inside of you, tugs on the string buried deep within your chest in a mournful plea.

“Don’t come back.”

The breeze billows again as Nesta’s steady tone slice through the air. You peel your watery eyes away from the lake, and look at her…really look at her. Her expression is nearly indiscernible beneath the stone-cold mask she wears so well. But the slight dip in the corners of her eyes betray her, exposing the heart-wrenching understanding that lies within.

“What?” you barely recognize your own voice.

“Don’t come back,” she repeats with conviction, “Don’t let them tell you what to do. Don’t let them dictate how you heal.”

You watch, dumbfounded, as she rises from the log and brushes the dirt from her silky dress. For the first time in your life, Nesta gives you a smile. A real, honest smile, so fleeting you think you could’ve imagined it. Before you can utter another word, she’s gone with the billowing wind.

You raise a shaky hand and wipe the pooled tear from your lips with the pad of your thumb. The golden thread tugs steadily in the chasm of your chest, like the beat of a heart that doesn’t belong to you. You rise from the boulder on wobbly legs and begin your walk back to the dingy cottage. You time your steps with the tugging thread. The wistful breeze doesn’t reach your ears as you immerse yourself in your swirling thoughts. You don’t give yourself the reprieve of blocking them out, of suppressing them—not this time. Instead, you let them carry you inside the mold-filled house, guide you to your packed bag, and urge you to dig out a roll of parchment and a pen.

You slump onto the dirty ground. As you roll out the parchment, you feel your head clear for the first time since you left Autumn. The fog of guilt, doubt, despair lifts. And as you set pen to page, you’re able to discern your own handwriting—delicate pen strokes that belong solely, perfectly, to you. Daughter of Marjorie, Friend of the Night Court, Sister of Morrigan, and Mate of the Autumn Court Heir. You’re all of it, all at once. 

Ink smudges from the soft pitter-patter of salty tears. With each droplet that falls, another boarded window is ripped away, shining light that’s been hiding for months. Even as they stream down, wracking your body to its bones, you let that tug deep inside your chest guide your steady hand. 

As the days blur into nights, you write with an intensity born of both clarity and urgency. The tears that once fell now blend with ink, each drop a testament to the rawness of your words. And each soft scratch of the pen draws you just a little bit closer to reclaiming your voice. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You’re not quite sure what brought you here, to the House of Wind. Maybe it’s a moment of madness, brought on by the endless stream of tears you’ve been holding back for months. Maybe it’s the unedited, albeit complete, manuscript in your satchel. Or maybe it’s sheer exhaustion from writing from dusk till dawn, and the whole day in-between, three times over. Perhaps all of the above. But there’s three things you’re sure of: your head feels like it’s about to split in two, your hand aches so badly it may fall off, and you’re so nervous to walk through those doors that you might be sick.

You rock back and forth on your heels as you stare at the entrance atop 10,000 winding steps, frozen in place. You feel like a dog, returning home with its tail between its legs, after biting the hand of its caregiver. And you have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re going to say. Nesta was right. You should’ve stayed far away, continued your aimless journey until you could work up the courage to do this. You stumble backwards, but before you can flee the doors swing open.

Your breath catches in your throat as violet eyes stare back at you. They’re wide, like an open book. You can read it all, every footnote of his emotions: trepidation, remorse, but above all, relief. You’re not sure if he wants to punch you or kiss you. But before you can utter a word, he strides forward and engulfs you in his strong arms. He holds you tight, afraid that if he lets go, you’ll slip through his fingers once again. The unstated desperation twists your gut, washing away every ounce of hesitation. For the first time in months, you don’t deny yourself the comfort of human touch and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He shudders underneath your hold and buries his faces into the crook of your shoulder. It’s in his embrace that you realize you’re not a dog limping back to its owner—rather, you’re a soldier returning from war, battered, but whole. 

“I’m sorry,” Rhys mumbles, his heavy breath tickling your skin.

You frown and move to push him away, but his grip around your frail body only tightens.

“For what?”

“For sending you there,” he doesn’t miss a beat, “For not being there for you—for not being the brother you needed me to be.”

His words chip at a piece of your healing heart. “Please don’t apologize,” your voice wavers, “It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. This is just one of those things life, in all her ambiguity, throws at us—and I’m better for it. Even if she’s a raging bitch sometimes.”

He chuckles deeply, the vibration warming your whole body.

“She is,” he grins against you, “I’m just happy you’re home. Even though you reek.”

You release a watery laugh, “I know.” You swallow down the lump in your throat and unravel yourself from his tight embrace. “I haven’t decided yet, though—if I’ll be staying or not.”

The brilliant violet of his eyes dims, and it takes every ounce of willpower to hold your ground. 

“You’re not staying?” his voice is eerily steady.

 “I don’t know,” you avoid his penetrating gaze, “I want to. But I have…stipulations.”

Rhys’s hopeful gaze hardens slightly. “Stipulations?” he deadpans.

Something moves in your peripheral, and you glance up at one of the arched windows just in time to see the curtain snap shut. “Can we go somewhere more private to talk?”

He nods tersely. He remains deadly calm, wary that one wrong slip of his tongue could send you running again. You immediately miss the warmth of his welcome, but he still maintains a certain softness as he holds his arm out to you. You hook your arm through his, wrapping your dirty fingers around his bicep. You close your eyes as the world twists and folds until you’re standing with him in a familiar room.

The extravagance of his office makes you harshly aware of just how filthy you are. Months of travel have coalesced into the grime underneath your uncut fingernails, the tangled knots of hair on your head. Rhys takes a seat behind his desk, and you warily stare at the chair opposite it. A blush dusts across your cheeks at the prospect of dirtying the velvet cushion, but he nods his head in a wordless command, and you take a seat. 

“Before I start, I want to…apologize,” you swallow down the lump in your throat, “It was never my intention to hurt or worry any of you. I just needed some time to sort things out.” They’re far from sorted. “But I could’ve done so without my unkind words.”

Rhys nods, his sharp features softening slightly, “I know. And I should’ve given you space, so it cancels out.”

Some of the tension slips from your shoulders, but your back remains stiff. You wet your chapped lips and take an anchoring breath before continuing, “I don’t know if I’m ready to return. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel ready. And if there’s one thing my…absence has taught me, it’s that I can’t sit around and wait for life to pass me by.”

The bag on your lap weighs heavier as you’re reminded of the manuscript tucked neatly inside. The glimmer of hope returns to Rhys’s brilliantly violet eyes, but he remains composed as he waits for you to continue.

“So, I’d like to return. But under three conditions.”

 “Okay,” Rhys drags the word out, “But I have to warn you that neutering Cassian is off the table.”

You can’t contain the giggle that escapes your lips. Rhys’s broad chest rumbles with laughter, and for a split second, it feels like no time has passed at all.

“As much as I would delight in it, cutting off the Lord of Bloodshed’s balls wasn’t what I had in mind,” you reply once your fit of laughter subsides.

A small smile remains on Rhys’s lips, “Then what is?”

The humor of the moment passes, and you purse your lips. You close your eyes briefly. In and out. Your chest expands, and as you exhale, your eyes shoot open. It’s now or never.

“First, I want an apartment in Velaris. No more being cooped up here—I want freedom to roam about the Court as I please,” you declare.

Rhys takes less than a minute to think it over before replying, “Done. What else?”

Your brows arch slightly with surprise. Your first request is definitely the tamest of the three—but you didn’t anticipate quite how…agreeable he would be. One down, two to go. Now, for the big one.

“No more secrets,” your tone is steady, self-assured, “No more hiding my identity.”

His jaw shifts, and his bright eyes darken. It’s deadly quiet. You find yourself holding your breath as you wait for his brewing reaction.

“What about your father?” he challenges, his voice gruff with apprehension.

“I don’t care,” your reply is immediate, “Kier won’t so much as lay a finger on me so long as I’m a part of your circle. I don’t give a flying fuck if anyone knows who I am, for that matter.” He opens his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it. “I’m aware that I would no longer be able to act as a liaison between citizens of the courts. But I know for a fact that my time and energy is just as well-served elsewhere,” you don’t so much as stutter as you speak, “I want to be renamed Scholar of the Night Court.”

The High Lord leans forward in his seat, crossing his arms over his desk. The position exudes power, but you don’t so much as flinch at his commanding demeanor. “And what would you do as Scholar?”

You lean forward, mimicking his stance, “Draft your communications. Document your correspondences. Conduct research as you see fit,” the list of tasks rolls off your tongue effortlessly, “Although Amren deserves credit for cracking that book during the war, you wouldn’t have been able to do it without me. There’s not a soul in this Court as proficient as me in ancient tongues, history—overall intelligence too, for that matter.”

The hesitation is clear in the cinch between his brows. Losing you as a liaison is a loss for his ranks. But gaining you as a scholar could be even more valuable. More than that, you know that Rhys will do virtually anything to have you back here—to have you home. Just as you predicted, he releases a long sigh and unfurls his arms before leaning back in his chair.

“Okay,” he relents.

Your lips twitch, threatening to spread into a wide grin, but you suppress it. You still have one more demand, and you have a feeling that this one will truly test his resolve. 

“My last stipulation,” you brace yourself for his rebuttal, “Is that I want full involvement in Court politics. Visits to the Court of Nightmares, meetings with other High Lords—whatever the rest of your Inner Circle accompanies you to, I want to be in attendance.”

“No.”

You frown and cross your arms over your chest, “No?”

“No,” Rhys repeats with conviction.

Irritation blossoms, but your face remains impassive, “May I ask why?”

“You have no idea the…intricacies of the politics I must deal with. It’s not safe,” he trails off, his eyes glazing over with a sense of detachment.

You’re not sure if it’s your comparatively young age, or the fact that you were dropped on his doorstep as a refugee soon-to-be-orphan so many years ago; whatever the reason, Rhys has always been protective of you—overly so. You know it’s the goodness of his heart that’s speaking, but you still have to take a deep breath to calm yourself. 

“I’m more than capable of learning them. Besides, don’t you think it’s a little too late to prevent me from getting involved with High Lords and their heirs?” you quip.

A pang of guilt tugs at your heartstrings at the remorse on his face. You know it’s a low blow. But even in the presence of your gnawing guilt, the truth behind your words is louder. 

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he rasps, “And I nearly failed her once. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The mention of her makes your heart skip a beat. Your palms grow slick with sweat, and you instinctively rub them against the leather of your pants. His confession sheds light on his recent obsessive behavior—how he prioritized tracking your movements over other pressing matters. Any lingering resentment you held melts away as you shift your approach, grappling with the weight of his words. 

“I understand,” sincerity laces itself in your tone, “But is ensuring my safety really worth it if it comes at the expense of my happiness?”

Rhys opens his mouth, but words fail him. His brows furrow as he mulls over your question. Finally, he’s able to muster a reply, “I want you to be happy, Y/N. But I saw—we all saw how miserable you were when you came back from Autumn, and I struggle to see how continuing to involve you in court politics could bring anything but.”

A chill crawls up your bare arms as a vivid image of your burned wrists flashes through your mind. You glance down at your hands in your lap, flexing your fingers to remind yourself that the wounds are long gone—even though the heartache remains.

“I don’t regret a single moment I spent there,” you reply, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Yes, it brought me pain, and I still bear those wounds. But it also brought me joy.” A sad smile graces your features. “It gave me the greatest adventure of my life. It gave me him—heartbreak, and all its beautiful ruin.”

  A rivulet descends your cheek into the crevice of your smile. A sense of newfound understanding weaves its way between Rhys and yourself. An understanding that the villain in his story may very well be the hero in yours.

“When did you become so wise?” he hums.

A wistful note lingers in your voice as you meet the High Lord’s gaze. “When I realized that wisdom doesn’t come from avoiding the fire, but from walking straight through it and letting it burn away what no longer serves you.”

Rhys’s eyes soften, “And what did it burn away?”

Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of pain, fear of loss. What remains is the understanding that pain and joy, loss and love—they are one and the same. And I would rather live a life touched by both than one shielded from them.”

Rhys leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable, as if weighing every word you’ve spoken. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Finally, he speaks, his tone resigned but tinged with a deep respect. “If this is the path you choose, then I won’t stand in your way. But promise me that you’ll be careful. That you’ll come to me if you ever need anything—no matter what it is.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling on your shoulders, “I promise.”

He studies you for a long moment, as if committing this version of you—the one who walked through fire and emerged stronger—to memory. The warmth in his eyes is unmistakable as he stands, rounding the desk to pull you into another tight embrace.

“Welcome home, Scholar of the Night Court.”

As you rest your head against his chest, you close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment to simply breathe. This is home. And no matter what lies ahead, you know that you have the strength—and the wisdom—to face it.

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[kneelingshadowsalome]

Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

[leclercsfilm]

i am your legacy

aegon is out of character. i do indeed hate alicent so much that she turned me into feeling pity for aegon. if alicent has no hater im dead. english is not my first language.

aegon looked at the door.

every moment, he anticipated his mother entering with her own cup of wine, as if she was teasing him. he knew her plan. it was not hard to not know her plan.

for her, he was just a playable character in this game of twist and turns. he was her way. out or in, it doesn't matter.

the noise was heard, yet he didn't look up. he knew better. alicent finally entered the room.

they always came to this. she would always remained him of his duty, of his right. but his right was given, not earned. and, because of that, he was truly afraid.

aegon knew the real reason behind the cruel death of his beloved son. aegon's younger brother, killed lucerys. which caused the anger on the blacks side. it should have ended right then, year's ago, with aemond's eye out.

now aegon wished he could at least comfort his family about this new 'situation'.

their actions have consequences. just because they've made aegon a king, that doesn't mean they are not immune to the blow.

it's almost as no one truly cares. aegon locked himself in his chambers, yet no one tried to even reach for his door. everyone is referring to his son as 'the boy' as if they are not related at all.

they are not even angry, or sad for his violent death. they are just angry for the lack of naivety of people. they are angry because their power slipped away from them.

'i see you are here, not attending your duites...' - she barks at him

'i see no reason to do so.'

'you are king, at least you need to keep an appearance.' she chuckled 'people are looking up to you now. you are their source of power.'

'what kind of power do i have, mother? what power do i have over you and your rats?' - aegon looked at her

he was at the table, playing with his fingers. he stopped doing it for so many years. after his sons vdeath, he became quickly familiar with an old habit of his.

'we will not have this conversation now.' - she furrowed her brows, and pressed her lips. she is taunting him.

'i don't see any use of me then.' - aegon looked down at his feet.

alicent pitied only herself. she wasnt like this before. what if it wasn't his son beheaded that night, what if it was helaena, or maybe aemond? would she then care at all?

'its rather funny, how many things have you done in my name...'

mocking her, reminding her of her constant failure of trying to be into politics. she had a taste of politics once, and now she had a right to marsh into council and question his decisions.

a silence overruled. the only noise that was heard was alicent letting go of her necklace that she was playing with since begining.

'for your actions my people will blame me, not you, mother.'

alicent closed her eyes to calm herself. she quickly grabbed her goblet, thinking as if all of this was for her son, right? or was it for her father? maybe somehow it all turned out to be for her?

'it was easier with my dead father.' - aegon stated out of blue.

he touched his unruly thin hair, thinking for himself, was it the silver hair that made people follow him? clearly, it can't be his manhood. rhaenyra's heir has it as well. but he does not have his silver hair.

'he would do his own thing. in his own world. alone in a room.'

alicent stared at her son. they never had a conversation about viserys. that man was dead for them since begining.

'maybe you tormented him as you do me now.' - aegon countinued with his insults

alicent quicly stands.

'how dare you question my loyalty, my doings with your father? viserys was nothing but a content man beside me. rhaenyra left him here alone when he was fighting with that awful illness-'

'we all know why my half-sister left.' - he started

'you speaking exhausts me more then waking up after a night full of wine, mother.' - aegon countinioued his insults

'the best thing you can do is to leave. let the king to attend his duties, with his council.'

his melancholy turned bittersweet. his face was graced with a little smirk, who is fighting to not become a mocking laugh.

alicent turned away, leaving her gobblet at the table. she was already overwhelmed with a fight from morning with cole. now she has angry aegon roaming the castle.

'without you mother, of course. maybe you need to pray... you've lost a grandson, haven't you?'

'or, perhaps, queen mother would like to do.... nothing?'

with that, alicent had left. she needed to see father and encourage to feed aegons ego before he does something unrational.

gabblet full of wine was thrown. wine was all over the floor, shining in a candle light.

'you forgot i am you legacy. you forgot i can be just like you.'

[wlntrsldler]

f.u.c.k | jamie tartt

based on the song f.u.c.k by victoria monet

description: pure smut. no plot.

pairing: jamie tartt x f!reader

warnings: language-- it's ted lasso, what did ya expect?!; PinV! sex! smut! so dirty.

word count: 2.4K

The first time you fucked Jamie Tartt was all lust. You’ve come to learn that there was something absolutely magnetic about him. Like once you’re within his vicinity, you are pulled towards him whether you want to be or not. You tried to fight it at first, unable to get rid of the idea of who he once was from your brain, but it was no use. The more you got to know Jamie, the easier it was to fall for him, to be so intoxicated from him. He consumed your thoughts. All kinds of thoughts.

It was Ted and Beard’s going away party. Rebecca rented out Bones & Honey entirely for the team and their guests. The early part of the night was wholesome. Players gave speeches about how their lives were changed because of the two Americans and wished the coaches a safe flight. There was a three-course Michelin-star menu and an assortment of expensive and classy wines. After the meal, the open bar was introduced. 

Bones & Honey was instantly transformed into a nightclub and it became far from innocent. You found yourself sitting at the bar, sipping on your drink, with Jamie Tartt whispering in your ear, so close to you that you could feel his body heat radiating off of him.

You’d had a few drinks. You were in a good place where you felt careless enough to speak your mind but sober enough to carry on a proper conversation and to know what you want, what you need. The music was so loud that you encouraged Jamie to lean in closer so you could hear him properly. He happily obliged. 

From where he was, your sweet perfume filled his senses. Your skin was a little damp from how hot the club was with all the dancing. Jamie had a hand sprawled across your lower back, not because you needed to be steadied but because he needed to touch you. As he pulled away from your ear, he couldn’t help but bite his bottom lip. Had he extended his neck just a little bit more, his lips would’ve brushed the skin of your neck. 

You placed your drink on the counter, turning the bar chair to face him directly. Your eyes roamed his figure– strong thighs on display with the slacks he wore that hugged his bottom half perfectly, arms so sculpted that you couldn't help but run your fingers over them, and his hands that would look so, so good on you. You couldn’t help but watch the veins of his tattooed arm as he flexed his hand. You let your eyes wander upwards, stopping at his plump lips. You forgot what the conversation was about. 

Jamie’s eyes trailed down your body, having to hold back a groan when he saw you press your thighs together. His hand slowly crept to touch your exposed knee, giving an experimental squeeze before he let his hand move up. He stopped at the hem of your dress, looking up at you once more. You had this look on your face like you were fucked out and he hadn’t even touched you yet, as if the sexual tension between the two of you was enough to get you off. Jamie flared his nostrils, his slacks getting tighter by the second. He leaned toward you again, “If you don’t stop looking at my lips without doin’ anythin’ about it, I will fucking take you right here on this counter in front of everyone.” 

You smirked, placing a hand over his own that was resting on your thigh. You opened your legs a tiny bit, guiding his hand near where you wanted him, but not quite letting him get there. You placed your other hand on the side of his face as you leaned closer, “You couldn’t handle me.” 

For a split second, he was taken aback, eyes blinking while your words sunk in. Then, he smirked, extending his thumb to lightly graze your mound. You sucked in a breath at the contact. Jamie pulled his hand away and hopped off the bar stool, extending his hand for you to take. You adjusted your dress and took him up on his offer. 

Jamie placed a hand on your back, ushering you out of the bar. As you were walking out the door, Jamie pulled your back to his front. You gasped at the sudden contact, feeling him against your leg. He wrapped an arm around your torso, mouth finding the skin behind your ear. He placed a soft kiss on it, so soft you didn’t know if you just imagined it. “You’re gonna regret saying that.” 

When you got to his flat, it was like you were both done with the months of pining, sexual tension, and secret touches. Jamie unlocked the door, pulled you inside, and then his mouth was on yours. He kicked the door closed and had his hands gripping you everywhere like you were going to disappear if he didn’t. You had your fingers tangled in his hair, gently tugging, making him moan into the kiss. Your mouths were reckless and messy, but so fucking hot against each other. 

He was the first to pull away from you, the last shred of logic he had left willed him to because then, he truly didn’t care if he needed to breathe to survive. At that moment, your lips on his own were more important than anything else. Jamie fumbled with the zipper on the back of your dress as he left sloppy kisses down your neck. He inhaled your scent, groaning, unable to stop himself from grinding his hips against yours. You sighed in pleasure, arching your back to press closer to him. 

When he detached from your neck, he looked at you with eyes that nearly had you sinking to your knees without question. His eyes were wide, lust clouding his irises so much that you couldn’t recognize the color they’d become. He was panting, lips raw and red from kissing you. You saw traces of your lipgloss lingering on the side of his mouth, twinkling sinfully under the lights. You ran your thumb across his lips, trying to wipe the remnants of your mouth away from it. Jamie captured it between his lips and sucked on it, his tongue licking a stripe up the pad of your thumb. He placed a soft kiss on it before you pulled it too far from him. 

“What I wouldn’t give to see this look on your face again,” he sighed, beginning to kiss down your body. He placed a kiss on your collarbone, “And again.”

A kiss to your chest as he peeled your dress down, leaving your top half exposed, “And again.” A kiss on your boobs, nipping and biting at the soft flesh. Your skin was on fire. “And again.” 

He continued this down to your stomach. Jamie was on his knees, looking up at you pleadingly. He looked wrecked. He pulled your dress down, running his fingers over your panties as if asking if it was okay. You responded by placing a leg on his shoulder. He shuddered, reaching down his pants to adjust himself. He whimpered at the contact before returning his focus to you. 

He moved your panties to the side, whining at the way your slick looked so inviting for him. Jamie licked up your cunt, moaning into you, enjoying your taste. His cock was leaking pre-cum and it was so fucking painful, but he wasn’t going to let this moment go to waste without tasting you, feeling you. Jamie’s eyes fluttered shut when your fingers found his hair again, tugging him closer to where you needed him the most. 

“Right there, Jamie,” you panted, chest heaving. “So good for me, baby.” 

Jamie didn’t know that he could get more turned on. He was rock hard already, but hearing the pet name roll off your tongue, sounding so fucking spent, with you withering above him, made his cock twitch in his pants. He clumsily undid his zipper, pushing his slacks down to relieve himself from its confines. Jamie brought his hand back up to you. His tattooed arm was pressing down on your stomach, trying to keep you still. His other hand joined his tongue, fingers dipping inside your cunt. 

You mewled at the feeling of his fingers inside you. There were so many things happening. It felt so good. He was knuckles deep, lips wrapped around your bud when you felt that familiar knot in your belly. You pulled on his head, trying to warn him about what was coming. You were trying to give him an out just in case he didn’t want to be there when the dam broke. 

Jamie pulled away, staring at you with his face glistening with your slick. “Give it to me, baby. Want it so bad.” 

When he went back down on you, it didn’t take much to have you screaming. You were blubbering above him, crying out his name as your orgasm turned your limbs to jello. Jamie could no longer hold off. He pumped his cock just enough to relieve the pressure, but not enough to cum. He couldn’t come in his hand. He needed to come inside you. 

You pulled him up to kiss him again, sighing into his mouth when you tasted yourself on him. He led you through his hallway, picking you up so you could wrap your legs around him as he carried you up the stairs to his bedroom. You pushed yourself on him, moaning when you felt his cock prod your pussy. Your soaked panties and his thin boxers were the only things separating you from each other. 

He dropped you on his bed, not once disconnecting your lips. Jamie was on top of you, hips rocking against yours. You were tugging down your underwear, whining when the cool air hit your center. Jamie tugged his boxers off shortly after you. He hissed in pleasure when the head of his dick touched your entrance. 

In his distracted state, you flipped the both of you over so you were on top. You got on your knees, placing your body in between his separated legs. He looked at you questioningly, his face ever so expressive. You arched your back so you were leaning onto him. You grabbed his dick, lightly stroking it. Jamie scrunched his eyes closed, taking in a breath as you took your time with him. He backed up so his back was on his bed frame and you hungrily followed him. He crossed his arms behind his head. 

Jamie’s heart nearly stopped when your tongue licked up the side of his cock. You wrapped your lips around his head briefly, “Been wantin’ to taste ya since forever ago.” 

“Yeah?” Jamie breathed out, unable to look away from you. He groaned when you took his cock in your mouth, your hand wrapping around the rest of him that you couldn’t fit in your mouth. He tucked your hair behind your ears, trying to stop himself from bucking his hips up, “Been wantin’ you like this for so long. Wanted to feel that perfect pussy.” 

You groaned at his words, continuing to suck him off. He was a moaning mess, panting, hands gripping the sheets beside him. He abruptly pulled you off his dick, mumbling something about wanting to finish in your pussy. You hummed, connecting your lips once more. As he hovered over you, you leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Next time, I want you to fuck my mouth so hard I lose my voice. Don’t hold back, baby. Want to taste you.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jamie groaned, stopping his movements. He dropped his head on your shoulder. His dick was poking your pussy, more than ready to feel you around it. “You’re going to be the death of me.” 

“Told you, you couldn’t handle me.” 

Jamie licked his lips, a twinkle in his eye. “Told you, you were goin’ to regret sayin’ that, love.” 

Jamie pushed into you with fervor. Your scream bounced off the walls, and the air in your lungs disappeared. He looked down at you, a moan escaping his lips at how utterly perfect you looked under him. Your nails clawed at his back, no doubt leaving marks on it. Jamie couldn’t feel it. All he could feel was the warmth and tightness of you. His brain was shortcircuiting. He met no resistance from your pussy. It was so inviting. It was like it was made just for him. 

No coherent words left your lips. All you could babble out was Jamie’s name. You forgot every word besides his name. Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Like a fucking mantra. Like a prayer. 

“Baby,” Jamie whispered. “Baby, please,” 

Your eyes were rolling back as you felt your orgasm coming quickly. Jamie was begging for you to come with him. He was close, so close that his ears were ringing. He couldn’t think about anything else but chasing his high and feeling you come undone around his cock. He thrusted into you with a rhythm that had you sobbing. The pleasure was so intense. You felt so full. 

Jamie felt your pussy tighten around him and his arms nearly gave out. He held himself on top of you, continuing to push into your pussy. His fingers found your clit, rubbing it at the perfect pressure to bring you to your end. 

“Shit,” Jamie hissed, unable to stop himself from pounding into you. You yelled out his name when you came, your pussy constricting around him as you orgasm. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, spilling himself inside of you shortly after. 

You cradled his head against you as he tried to catch his breath. When he pulled out of you, an involuntary sound left your mouth, suddenly feeling empty. Jamie chuckled at your reaction and let his eyes trail down your body. He licked his lips at the sight of his cum spilling out of you. 

You rolled over on your side, reaching up to fix his hair, “So what’s the verdict, Tartt? Can you handle me?” 

Jamie laughed, wrapping an arm around you. He placed his lips on yours, softer and sweeter this time. There was no more urgency between the both of you. “I don’t think I can.” 

“Told you.” 

“But, I think I just have to build my stamina up,” He added, his hand making its way down to your ass. “So I just need to practice some more with you.”

You smacked him on the shoulder, throwing your head back in laughter, “You’re ridiculous.” 

He smiled at you, teasing, “Hey, you’re the one who said there was a next time.” 

“Mhm,” you mumbled, kissing him again, “There will definitely be a next time.” 

[madridfangirl]

A Weekend in Ibiza - Part 3

(Jude Bellingham blurb)

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4)

4k words. Jude*female reader. Smut & suggestive language.

A/n - When we don't get Jude holiday content, we make shit up

..................................................................................................

Jude stared at the blank screen after she hung up on him. In utter disbelief.

He really thought he was in. The wine & note was such a master stroke. A public message but one only she would understand. That, coupled with the song, was absolute pants-dropping stuff. Proof that he could do more than just think with his dick. 

He had been quite proud of himself for coming up with it. And, unless his radar was completely broken, he had sensed a change in her tone & voice too.

But poof. The pat on the back was clearly premature. 

Fuck this shit. 

Determined to go back to how smooth & satisfying this vacation was going till this morning, Jude returned to the club. And to the set of women he was holding off when he thought he was gonna be otherwise occupied. 

His mates could see he was off the rails tonight. Grinding & grabbing freely. Caution out of the window. High on loads of tequila and some other emotion he wasn’t in the mood to share, not even with them. They let him be, only intervening when he was gonna end up with someone in the club’s loo, and sending them back to the villa.

As a gorgeous & supremely enthusiastic woman bounced on him that night, throwing her head back in pleasure, screaming his name, Jude laid back and shut his eyes, imagining those sounds in another voice. Later, he crashed on the living room couch, face down, drifting to a restless sleep.

You woke up the next day, still undecided, but glad that you had held off last night. And not jumped into something without thinking it through. 

Kicking yourself for avoiding outdoors all day yesterday, you booked a long snorkelling & island hopping trip, soaking in the sun and the glorious water. And kept your phone on airplane mode. Afterall, this was meant to be a relaxing holiday in your dream location. Ibiza wasn’t going to be just about him. Heck, you didn’t even know he existed till yesterday morning. Peaceful times.

Amidst the fun & frolic, though, his thoughts kept creeping up. You couldn’t shut him out, much to your surprise & dismay. This was strange & unusual, but you fought the feeling.

Till you got back to your room that afternoon and succumbed to checking his Insta. The real meaning of the phrase ‘dropping to one’s knees’ became all too clear in that split second.

He had uploaded a set of rigorous workout photos. In a sleeveless black vest and the tightest pair of training shorts you had even seen. Sweaty thirst traps, basically. The comment section had exploded, as did your ovaries.

You had meant what you told him yesterday - casual sex had never appealed to you. Hook-ups were not your cup of tea. You had been in two relationships previously and sex had happened only after an emotional connection. It had been a while since then but you had never felt such a NEED before.

This guy though - the pull you felt towards him, the way your body responded to just his thoughts, the desperation you felt to get his hands on you (& yours on him) - it was an unearthly feeling. Like all the forces in the universe had aligned to bring you two together. 

His persistent attention was flattering, you couldn’t deny. For some unfathomable reason, he really wanted you. 

It was high time to admit, that, you wanted him too.

And what better place to get this anomaly out of your system than this faraway exotic land, where no one recognised you. What happened in Ibiza could literally just stay in Ibiza.

This realisation gave you new found clarity, and courage. Still not enough courage to call him though - you opted for texts.

‘9 pm tonight? My room?’

You’d rather die than go to his villa, that much you were set on. God knows what all would have happened there. 

He saw the message after a few mins, around 6 pm.

‘Why wait till then?’

You took in a few deep breaths. Shit was getting real.

‘Ok. Room 209.’

‘Will be there in 20.’

20 mins. He was gonna be here in 20 mins. Million dollar question - what to wear? But but, this wasn’t a date. So it didn’t matter that you hadn’t packed anything worthy of a date night with someone like him. It was just gonna be a night with him. And for that you knew exactly what to wear. After all, you didn’t believe in half measures.

The bell rang, and there he was. Dressed in a tucked in sheer blue shirt and tight white pants. 

Tall, handsome, and so big. Towering over you.

You let him in & shut the door, leaning your back against it. 

While Jude leant against a nearby desk, facing you. Blatantly checking you out, surveying your skimpily clad body. Trademark cocksure smirk & posture, like he always knew it was only a matter of time before you’d fold. And he’d get his prize. 

You almost wanted to shoo him out right away, just to see the expression on his face.

But, he looked SO SO DELICIOUS right now that your throat felt dry and you started to wonder why he wasn’t all over you already.

‘So, how do you wanna do this?’

You shrugged and said abruptly, wanting him to get on with it.

He chuckled loudly, lips curving into a gorgeous smile. Plump, lush, pink lips claimed all your attention as he sauntered over to you, placing his hands on the door, caging you in between.

You turned your face and crossed your legs as his hot breath hit your cheeks, overwhelmed by his proximity. Soft lips pecked your neck as he moved to whisper in your ear.

‘Wanna get you nice & ready for me. Yeah?’

You nodded eagerly, and he smiled against your cheek, moving to your ear again.

‘Say the word and I’ll stop.’

Before you could respond, he gripped the hem of your kaftan and lifted it over your head. Your arms moving up involuntarily to do his bidding.

Leaving you in your new turquoise blue bikini set. The one you had bought on a whim but never did have the guts to wear. Until now.

He hummed appreciatively and his eyes turned a shade darker as they raked your form. 

Jude kissed the pulse point on your neck and licked down in a straight line, shoving his tongue in your belly button.

You mewled embarrassingly, trying to pull him up to your boobs, needing his touch there. But he just shushed you and smiled against your skin as he kneeled down. THE BASTARD. 

Deft fingers removed your bikini bottoms, leaving your core bare to him. Cool air & warm breath hit you there, making you shiver in anticipation. 

It was killing him to not just take you then & there, but he could tell you were too tense. He wanted you pliant & needy, for what he had in mind tonight. This seemed like the best way to get there quickly.

His head nudged between your legs, spreading them apart. His mouth found your clit, sucking & licking softly. You flinched, trying to close your legs instinctively but his hands grabbed your thighs, hooking one leg over his shoulder to give him better access. Grabbing his hair with one hand and the door knob with the other, you held on for dear life as his tongue slid down your folds.

This was not an activity he did often, or at all. But what he lacked in experience & skill, he made up with eagerness and effort. Your helpless moans massaged his ego, providing extra motivation to elicit more such sounds. Your trembling thighs cocooning his head perfectly. Your wetness tasting bitterly sweet on his tongue. Your fingers digging into his scalp, trying to push him into the right spots & angles that drove you wild.

And wild you were. Moaning with such abandon, right on the door - half the rooms in the corridor would have heard you by now. 

His mouth was heavenly, but his eyes were another story altogether. Shimmering with hunger and pride - for reducing you into a mewling mess. His mouth fucked your core but his eyes were fucking your whole being, reaching the depths of your soul.

But then, he slowed down. Not stopping fully but not going nearly as fast as you needed. Keeping you on the edge.

‘Tell me.’

He rasped from between your legs, voice muffled.

‘That fucker - you didn’t go with him, right? Say you didn’t let him touch you. SAY IT.’

You wanted to choke him with your legs for choosing this moment of peak vulnerability to make you admit this. CONNIVING BASTARD. 

‘I’ll keep you like this all night if I have to, baby girl.’

His silky, smooth voice was filled with promise. His slow strokes accentuated your agony.

‘I HATE YOU.’

You groaned, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right.

‘Tell that to you body.’

‘FINE. HE DIDN’T TOUCH ME. HAPPY NOW?’

Jude paused completely. Forcing you to look into his eyes. When you did, a strong hand spanked your butt, on the leg that was hooked over his shoulder. You gasped for air, the shock and sting and pleasure making you nearly double over.

He resumed his work with renewed vigour, each stroke a power move now. His hands gripped your ass, keeping you in place, the force sure to leave marks, which was probably the point of it.

You cried out as his relentless moves forced your body to reach its peak, faster than usual. The familiar sensation built in the pit of your stomach, travelling through your lower body and releasing through your core. Into his waiting mouth.

He lapped you up, but didn’t stop, applying more pressure than earlier to your most sensitive spot, as if testing the limits of your body. You struggled against his grip, in vain, and the overstimulation made you climax again, quickly.

‘P-please…wait…’

Your choked voice got his attention. Unhooking your leg slowly, he stood up, wiping his face with the back of his hand, letting you rest against him. Your drained body falling into his warm, worked up, still fully clothed one. His fingers clearing sweaty strands of hair from your face.

Time stood still for a minute, as he swayed you a little in his hold.

Then, the sharp sting on your butt made its presence known. The fog lifted from your head as you remembered how he basically played you. Manipulated you into admitting something you never would have otherwise. Was that his plan all along?

But he made you feel so good.

Fuck that. He made you lose a point in this battle of wits and you hated losing. It was time to regain control.

Jude felt a soft but firm hand push at his chest. He stepped away, blinking in confusion.

‘I need a shower.’

You said curtly. And the insufferable boy smirked again, cocking his head.

‘I’ll join yo..’

‘NO.’

You cut him off swiftly, enjoying his mouth opening & closing like a buffoon as you sneaked out of his hold & walked to the washroom. Only to be stopped by a strong grip at your elbow.

‘Be back in 10. Or I am coming in.’

‘No you’re not. Also, FYI, if you are expecting me to return this favour at some point tonight, that’s not gonna happen. I don’t do that…stuff.’

You marched to the washroom, locking the door behind for good measure. It took quite a few splashes of cold water to counter how hot you were still feeling, especially between your legs. 

You stared at your dishevelled reflection in the mirror, closing your eyes and reliving his touch. Very aware that you hadn’t felt pleasure like that before. And he hadn’t even properly taken you yet.

Somehow, by satisfying you, he made you even hungrier for him. You wanted more, so much more. His mouth, his hands, his body, at all your sensitive spots. And you wanted to touch him too, so so badly. 

The need for him overtook all your senses & you marched back out. Stopping at the door with the near pornographic site in front.

Jude had stripped to his briefs, glorious hard muscles on full display. And was gulping down a bottle of juice from the mini bar. Little droplets escaping from the corner of his mouth, sliding clumsily down his chin, on to the pool of soft hair on his chest. 

He stopped when your eyes met, intrigued by your feverish expression. 

Time to drop all pretenses.

Taking off the only garment you had on, your bikini, you swiftly walked to him, as his eyes widened, glued to your chest.

You pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed and climbed into his lap, guiding his large palms to your boobs, moaning as they squeezed you firmly.

His mouth was still slightly agape, forming a delicate O, making his glossy lips all the more edible to you. Then, he gazed into your eyes, his hands still groping you thoroughly.

‘Who are you, and what did you do to the girl I met yesterday?’

Great question, you couldn’t believe yourself either.

‘You killed her, with all your naked hotness. I WANT YOU.’

He just moved his hips so his crotch brushed against you, demonstrating with HARD evidence how much he wanted you too. His fingers pinched your hardening nubs, as you fell into the crook of his long neck.

‘Juude.’

His whole body jerked, having waited so long to hear his name from you. 

‘Touch me, please.’

He followed through, like his life depended on it. His warm, strong hands roaming your bare back and his wet sultry mouth tending to your front. You gripped and pulled and bit at whatever of him you could find access to, as your nails dug into his rippling back muscles. He left his fair share of marks as well, paying special attention to your neck and chest. Your lips crashed into each others, FINALLY, as your tongues clashed for dominance, his winning eventually as he left you breathless & dizzy. Your indelicate movements in his lap driving him nuts throughout. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, groaning into your ear.

‘Need you…right now.’

‘Umm-hmm.’

Jude grabbed your face, lust dancing in his eyes.

‘You ready to take me, yeah? Like a good girl?’

You nodded & braced yourself for what was coming. He wasn’t gonna go easy, not after you made him wait so long. The thought both excited & unnerved you.

Next second, he tossed you from his lap on to the bed, his large frame looming over you. Your hands moved to grip the sheets but he flipped you again, to your hands and knees.

‘But…’

‘Shhhhh.’

You wanted him face to face, so you could feel him close, so his eyes could fuck the depths of your soul again. But his need was more primal right now.

His finger prodded at your core, checking your readiness. Finding you dripping wet but still too tight for his liking. He added another one to stretch you further, burying them in till his knuckles. 

Jude leaned over your back, stroking your boobs with his free hand, kissing your shoulders, whispering in your ear.

‘Breathe. Relax for me, doll.’

You would have given him the world at that moment if he had asked like that. He should have been a hostage negotiator, with that honeyed charming convincing voice.

He felt your walls unclench in real time, cooing appreciatively in your ear.

‘Such a good girl.’

That felt like a bigger validation than graduating top 1% of your class in uni or landing a high flying consulting job. Both of which were your biggest achievements. Till that point.

A minute later, he was running his covered tip up and down the edge of your folds. But his own need didn’t allow him to tease for long, and he entered half way in with a single thrust, pausing to let you adjust. 

Your hands and knees gave away at the intrusion as you fell face down into the pillow. It had been a while and his size didn’t help either. He placed a pillow under your lower waist to lift your ass up, giving him the angle he needed. Then pulled out & thrusted again, going three quarters in this time.

You already felt so full, biting the pillow to curb your moans. 

‘Just a bit more, yeah? You’re doing so good. So good for me.’

Enchanting you with that silky sweet voice, he thrusted in again, entering fully. So deep, you could almost feel him in your throat. He stayed still, letting you get used to him. You desperately reached behind with your hand, looking for some contact, and he held it firmly, giving it reassuring squeezes. 

Jude felt like his head would explode any moment with arousal. The shifts in her demeanour, from sweet & coy one moment to this wildfire he had met today, were giving him sexual whiplashes. He was worried he’d burst too soon, given how painfully hard he already was, & embarrass himself.

Unable to wait any longer, he started moving inside you. Slow, deep, rhythmic strokes, driving you mad. One hand balancing your ass, while other moved underneath to find your clit. Doubling your sensations to ease his path. As you moaned his name like a chant, the sounds making him harder.

Chasing his release like a mad man, his hips picked up pace soon, as did his hand. You cried into the pillow, feeling hot all over, as he played your body like a fiddle, for the second time tonight. Your head started to spin, as he pounded you mercilessly into the mattress. Your legs started to shake & your walls started to clench around him.

‘Not yet.’

He commanded hoarsely, denying you the friction of his hand anymore. You whined, and tried reaching down with your own hand, but he grabbed it mid-way.

‘I said, NOT YET.’

You mumbled some gibberish into the pillow, which he didn’t bother to register. Too far gone by this point.

Suddenly, you felt his weight on your back, crushing you further into the mattress. His voice in your ear wasn’t silky soft this time, it was downright menacing.

‘What did you call me yesterday, a little boy fresh out of his teens, huh?’

You desperately shook your head, having no memory of it. But he remembered. Every. Single. Word.

The force of his next thrust made your voice choke in your throat. Burning your insides. The pain unlocking a different layer of pleasure. He was all-consuming. All around you. Deep inside you. Your existence was anchored on him, everything else blurred into the background.

‘Still think so?’

You had lost the ability to think or feel anything, other than the sensations he was giving you.

‘I…I don’t. Please Jude, let me….I can’t….pls…’

The helplessness in your choked voice gave him the final nudge he needed. His strokes became sloppier, deeper.

‘Now, doll. Let go now. Cum for me.’

Right on cue, you let yourself go. Almost embarrassed at the timed precision with his command. The delicious squeeze of your walls & your cries tipped him over the edge too. He continued to stroke lazily, letting all the pent up need release. Then crashed on top of you, panting into the side of your face, still buried to the hilt inside.

‘H-heavy.’

You struggled underneath, with whatever minuscule energy you had left. He caught it, pulled out slowly and rolled off you, smiling contently, tracing lazy patterns on your sweaty back.

While he dispensed off the condom, cleaned himself & put on his briefs, you stayed out like a light. Only coming to life when you felt a wet towel between your legs, kicking it away instinctively given how sore you were. Faintly hearing a light chuckle somewhere.

Jude let you be for a few minutes. But when you still didn’t move, he wrapped an arm around your waist, slowly turning you to face him. You groaned at the light hitting your face.

‘Heyy, you’re ok?’

You hummed and snuggled into his warm, broad, inviting chest, shielding yourself from the light. 

‘Let’s get some food into you, yeah?’

Food arrived 30 mins later, by which time you had recovered enough to realise he couldn’t answer the door. Couldn’t be seen in your room. While he argued you looked too fucked out to get in front of the waiter right now.

You won the argument, shooed him into the washroom (as he tied the bathrobe tightly around you), and collected the food-table at the door itself. The room was too much of a mess for anyone to see.

Both ate in peace, falling into a comfortable silence. You, in particular, were shocked at yourself, at how easy you felt around him. Given you had no experience of such arrangements while he, well, his was a different story altogether.

You wondered at what point he’d wanna leave, and how come he hadn’t done that already. But he was showing no signs of wanting to leave. It was 10 pm, and they ended up putting on a random movie on Netflix, snuggled together in bed. The movie ended at 12, and he still didn’t make a move. 

‘You could leave if you want to. It’s fine.’

He looked at you curiously. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was hurt.

‘Do you want me to leave?’

No. Not at all. 

‘Isn’t that what you’d normally do?’

He shrugged, and you didn’t push it further. Falling asleep into his comfy arms. While he stayed awake for a bit, gazing at you & questioning his unusual behaviour tonight. Finally drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

You were awoken way too early the next morning, with his kisses on your shoulder. 

‘It’s 6 am. Let me sleep.’

‘Are you still sore?’

Of course. He wanted another tumble. Is that why he stayed? You tried to be mad but your voice betrayed your excitement.

‘Just a little. Not much.’

He smiled that gorgeous smile, drawing one from you too. And got on top of you, granting you your wish of being face to face with him.

Your bodies moved in sync, as if already in tune with each other. Unlike the rush of adrenaline last night, this time was slow & soft. Him being mindful of the residual ache in your limbs. His pace & force never exceeding a certain threshold. Your hands wrapped around his shoulders, as you pulled him down for a kiss, gazed into his beautiful eyes and shut out the world. If this was gonna be the last you ever see of him, then you wanted to commit every inch of his handsome face to memory. 

‘How long are you here for?’

He asked suddenly, pulling you out of your trance, while still moving inside you.

‘Till tomorrow morning.’

‘What are you doing today?’

You had booked a day long tour today, filled with activities.

‘Nothing.’

His eyes twinkled happily, turning you into mush. 

‘Good. Let me just sort out a few things & I’ll be back in a couple of hours, yeah?’

His mouth reached your breasts, sucking & nibbling in tune with his thrusts, making you work extra hard to string words together.

‘W-we can’t go outside.’

‘It’s fine, we’ll stay here.’

‘You don’t hv other plans?’

He very much did. Infact, the plans were heavily dependant on him, & he’d have to go sort it out soon.

‘Nope.’

‘Okay then.’

You closed your eyes, as he rocked you to ecstasy.

..........................................................................

I died a few times while writing this.

And I still have plans for the last day / final chapter. Someone kill me.

Would absolutely love to hear your thoughts here / in inbox. Thank you for the feedback and interest in this story - it kept me motivated to turn it around soon.