#Coil Wrapping Machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

claramelooo · 1 month ago

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WOVEN FATES (16/20)

I bet you're so anxious, right? Haha we will have more revelations uhhh.

A beloved nonny asked me so politely to back with the warnings before each chapters and I'll do it for sure 💕

Warnings: manipulation, cnc, humiliation and depravation, angst and kidnap (you don't read it wrong) proceed with caution.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Distorted feelings take hold of you as you delve deeper into the mire you've been thrust into.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist

Selfishness

The sweet scent of Agatha—the one that used to wrap around your senses like a safe embrace—now burned in your nostrils, nauseating.

Your feet were steady on the floor, yet it felt like you were falling.

The grip around your throat wasn’t tight enough to hurt—not yet. But it was a warning. A reminder of who was in control.

Agatha’s gaze held you like an invisible spell—intense, commanding. You recognized that gleam in her eyes. You knew what came after it.

Behind you, Rio slid her cold fingers along your damp nape, a wicked contrast to the heat rising in waves through your body, fueled by adrenaline. She leaned in, so close that you could feel the ghost of her breath against your skin.

“Tell me, honey,” Agatha whispered, her lips nearly brushing yours, a phantom touch lingering between a promise and a threat. “What did Alice say?”

The question coiled around your throat as tightly as her fingers.

Your mind spun.

What to say? How to escape? How to make them believe you were still theirs?

Your throat locked up. Air felt scarce—not because of the grip, but because of their suffocating presence. Rio was behind you now, her cold fingers gliding down your neck, playing with the damp strands of your hair.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, breathless.

“You really think you can hide something from us?” Rio murmured, her voice sweet, dangerous. Her hand trailed down your shoulder, slow, deliberate.

You swallowed hard. Your muscles were tense, your mind a chaotic blur.

“N-nothing. She didn’t say anything.”

Agatha laughed. A low, disbelieving sound. “Oh, really?”

Her fingers traveled up to your face, gripping your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

“You’re not very good at this, sweetheart.” She tilted her head. “You’re so transparent, so easy to read... That’s why we chose you.”

The word felt wrong in her mouth. Like honey-coated poison. Tears welled up in your eyes, your lips trembling, the knot in your throat scratching as you swallowed it down.

“She poisoned your mind, didn’t she?” Agatha leaned in even closer, her dark eyes devouring you. “That little nobody put foolish ideas into your dumb little head.”

Outch.

The insult struck your heart, your ego crushed beneath her words, your brain melting under the weight of them.

“You thought you could trust her more than us?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, confusion spiraling in your mind, driving you insane. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. But you couldn’t. The walls felt like they were closing in around you.

“M-mama…” Your voice came out weak, pleading, powerless.

Rio cradled your face in both hands, her eyes an endless, unreadable ocean. “We won’t ask again, sweetheart…”

The grip on your throat tightened. You gasped, feeling the pulse of your blood beneath Agatha’s fingers, her floral perfume invading your senses, making everything even more suffocating.

“She…” You could barely form words, your breath shallow and erratic. “She said you’re… witches.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then, Agatha laughed. Low, husky, laced with mockery.

“Witches,” she echoed, as if savoring the word. Her thumb traced lazily along your throat, feeling the faint spasms of your struggle to breathe.

Rio exhaled a quiet chuckle, but her expression shifted… Something dark and stormy flickered in her eyes before she yanked at the chain of your collar, forcing you down onto your knees against the plush carpet.

“And you believed her, didn’t you, pet? Every single word she fed you.” Agatha whispered, crouching down to meet your gaze. “I wonder… are you really that innocent, or just stupid?”

Heat rushed to your face. The way she said it made your stomach twist. She knew exactly where to strike. She knew how to dig into your pride, how to make you feel ridiculous.

Rio knelt beside you, her fingers gliding dangerously through your hair. The touch was too gentle to be affectionate—but there was something else hidden in it.

Something sharp. Something that kept you frozen.

“Go on, pet,” Rio murmured, her voice low, controlled, but vibrating with something just beneath the surface. “What else did that little whore say about us?”

You licked your lips, your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

“She said… you only want to use me.” Your voice trembled into a whisper. “That I’m just a source…”

The air in the room shifted.

Subtle. But undeniable.

Rio’s breath paused for a second. Her fingers curled tighter in your hair, almost pulling, almost digging her nails into your scalp.

Agatha’s grip loosened slightly—not out of kindness, but like a predator stepping back to get a better look at its prey.

The silence was different this time. Heavier.

Agatha’s eyes glinted with something unreadable, as if she was carefully considering her next move. As if she was deciding how much fun she wanted to have before breaking you apart.

She tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, cruel smile, studying your expression like a cat toying with a wounded bird. The pressure on your throat wasn’t as tight anymore, but the threat still lingered—thick, charged, like electricity before a storm.

“A source…” Agatha murmured, as if tasting the weight of the word. Her thumb traced the line of your jaw, a touch almost tender—almost deceptive. “How curious.”

Rio didn’t speak. Her fingers were still tangled in your hair, but the way she held you now felt different. More rigid. As if she were holding something back. As if something inside her had stirred.

Your throat went dry.

“That’s what she told you?” Agatha continued, her voice too soft to be soothing. “That we only want to use you?”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your entire body was stiff, every muscle tensed, instinct screaming that one wrong move could send you plummeting.

Agatha sighed, and then her fingers tightened in your hair. A sharp, sudden yank—pain flaring through your scalp as your head was pulled back, your throat laid bare. You gasped, wide eyes meeting hers, but there was no mercy there.

“And you believed her?”

You had no time to answer.

Suddenly, a rough shove sent you stumbling back, your knees nearly giving out. Your heart pounded, panic tangling with something deeper, something heavier, something you didn’t want to name.

“Hm?”

Agatha’s heel pressed against your chest, digging between your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. Your body jerked under the weight, a strangled sound escaping your lips as your chest burned from the lack of oxygen.

And then came the fear.

It slithered inside you like a wild thing, whispering that this was a hunt.

That you were nothing but prey.

A prey running through a forest was alive all around you, shadows shifting between the trees, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Wolves.

Encircling, guiding your steps to where they wanted you to go—because they knew this terrain better than anyone.

Then, at some point, you stopped running.

The woods fell behind. Ahead of you, an endless cliff.

The wolves drew closer, pressing your body to the edge of the abyss. Jump, or be devoured.

Fear pulsed in the pit of your stomach, burning like embers.

But it didn’t come alone.

Something else slithered alongside it, seeping into your muscles, your flesh, coiling deep between your thighs.

Adrenaline became something else. Something utterly twisted and dark.

You didn’t know if you wanted to run or sink further into it.

“Yes! I believed it!”

The confession slipped out in a sob, your fingers instinctively grasping at Agatha’s ankle—not to push her away, but silently begging for relief.

Agatha tilted her head to the side, as if watching a small, struggling creature. Her smile was cold, cutting.

Rio let out a low chuckle—but she didn’t seem truly amused. Her eyes remained fixed on you, analyzing every detail of your reaction.

You blinked, trying to clear your thoughts, but it was like trying to escape one nightmare only to fall straight into another.

This was definitely not normal.

The way your skin responded to their touch, the way your mind wavered between fight and surrender—it wasn’t normal. You knew that. But you also knew that normal had ceased to exist for you a long time ago.

How the hell had you not realized it before?

“Then tell me, pet,” her voice was a silky whisper, yet laced with something sharp. “If you think we’re so bad… why are you still here?”

The chain of your collar stretched in a slow tug, forcing you to lean forward, submission growing more and more evident.

Your heart pounded.

“I…” Your voice came out weak, almost unrecognizable to yourself.

Agatha smiled.

“That’s it,” she encouraged, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Speak, my dear.”

But you couldn’t. Because confusion burned inside you, a knot of fear and excitement tightening around your throat just as much as the chain.

“Because you are my mommies who have always protected me.” Your voice was small, hoarse with the struggle for air.

Shit.

That wasn’t what you had planned to say.

The words that left your mouth—you didn’t know if they were truly yours or some fucking of twisted spell they had placed on you, trapping you once more in a golden cage you weren’t sure you wanted to leave.

Agatha takes her foot off your chest, satisfied.

Rio caressed your cheek with the back of her fingers, the touch almost too gentle given how the tension in the room wavered.

Her fingers trailed down your neck, pressing against the skin still marked by the previous grip.

“Protection doesn’t come without discipline, pet,” Rio murmured, the collar’s chain still firm in her grasp.

You swallowed hard, knowing this wasn’t over.

“On your knees,” Agatha commanded—no rush, no raised voice. She didn’t need to.

Rio released the chain, but there was no relief—because the moment you hesitated, even for a second, Agatha’s gaze darkened.

“Now.”

Your body moved before your mind could process it. You get up from the carpet, placing yourself in a kneeling position.

Agatha stepped back slightly, and for a moment, you thought the weight of the situation might ease.

But then she extended a hand to Rio, who removed your choker without asking for permission.

Without it, you felt bare.

Empty.

Agatha brought out the bigger collar—the leather one with a leash. If you had a tail, it would be wagging wildly.

You knew what that collar meant, and you hated yourself for it.

For despite everything, still wanting it.

Still needing it.

The woman wrapped the leather leash around her fingers, testing its resistance before pulling it back slowly, forcing your chin up.

“Look at me,” she demanded.

You obeyed, wide eyes locked onto hers.

“Do you want this?” The question was ridiculous, you knew. Agatha seemed to know it too.

You tried.

Tried to find something within yourself that was only yours—something untouched by them, something that wasn’t a reflection of what they expected you to be.

Somewhere you could see your own reflection, not the perfect doll they had chosen to weave and use for their own gain.

But where was it?

What was left of you before Agatha and Rio? Before the touches that shaped your skin, before the words that slipped into your mind like promises too sweet to refuse? Before you learned to see your own will as something small, insignificant, compared to what they demanded of you?

It was hard to say.

Because, without the choker, you felt exposed. As if something essential had been torn away. The absence of the accessory weighed more than its presence ever should have.

It didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t right.

And yet, when Agatha fastened the new collar around your neck, something in you settled.

The leather was thicker, heavier. Made to hold you better. To keep you contained and obedient.

You should hate this.

You should...

But then, she asked again:

“Do you want this?”

Her voice was pure silk, but her gaze was iron.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Your stomach twisted.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

You should hate this.

Feel disgusted and repulsed.

But you were on your knees, surrendered to something you shouldn’t feel guilty for. And yet, you did.

This was a game.

A game where they knew all the rules.

A game where, every time you tried to resist, they pulled you back so hard that even the mere act of fighting seemed ridiculous.

As if trying to escape was just a performance you staged for yourself—to pretend you still had a choice.

The truth burned on your tongue, but you refused to let it out. Because admitting you wanted it was admitting you needed it.

And admitting you needed it was admitting that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t know who you were without it anymore.

And if you were nothing without it?

The thought sickened you.

And thrilled you.

And consumed you.

Agatha’s gaze never left yours. As if she already knew the answer before you even found it within yourself. As if she was simply waiting for you to accept it.

Because deep down, they had already won.

The leather brushed against your skin, tight enough to remind you it was there.

Rio’s cold fingers slid over your nape, moving slowly up to your jaw, tilting your face as if you were something precious.

As if you belonged to them.

And maybe you did.

Your heart pounded.

Breath short.

The knot in your chest tightened.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

But more than anything, you wanted to kneel and never have to think about it again.

The words escaped. Low. Weak. Almost unrecognizable.

“Yes.”

Agatha smiled.

Slow. Triumphant.

Rio sighed, as if she had just heard something inevitable.

“That's a good girl,” she murmured, and the shiver that ran down your spine was uncontrollable.

And there, in that moment, in that silence laden with everything you could no longer deny.

You knew.

You knew that, no matter how much you tried to deceive yourself, no matter how much you fought against it.

You needed this.

"You disrespected us today," Agatha continued, her fingers sliding to the base of the chain, toying with the cold metal. "You let a stranger plant doubts in your little idiot head. Doubts about us."

Rio knelt beside you, her hand resting on your thigh in a way that should have been comforting, but only made your body vibrate with anxiety.

"And that," Rio added, her voice low, "can’t happen again, can it, pet?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could make a sound, Agatha pulled the chain back in a precise, short motion—a sudden reminder of who was in control.

You gasped, your eyes welling with tears.

"It can't," you whispered, your desperate eyes seeking them, seeking their approval. You were already feeling enchanted by their aura.

You saw Rio step closer, standing in front of you while your knees burned, aching from the position.

“That missed you, little thing,” she said, looking down at you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. But instinctively, your gaze dropped. Her perfect feet.

The scar.

The tattoo.

The damn tattoo.

Faded black roses. Wilted.

They looked… dead.

Your mouth watered at the sight of them in this state. As if, suddenly, your life's mission was to keep them alive and well, blooming as they should.

To keep them alive.

To make them flourish.

"Come on—" She moved her foot, and you followed it with your eyes. "Pet."

That was enough.

Your tongue attacked the woman’s foot, tracing the weak lines, and it was incredible how you could feel it pulse beneath your tongue.

Your tongue glided over her foot without hesitation, following the faded contours of the roses. You felt something pulse under your tongue.

Something alive.

Rio threw her head back, lips parting in a drawn-out sigh.

You were lost in her.

The texture of her skin beneath your tongue, the way Rio’s muscles tensed and relaxed with every glide. The taste, the heat, the weight of her against your absurd devotion.

Rio leaned on Agatha, her delicate fingers digging into the other woman’s forearm as her breath came out in a satisfied sigh.

And then it happened.

The tattoo vibrated.

A shiver ran down your spine, a hot, wet shock between your legs. You felt it. You felt when the roses filled with color again, when the lines became strong, alive, blooming beneath your tongue.

It was insane.

It was magic.

It was them.

And it was you.

Agatha watched everything with sharp eyes, a satisfied smile curling at the corner of her lips. She knew what was happening. She always knew.

Rio sighed, fingers playing with your hair.

"Just like that. Good girl," she murmured, her voice low and indulgent.

And that was enough.

Your chest swelled with warm pleasure, a contentment so deep it was almost ridiculous. You should feel ashamed. Humiliated. Outraged for having been molded to this point.

But you didn’t even get a chance to breathe. Steps behind you, and then—your vision was taken from you.

The black satin blindfold heightened every sound: Agatha’s lazy steps on the wooden floor, the rustle of Rio’s silk nightgown as she knelt, the involuntary whimper that escaped your throat when the leash on your collar was pulled.

"Foolish girl," Agatha whispered, the surface of the riding crop sliding along your collarbone. "Did you really think you could keep secrets from us?"

The first strike came without warning—a sharp snap against your thighs that made your back arch, fingers clenching against the velvet cuffs.

"Fuck!" you cried out before the pain even faded, the protocol ingrained in your body. “I’m sorry.”

Rio laughed, low and husky, her hands firm on your hips. "So quick to humiliate yourself today. Do you really think forgiveness will come that fast?"

You felt something hard and pointed brush against your entrance.

Agatha leaned in, her cold lips ghosting over your ear as the crop teased your stomach. "Repeat after me: Thank you for correcting me, mommies."

"Th-thank you for—" The second strike cut off your words, this time across your back, leaving a trail of fire.

"Louder," Rio commanded, pushing her fingers into your flesh.

Your eyes rolled back as her long fingers hit the softest, most vulnerable spot inside you.

God… You were so fucked.

"THANK YOU FOR CORRECTING ME, MOMMIES!" Your voice rang out, soaked and desperate, mingling with the creak of the chains.

Agatha licked the sweat pooling between your breasts. "Good girl." The reward was brief—the crop hooked under your right thigh, pulling it open. "Now… let’s deal with that traitorous tongue."

Rio didn’t wait. She thrust the strap-on into you in one movement, the cold rubber stretching your already sensitive entrance. You screamed, but the sound was swallowed by Agatha’s ravenous kiss—teeth, tongue, possession.

"Count," she ordered between bites, the crop dancing over your clit. "How many times did you think about her when you should’ve been thinking about us?"

"N-never, I swear—" The lie crumbled as Rio quickened her pace, each thrust hitting the spot that made your vision blur.

Fuck.

How could you make them understand that Alice meant nothing?

"Tsk, tsk." Agatha yanked your hair until your vertebrae protested. "Little lies make the Devil giggle, little one." The crop lashed against your thighs in a waltz rhythm—one for guilt, two for betrayal, three for being such a perfect little slut for them.

"Please!" You no longer knew if you were begging for mercy or for more.

The black rubber invaded you with machine-like precision—unyielding, relentless. Your teeth clenched on nothing, but Agatha captured your chin, forcing your lips to mold around her clit like a sacred relic.

"More," Rio hissed, fingers branding your hips in wine-colored bruises.

You obeyed. Agatha was salty and hot, her juices dripping onto the fabric until they reached your lips. She gripped your nape, guiding your tongue to her swollen clit with a surgeon’s precision.

"There," she purrs, fingers tangling in your hair like a crown of thorns. "Take Mommy."

Agatha’s riding crop finds its mark—your clit—just as Rio thrusts deeper inside you. Pain and pleasure fuse into cruel alchemy. You moan against Agatha, the vibration wrenching a ragged gasp from her.

"So easy," Rio laughs, leaning down to spit on your marked-up back. "Three strokes in and you’re already gaping like a bitch in heat."

Agatha yanks your head back by the blindfold, exposing your trembling throat. "Confess," she orders, the leather of the crop resting against your jugular. "How many nights did you finger this dirty little cunt thinking of her?"

"N-never! I only—"

The strap drives home. Your scream drowns in Rio’s roar: "LIAR!"

Agatha slides off the bed, dragging you up by the hair until you’re forced to face her vanity mirror.

"Look," she commands, wrenching your chin into place.

Your reflection is a grotesque masterpiece—lips swollen from desperate clit-sucking, ass striped red, eyes puffy with shame and ecstasy. "This is what you are. Our desperate little whore."

Rio moves behind you, cold chain links clicking as she curls her fingers further into the leash, pulling against it.

"Repeat," she growls, tightening the leather and snapping her hips forward. "I only live to serve my Mommies."

The words spill out of you, effortless, uncontrollable:

"O-only... live... to—" The first tremors of orgasm hit, forcing Rio to still. "Serve my Mommies."

Agatha kneels, catching your collapse in arms that somehow soothe even as they cage you. "Shhh, our dumb little girl," she murmurs, tongue swiping your tears. "We’ll fix you. Every night. Until there’s nothing left that isn’t ours."

Agatha mounts you again, her tongue ready to receive you in the best way.

Rio resumes pounding into you. "Don’t you dare come yet, slut!" Her fingers pinch your clit, wrenching a scream from you. "We’ve got all night."

Agatha’s thighs clamp around your head, deliberately smothering you, dragging her slick folds over your face.

Marking you.

Owning you.

"That’s it, pet."

She grinds down, turning your mouth into her personal toy. You choke, lips sealing instinctively around her swollen clit, licking in frantic, messy strokes as Rio hammers into you from behind.

"No." Rio grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. "See what a desperate mess you are? Even after knowing we’re just using you. You love this, don’t you?"

Fuck.

Fat tears roll as you gag on Agatha’s pussy.

You don’t love this.

…Do you?

Rio’s strap rams your G-spot with surgical precision. You shriek, but the sound muffles against Agatha’s wet flesh.

"Wanna come, don’t you?" Rio hisses, twisting your nipple until you arch. "Say it. Say you’re our personal fucktoy."

Fuck.

No!

Your body betrays you, legs shaking violently beneath them.

"I—I’m—" The orgasm builds, but Rio stops abruptly, leaving you dangling on the edge.

Agatha releases your face just long enough to study you—cheeks flushed, mouth drooling, utterly wrecked.

"Open, little one." The command is soft, but you obey instantly, tongue lolling out like a dumb, eager pet.

You’re a fucking mess.

"Look at you…" Agatha sounds almost awed—before spitting directly into your open mouth. "Your whole existence is just a hole for us to use. Isn’t it?"

No!

But your body nods wildly, delirious, as Rio’s fingers circle your throbbing clit. "Yes! I am! I’m just that! Please—!"

"And you don’t even care, do you?" Rio punctuates each word with a brutal thrust. "About any of it."

You know exactly what she means. God. You couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

Fuck your freedom.

Fuck your pride.

You just want—

"Fuck! No! I don’t care if you’re witches or whatever the fuck! Please, Mommies!" You devour Agatha’s pussy like a starved animal.

"Oh. Fuck! Mommy’s coming, honey." Agatha grinds harder, a long, loud moan tearing from her throat.

"Christ. You’re so fucking perfect! Our perfect little hole!" Rio’s hips slam into you, frantic, desperate for her own release.

You hear wet sounds above you—them kissing, filthy and deep—and fuck, you don’t know how long you’ve been trapped here. You’re insane. So insane you might’ve hallucinated their whispered chant:

Quod semel cepimus

Numquam reddetur.

Your mind whites out. Legs twitch uncontrollably.

"Come." Rio orders just as Agatha lifts her hips, letting you gasp for air.

You explode, gushing onto the floor, splattering both women. Your body convulses like a puppet with cut strings.

You tremble.

Muscles scream. Knees ache. Nothing matters but her taste on your tongue, the phantom throb of Rio’s tattoo against your lips.

Rio stares down at you, eyes gleaming with something unreadable—lust, ownership, something darker.

"You’re pathetic." Her voice is rough, savoring each syllable. But there’s pride there. Sick, satisfied pride, curling in your chest like a well-cast spell.

Her fingers slide along your jaw, prying your lips apart. Two fingers, slick with you, push into your mouth without warning.

"But ours," she murmurs, indulgent, cruel. "Only ours."

Your mind spins. You should hate this. Should burn with shame at how easily you break for them. But something stronger than disgust wins.

Need.

The animal, visceral need to belong.

"Understood?"

The question is quiet. Heavy.

You nod. Not because you want to, but because your human shell is too fragile to refuse.

"Yes, Mama." Your voice is a broken whisper.

Then—darkness.

You don’t choose sleep. Your body gives out, exhausted, consumed. Their commands still echo in your skull, tangled with magic and pleasure and worship.

You don’t know if it’s love, spells, or pure conditioning.

But one truth remains:

You need them.

[...]

Your awakening was painful.

Your eyes burned under the sharp rays of light. Your body was exhausted, your mind clouded, as if still trapped in the echoes of the previous night.

Every muscle ached, but you couldn't tell whether it was from physical fatigue or the confusion pulsing inside you.

The silence was thick when you walked into the kitchen.

They were there.

Rio stirred a cup of tea absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the steaming liquid, while Agatha, leaning against the counter, ran her fingers over her own wrist, as if feeling something beneath her skin.

Neither of them spoke when you sat down. Neither of them looked at you right away.

But your food was already served.

The fruit, cut into small, easy-to-eat pieces. The pancakes, soft and golden, drizzled with syrup. You blinked, taking a second to notice the childish drawing on their surface—a sad face.

Without meaning to, you let out a small laugh.

Rio lifted her gaze. A faint smile threatened to appear at the corner of her lips, but she suppressed it too quickly for you to be sure you had seen it. Agatha, on the other hand, simply tilted her head, watching you as if analyzing something under a microscope.

“Eat,” was all she said.

And you obeyed.

The syrup was too sweet on your tongue, an odd contrast to the tension in the air. As you chewed, your eyes wandered around the room.

That’s when you saw it.

Your clothes, folded to perfection over the couch in the living room. Pressed, neatly arranged, carefully set aside for you to wear. The kind of gesture you should be used to—but one that made your heart slam against your ribs.

If you were nothing more than a meal to them...

Then why all this care?

The question wrapped itself around your mind like a thorn. You knew the logical answer. Manipulation, control, a trap disguised as kindness.

But your chest burned with a truth far more complicated, one you didn’t want to name.

Because part of you liked it.

Liked being taken care of.

Liked the unsettling sense of belonging that came with it.

You lowered your gaze to the pancakes, as if they held the answers. The sad face was still there, staring back at you.

Silence stretched for a few more seconds, until Rio stood up and walked to the sink. She passed behind you, and suddenly, her hand closed around the back of your neck.

A brief squeeze. A touch that was almost casual.

Almost.

Her fingers slid down your nape, light enough to make your skin prickle, firm enough not to be ignored. The gesture carried a strange weight—something between danger and tenderness, something that felt as much like a promise as it did a warning.

You couldn’t tell which scared you more.

A warm touch at the top of your head, gentle but heavy with a meaning that slipped through your fingers like sand.

Her scent followed, and before you could stop yourself, you breathed it in. Earthy, damp, like soil after rain, like something ancient and deeply rooted.

Comforting.

You didn’t want to leave.

"Eat, sweetheart," the whisper came so close it brushed your skin, warm and unsteady. "Aggie wants to leave early."

The words said little. The voice said everything.

You lifted your gaze.

And met hers.

So brown. So deep. Now that you knew Rio wasn’t human—and maybe she never had been. But now, looking into her eyes, something stirred inside you.

There was something there.

They shimmered in a way that felt wrong, moisture gathering at the edges, barely perceptible. A treacherous fragility for someone like her.

As if she were offering you a wordless secret, a part of herself that should never be revealed.

But what?

You swallowed hard, nodding, unsure of what to say.

And breakfast went on.

[...]

The car glided smoothly through the still-sleeping streets of the city. The overcast sky painted everything in shades of gray, as if the day itself hesitated to fully arrive.

Agatha drove unhurriedly.

Unhurriedly, but also without a single word.

Silence wasn’t unusual between you—but today, it felt... heavier.

The low hum of the engine and the distant sound of tires against the asphalt were the only things filling the space between you.

The radio was off, and Agatha made no effort to break the silence—not with idle remarks, nor with one of those sharp observations that always caught you off guard.

She just drove.

And thought.

Her gaze was fixed on the road, but there was something in the way her fingers tensed around the steering wheel, in the deeper-than-usual crease between her brows.

What was she worried about?

You found yourself watching her reflection in the window—the locked jaw, the careful rise and fall of her chest, as if she were controlling each breath.

Agatha rarely let anything show.

But now…

There was something there.

And you decided to test it.

“Why do you want to get there early today?” Your voice was measured, casual enough not to seem intrusive.

You didn’t look at her, keeping your eyes on the scenery passing by the window, as if the answer wasn’t burning beneath your skin.

An invisible knot tightened in the air, thick as the charged stillness before a storm.

Maybe you shouldn’t have broken that silence. Not while Agatha hadn’t yet decided whether she wanted to share it with you.

The car kept moving, tires gliding over the asphalt in steady rhythm. The moment stretched.

And then—

“I need to talk to Wanda.”

Sharp. Unyielding.

The kind of response that cut off any possibility of further questions.

There wasn’t even a glance exchanged.

You simply leaned back against the seat, letting out a slow breath.

But something inside you stirred.

Why?

Why Wanda?

Why now?

You didn’t ask.

But you kept wondering.

The studio felt like a minefield.

Costume designers rushed past, technicians spoke in hushed tones, and the assistant directors seemed to shrink every time Agatha walked by.

She was in a bad mood.

Not the explosive kind, with yelling or slamming doors—no. The worst kind. The silent, razor-sharp kind, like a blade being twirled between fingers.

And everyone knew that when Agatha Harkness was like this, mistakes were not an option.

You watched from the corner, holding your breath every time someone missed a mark or took a second too long to adjust the lighting. Her energy dominated the set—suffocating, unpredictable.

“This is garbage.”

Her voice sliced through the air like a scalpel, making the director of photography flinch. She hadn’t raised her tone, but it was enough to make everyone freeze.

The monitor displayed the last take. Agatha skimmed the scene and let out a low, dangerous laugh.

“You expect me to believe this is cinema?”

Silence.

The producers exchanged glances, dreading the moment her merciless gaze would land on them.

She stepped forward, snatched the assistant director’s clipboard, and held it up, flipping through the notes with open disdain.

“A masterpiece,” she murmured, each syllable dripping with irony. “Truly worthy of the big screen. Maybe even an award.” She turned her eyes to the director. “What’s the new category again? Oh. Best pathetic attempt at capturing the human experience?”

The director opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“No, no,” Agatha continued, turning back to the screen. “Maybe ‘Best Waste of Time and Money.’ What do you think, honey?”

She turned… to you.

You froze.

Her gaze found yours the moment the words left her lips, and you knew there was no way out.

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” she teased, tilting her head. “Tell me—what did you see in that scene?”

Your mouth went dry. Everyone was staring.

You swallowed hard, trying to choose your words.

“Uh… I think it could have more… intensity. The lighting could be a bit darker because—”

Agatha blinked, a lopsided smirk playing on her lips.

“Intensity,” she repeated. “Intensity, of course. But tell me, darling, how do you add intensity to a corpse?”

She turned to the actors on set, who barely dared to breathe.

“Because that’s what I see here,” she went on, her eyes sharp as blades. “Walking corpses. No one believes what they’re doing. And if you don’t believe it, how do you expect the audience to?”

She strolled slowly toward one of the supporting actresses—one of Wanda’s coven witches. She was young but already had a name in Hollywood. And she had never. Never worked with Agatha before. The poor woman? She was already pale.

“I should be feeling something,” Agatha murmured, gaze challenging. “I should be shivering, devastated. But instead, all I can think is…” She paused, pretending to reflect. “I wonder if the coffee’s ready in my dressing room.”

The actress lowered her eyes, mortified.

The silence grew even heavier.

You felt trapped in her line of sight.

As if, at any moment, she might decide the next unforgivable failure would come from you.

Agatha sighed and dropped the clipboard onto the table with a dry thud.

“Reshoot,” she ordered, impatient. “And this time, try to make me feel… anything.”

She turned to leave—but stopped beside you.

Leaning in slightly, just enough for her voice to be a warm whisper against your skin.

“And you,” she drawled, “stop hiding from me.”

She pulled away before you could respond—but left something burning inside you.

"Witch!"

The word sliced through the air like a rusted blade, heavy with hatred and fear.

"Burn her!"

The chorus swelled, deafening, as the villagers raised their torches. Flames danced like hungry serpents, reflected in wide, frenzied eyes, alight with fury and terror. A swarm of shadows thrashed beneath the fire’s flickering glow.

And at the center of it all—

Wanda.

Alone. Her dress tattered, hair wild, skin smeared with ash and dirt. Her gaze fixed ahead, not truly seeing.

Was it fear?

Or something much deeper, something far more dangerous?

Her fingers trembled, hesitant, as if every part of her resisted the inevitability of the moment.

But something was growing there.

Something no one else could see.

The air pulsed around her, as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

She raised her hand.

The villagers screamed.

"Witch!"

A piece of wood was hurled. It struck her leg, and Wanda staggered, gasping, shoulders locked with tension.

You held your breath.

Was it just acting?

Or was it truly happening?

The wind shifted. The torches’ flames wavered, flickering uncertainly. Ash and dust swirled around the village like a storm on the verge of eruption.

Wanda closed her eyes.

The director made a hurried gesture, expecting her to resume.

But she didn’t move.

Above the set, the rigging that held her in place seemed unsteady, groaning against the metal framework. But… what if she didn’t need them?

You could feel Agatha watching.

Her presence burned—piercing, calculating.

Measuring every reaction. Measuring Wanda.

Because Agatha already knew.

Wanda’s eyes snapped open.

And you knew this wasn’t just acting.

The village's screams grew louder, angrier. A man, his face twisted with rage, lifted a torch.

"Burn her alive!"

The air around her twisted, as if reality itself was fracturing. A single second of absolute silence fell over everything.

Chaos.

Wanda.

Bodies were flung back like ragdolls. Bones cracked—a dry, sickening sound swallowed by horrified cries.

Fire spread as if it had a will of its own, climbing walls, devouring thatched rooftops, swallowing the villagers’ screams before they could escape.

Wanda floated in midair. Scarlet energy pulsed around her, forcing everyone to bow before her. The glow of her power was so intense that you squinted, struggling to tell if it was special effects… or real.

Her eyes burned, crimson darkness expanding around her like a bloody eclipse. Her hair lifted, caught in an unseen storm.

What had once been fear had transformed into something else.

Acceptance.

"On your knees." Wanda’s voice reverberated through the air, thick with power, with something primal. "Before your goddess."

She lifted her hands to the sky, and a scarlet bolt tore through the heavens.

The blue was swallowed by red. The world burned at her command.

The villagers screamed. Ran. Fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.

But Wanda didn’t blink.

Hell had been born from her hands.

The scent of charred flesh and smoke thickened the air, suffocating.

And then, silence.

Only the crackling of flames remained.

And Agatha’s gaze, sharp, piercing.

She clapped. Slowly.

"Cut."

Her voice dripped like poisoned silk.

"Wanda Maximoff," she tilted her head, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. "You do know how to put on a show, don’t you, dear?"

Everyone on set seemed frozen.

Except Wanda.

And Agatha.

They stared at each other.

And you realized, a chill running down your spine, that maybe this scene was far more than just a performance.

"Good work, everyone!" Agatha called out, signaling that they were done.

You watched as your colleagues rushed to leave—escaping the oppressive atmosphere, the suffocating aura—and you followed, stealing a glance toward the center of the set—where Wanda and Agatha spoke in hushed tones.

But there was something there.

Something you didn’t want to stay long enough to find out.

Lunch weighed heavily in your stomach, and the heat of the set only made everything more exhausting. You needed a break. A brief moment away from the lights, the cameras, the strange energy that still lingered in the air after the main scene with Wanda.

With a sigh, you stepped out of the studio. You needed air, to feel the afternoon sun on your face and the crisp breeze of late autumn.

Your footsteps echoed against the ground. The noise around you began to fade as you walked away—the murmurs of the crew adjusting cameras, the clinking of equipment being carried.

But the silence that settled around you wasn’t a relief.

It was oppressive.

Your body still carried the aches and marks from yesterday.

You swallowed hard, the memory burning in your mind like a brand. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the unspoken warning.

Agatha’s gaze, sharp as a razor. Rio’s lazy smile, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking before you even tried to hide it.

You had made a mistake.

Doubting them.

Speaking too much.

Trusting too much.

Now, you knew better.

They were witches. Or at least… something close to it. You didn’t want to think about it any further.

You didn’t want to face the questions gnawing at your mind since it all began. You were part of something, yes.

But what, exactly?

And more importantly… could you get out of it?

Did you want to?

The wind blew, carrying a distant scent of red smoke and something sweet, almost sickening. Your heart pounded inside your chest. You clenched your fists, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.

It was just paranoia, right?

Right?

Then—

Something covered your mouth.

Warm, firm hands.

The scream died in your throat as your eyes were covered. Everything turned to darkness. Your body thrashed instinctively, but it was useless. The grip was unyielding.

And then, red threads emerged in the dark.

Red like blood. Like fire. Like witchcraft.

They danced in your vision, glowing and twisting like living serpents. You tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panic clawed up your throat, your heart hammering in a wild rhythm.

Until the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You felt the world distort around you, a strange numbness pulling your consciousness away. As if you were being ripped out of reality.

Your body grew weightless.

Your mind, hazy.

And before you could understand what was happening—

Everything went black.

The numbness still weighed on your body when your eyes opened.

The first thing you saw was Wanda.

Seated in front of you, legs crossed, an expression of boredom fixed on you.

Confusion took hold before fear even had a chance. You tried to move, to open your eyes fully and figure out where you were.

Your heart pounded.

The room still had the same baby pink paint and the uncomfortable spring mattress of your old bed. It smelled of mold, as if the space had been locked away for a long time.

No. No. No.

This couldn’t be happening.

You were in your old bedroom. In WestView.

Panic twisted into anger.

“What.The.Fuck.Is.This?” you snarled, pushing yourself up, rage flashing in your teeth.

Wanda smirked, watching your despair the way someone watches an animal caught in a trap.

“The little wild puppy is awake, I see…”

Her voice carried something almost amused, but her green eyes—her green eyes were cold, void.

You tried to stand, but your muscles were still weak. The numbness still clung to you like invisible chains, dragging you down.

Your room.

Your goddamn room.

The same suffocating space where you grew up, where you spent sleepless nights dreaming of escaping this town, of never coming back.

And yet—here you were.

“How…?” Your voice faltered. You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “How did I get here?” Your hands ran through your hair, trying to fix your appearance—your ego, in front of Wanda. “We’re thousands of miles away from Los Angeles.”

She sighed dramatically, rising from the chair and pacing the room with her hands behind her back, like she was analyzing the tacky decor she never liked.

“I think the real question is why you’re here.” She turned, crossing her arms. “And I could answer that, but… You already know the answer, don’t you?”

Your stomach turned.

Yes. You knew.

“I know everything.” Your voice came out firm, cutting. “My friends told me.”

Wanda arched a brow, a lazy smirk curling at her lips.

“Of course they did.” She tilted her head, watching your reaction. “Who do you think told them?”

The shock hit like a punch to the gut.

What?

I couldn't help it, yes, I let it get in

The helpless optimism of spring

Worn out and tired, and my heart near retired

And the world bent double from weeping

And yet, the birds begin to sing

She laughed, low, a sound dripping with pure disdain.

“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you actually think little kids like you could uncover something we’ve kept hidden for centuries.”

The word cut deep.

Centuries.

That was it.

They weren’t just older. They were ancient. Too old for you to even begin to comprehend.

Your body thrummed at the realization, though you knew it shouldn’t.

Daffodil

You cleared your throat, trying to focus on the possible danger you were in.

“This—”

“Did you drink that?” Wanda interrupted abruptly.

What?

Drink?

You blinked, your mind still catching up.

Oh. Right. The dark liquid in the old, elegant flask.

“No,” you admitted, your voice weaker than you would’ve liked. “I… I was scared.”

Her change was instant. The smirk vanished. Her face hardened.

She growled.

“Those little shits… I told them to make sure you drank every last drop.”

Your body tensed.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

What—

Okay. Alright. So you were being played by everyone?

Is that it?

Your lips trembled.

So… Professor Calderu chose Alice as your partner on purpose? Alice knew? Since when?

Thick tears welled at the corners of your eyes.

“Why are you…” Your voice trembled, weak, choked by the threat of tears. You tried to continue, but your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, refusing to form the words. “Doing this?”

You didn’t want to know.

Didn’t want to hear it.

But Wanda smiled.

“Why do you think?” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Then she laughed.

“Beauty. Fame. Success. Youth.”

Each word fell like a sharp blade.

The air grew heavier.

I'm not bad, I'm not good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your chest tightened, and a part of you begged for her to stop. To make this not be real.

But Wanda sighed, running her fingers through her red hair, impatient.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her voice dropped, but it wasn’t any less cruel. “We’ve spent centuries trapped in the same damn story. Burned. Hanged. Hunted. Killed.”

Your stomach churned.

“Then Rio told us about the sources. We found out there was a way to break the cycle.” Her eyes flickered for a moment, but the hardness returned almost instantly. “And that’s when we realized the truth. No one would ever do anything for us. If we wanted to survive, if we wanted a chance at something better, we had to fend for ourselves.”

She stepped closer.

“Don’t worry.” Her tone was almost… gentle. “You weren’t the first.”

And then her smile widened, cruel.

“And you won’t be the last.”

Her words struck like a blade, knocking the air from your lungs. The silence that followed was deafening.

Daffodil

A knot formed in your throat, heavy, suffocating.

“You used me.” Your voice was quiet.

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Wanda blinked slowly. And then, she laughed. A sharp sound, like shattering glass.

“Used you?”

She tilted her head, studying you like a predator examining trapped prey.

“Oh, sweet child… I wish I had that privilege.”

Your body went still.

“But Agatha and Rio didn’t let that happen, did they?” Her tone was reflective now, almost distracted.

She started pacing the room, as if organizing her own thoughts.

We practice resurrection every night

Raising the dead under the moonlight

And in the gloaming, I start to cry

You're a perfect pearl hung in the sky

“It was supposed to be like it always was,” she murmured. “Like it has been for centuries.”

Wanda stopped.

Turned to you.

And smiled.

“But instead of enchanting you to drain you like they should have, they made you their little personal plaything.”

The floor disappeared beneath you.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your breath erratic. The horror crawled down your spine like ice.

No.

They weren’t just draining you.

They were shaping you.

Like a gem.

Your obedience. Your submission.

With every touch. Every command. Every look.

The air seemed to vibrate around you, an unbearable mix of fear and something else.

Something darker. Something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The weight of the lock pendant pressed against your chest, a reminder that you were never really free.

You were never just you.

You were always theirs.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank all the blood that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your body was trembling—out of hatred, out of confusion, out of something warm growing inside you, seeping through the cracks Agatha and Rio had carved into your soul.

Because they hadn’t split you apart.

They hadn’t let anyone else touch you.

Not Wanda, not Lilia—your partners for centuries.

And what was supposed to be absolute horror, what should have made your stomach turn and your legs buckle in terror...

Fuck.

It turned you on as a fuck.

Her words, sharp as razors, cut into you, but they also held you in place. As if everything was falling into place in some sick, inevitable way.

Daffodil

Your heart pounded against your chest, each beat sending waves of heat down to your trembling legs.

“Oh.” Wanda narrowed her eyes, leaning in slightly. “So now you understand what is the problem here.”

You wanted to deny it.

Wanted to spit in her face, scream that it was a lie, that this had nothing to do with what you felt. With what you were.

But the heat crawling over your skin, pulsing between your legs, said otherwise.

The possession.

The absolute certainty that Agatha and Rio had claimed you as theirs.

English sun, she has come

To kiss my face and tell me I'm that chosen one

A generation soaked in grief

We're drying out and hanging on by the skin of our teeth

Your chest clenched with a twisted pleasure, and before you could stop it, a crooked smile tugged at your lips.

Small.

Unconscious.

Wrong.

I never thought it would get this far

This somewhat drunken joke

Sometimes, I see so much beauty

I don't think that I can cope

Wanda saw it.

And she smiled too, but hers was different. Colder. Crueler.

“They ruined you, didn’t they?” the redhead murmured, stepping closer.

She raised her hand, the light touch of her finger tracing the padlock pendant resting on your chest.

Heavy. Almost suffocating.

“You smell like them.” Her voice dripped over your skin like venom. “Rotten to me.”

Your body was warm.

Warm with shame. Warm with something you didn’t want to name.

Your fingers dug into the old sheets beneath you, as if that could anchor you to reality.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Wanda grabbed your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

Her green eyes glowed, intense, unrelenting, burning something inside you that you weren’t sure you wanted to put out.

“And that,” she said, “cannot happen.”

Your body stiffened.

What?

“We need to take it out of you.”

The air grew thick.

Your stomach twisted.

Before you could speak, protest, beg, Wanda was already walking away, heading toward the door with the cruel calmness of someone who had always been in control.

Daffodil

She stopped at the doorway, not looking at you.

“Welcome back to WestView, darling.”

Wanda gave you an unreadable look, too mystical for you to interpret.

“Welcome home.”

Then, the door closed, and you were alone.

~*~

Here are the answers. And I don't know what to do with all this informations...

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220 notes · View notes

dieseldame · 4 months ago

Text

𝗠𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗙𝗹𝗲𝘀𝗵

Sevika x Mechanic! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2,2K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Sevika arrives at your workshop late at night, battered and bruised from a brutal fight, seeking urgent repairs for her damaged mechanical arm.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Angst, comfort, hurt/comfort, slow-burn, first kiss, mutual respect, found family vibes, detailed mechanics, strong female lead, emotional vulnerability.

In the Lower City, time doesn’t move the way it does above. There’s no rhythm here—only chaos. Machines wheeze and hiss, drunk men stumble out of alleyways, and the Shimmer lights the night with its sickening purple glow. A place where even silence feels heavy, where danger coils in the shadows like something alive.

And yet, there’s always the hum of a machine shop somewhere—your machine shop.

Most nights, the noise keeps you company. The grinding of gears, the hiss of steam, the soft vibration of metal meeting metal. You’ve carved a life out of this grimy corner of Zaun: hands blackened by oil, skin marred by burns, heart stitched together with the same steel you shape. You mend what others break, piecing together scraps to give back function. If there’s one thing the Lower City respects, it’s those who can make things work.

But not tonight.

The shop is quiet. Tools lie idle on the workbench, scattered like forgotten relics. You sit slumped against the wall, head heavy, breath shallow—your body aches, but it’s nothing you can’t endure. A stitched wound at your temple pulses faintly; the bruises across your ribs feel tight when you inhale too deeply. It was worth it, though, for what you’d built.

The machine gleams under dim lamplight.

A marvel of metal and innovation, an appendage worthy of the woman it’s meant for. State-of-the-art sensors—so small you nearly went blind assembling them—thread through the new limb like nerve endings. You’d spent months on it. Scavenging parts. Trading favors. Getting into fights when “negotiation” failed. All for this: a piece of art wrapped in cold steel, capable of letting her feel again.

Capable of giving Sevika back something she’d lost.

She doesn’t know. She wouldn’t have let you—wouldn’t have wanted you to bleed for her, as she would say. Sevika was stubborn like that. Built of sharp edges and gruff words.

And yet she always came to you.

As if the broken parts of her knew where they belonged.

The door bangs open, hard enough to rattle the hinges. You don’t jump—Sevika never knocks. She storms in like a thundercloud, leaving the door yawning wide behind her. Smoke curls from a half-burned cigar clamped between her teeth.

— Thought I’d find you sleeping. — she says, her voice rough, but she pauses when she sees you.

Her sharp eyes track the bruises at your jaw, the bloodstained stitches above your brow, the stiff way you’re sitting. A subtle shift passes across her face—something unreadable, but heavy.

You lift a brow. — You’re late.

Sevika scoffs and strides inside, her boots loud against the floorboards. The flickering lamplight catches on the dark red smear down her cheek and the gouge in her mechanical arm—a deep tear through the metal, sparking faintly with exposed wires. She looks worse for wear: hair tangled, coat torn at the sleeve, shoulders tight with the lingering strain of a fight.

You stand, biting back a wince as your ribs protest. — What happened?

She shrugs off her coat with a grunt, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her ruined arm whirs as she flexes it, and for a moment, you think she might try to downplay the damage. Instead, her lips pull into a humorless smirk.

— Some idiot thought he’d try his luck.

— Clearly, he didn’t win.

Sevika snorts, the sound dark and pleased. — Didn’t even come close.

You’ve heard this before—her coming in late, bruised and bloodied but alive. You’ve always admired that about her: the way she endures. Survives. Sevika’s not invincible, but she wears her damage like armor.

Tonight, though, something feels different. You can see it in her posture, the heaviness in the set of her jaw.

— Sit, — you tell her. — Let me look at it.

She does, with minimal grumbling, lowering herself onto a stool by the workbench. Her damaged arm hangs limply at her side, and you kneel beside it, fingers brushing the jagged metal edges. Sparks hiss where the wiring has frayed. It’s worse than you thought—too far gone to repair tonight.

— Damn it. — you mutter.

— Don’t hold back on my account. — Sevika drawls.

You shoot her a dry look before rising to grab your tools. The lamp casts your shadow long across the room as you search for something—anything—that could be a temporary fix. Sevika watches you, one brow raised, her good hand braced against her knee.

— I can’t patch this up, — you admit after a moment. — Not tonight. The damage is too deep.

Sevika grunts, not surprised, but her eyes narrow slightly. — Then what are you waiting for? Find another way.

You hesitate. It’s now or never.

— You’re right. I do have another way.

She frowns, leaning back slightly as you turn and cross the room. Your hand moves to the edge of the sheet that covers your secret—months of work, pain, and sacrifice hidden beneath it. You look at her then, at the woman who sits in your shop like she belongs there, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

— Consider it an early birthday present.

And then you pull the sheet away.

The room seems to hold its breath.

The new arm lies on the table—a masterpiece in steel and precision. It shines silver under the light, sleeker than Sevika’s current appendage, but heavier somehow. Something about the design demands respect. The plating has been shaped to fit her perfectly, every joint reinforced and seamless.

But the real wonder lies in the small, intricate workings beneath the surface. The sensors, invisible to the eye, hum faintly with potential energy. Capable of transmitting touch—real touch. Warmth. Pressure. All the things Sevika’s flesh had lost.

You’d made her a gift.

Sevika doesn’t move. Her eyes rake over the arm, slow and careful, and for the first time in a long while, she looks… surprised.

— You made this? — Her voice is low, quieter than before.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. — For you.

She doesn’t speak. You’re not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep talking, filling the silence. — The sensors are custom-built. Took me weeks just to get the design right. They’ll let you feel things again. Temperature, textures. All of it. — You glance at her, searching her face for a reaction. — I thought maybe… you’d like that.

Sevika’s gaze drags from the arm to you. Slowly, her expression shifts, softening in a way that feels dangerous. Like something she doesn’t let anyone see.

— You didn’t just make this, — she says, voice low. — Where did you get the parts?

You look away.

Her eyes narrow. — Tell me.

— I got them, — you reply, a little too quickly. — That’s what matters.

Sevika rises then, moving toward you with a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse quicken. She’s too close now, towering over you with that sharp, unreadable look.

Her gaze drops to the bruises at your jaw, the healing wound at your temple. She takes you in like a puzzle she’s solving piece by piece—her good hand lifting to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes.

— You fought for this. — It’s not a question.

You swallow hard. — Zaun’s not exactly a charity.

— Idiot, — she mutters, though her voice lacks any bite. Her thumb grazes the edge of your jaw—light, careful, as though testing her own ability to be gentle. — You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.

— It was worth it. — you say softly.

She blinks. For a long moment, Sevika just looks at you—searching, measuring, as though trying to understand something she doesn’t have the words for. You hold her gaze, unflinching.

— You’re a fool. — she says finally.

— Maybe.

Her hand drops, but she doesn’t step back.

— Sevika, — you start, — I just —

— You didn’t have to do this for me.

— I wanted to.

The words hang between you, raw and undeniable. Sevika stares at you, something unspoken passing through her eyes. You’ve seen her fight. Seen her spit blood and laugh through cracked teeth. But this is different. This is vulnerability—quiet and unarmored.

— You’re too soft for this city, — she mutters, but there’s no malice in it. Only something close to affection.

You smirk faintly. — And you’re too stubborn to accept a gift.

She snorts, shaking her head, but her mouth twitches at the corner—an almost-smile.

— Sit back down, — you tell her. — Let me fit it.

Sevika hesitates, then moves. When she lowers herself onto the stool again, you begin the careful process of removing her damaged arm, piece by piece, before fitting the new one in its

place.

The process is slow, deliberate. You work in silence, your fingers moving with the precision of someone who knows their craft intimately. Sevika doesn’t speak, but you can feel her watching you—her gaze heavy, lingering on your bruises, the faint tremble in your hands as you lock the new appendage into place.

The final connection clicks with a soft hum, and the arm comes alive. Its joints shift smoothly, a near-perfect mimicry of organic movement. Sevika flexes her fingers, and the sensors respond, lighting up faintly as they adjust to her.

— How does it feel? — you ask, watching her carefully.

Her brows furrow slightly as she tests the arm, running her metal fingers over the edge of the workbench. The faintest smile pulls at her lips when she feels the texture of the rough wood beneath her touch.

— Strange, — she admits. — I didn’t think… — She trails off, her voice softening. — I didn’t think I’d feel anything like this again.

Your chest tightens. — Good strange?

Sevika looks at you then, her expression open in a way that feels rare, like she’s letting her guard slip just for a moment. — Yeah. Good strange.

Relief washes over you, and you take a step back, suddenly feeling the weight of the night settle over you. Your ribs ache, your head pounds faintly, but it’s worth it—worth every bruise, every drop of blood.

— You’re something else. — Sevika mutters, shaking her head.

— What do you mean?

— You fight, you bleed, and then you do this? — She gestures to the arm with her good hand. — You didn’t have to. Hell, you shouldn’t have. But you did it anyway.

You shrug, trying to play it off. — Like I said, I wanted to.

She leans forward, her new arm resting against her thigh, the metal gleaming under the lamplight. — You’re not Zaun, you know that? Not like the rest of us.

You raise a brow. — What does that mean?

Sevika smirks faintly, but there’s no edge to it. — It means you’ve got more heart than sense.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. — And you’re just figuring this out now?

Her gaze softens, her smirk fading into something quieter, more serious. — I noticed it the first time I walked in here.

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of her confession—small but significant—hangs in the air.

— Sevika…

She stands suddenly, towering over you, her new arm flexing as she tests its range of motion. Then she reaches out, her metal hand brushing your cheek—light, tentative, as though she’s still adjusting to the sensation. The coolness of the metal contrasts with the warmth of her touch, and your breath hitches.

— You went through hell for this, — she murmurs, her voice low and rough. — For me.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. — I told you… it was worth it.

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, but her eyes stay on yours, searching, unreadable. — You’re a fool. — she says again, softer this time.

— Maybe. — you whisper.

For a moment, the world seems to stop. The noise of the Lower City fades, the sharp scent of oil and metal dulls, and all that exists is Sevika—her presence, her touch, her quiet intensity.

And then she leans in.

Her lips brush yours, firm yet hesitant, like she’s testing the waters. It’s not soft, not sweet—this is Sevika, after all. It’s rough around the edges, but there’s something real in it, something that sets your pulse racing and makes the ache in your ribs worth forgetting.

When she pulls back, her gaze holds yours, unflinching.

— Thank you. — she says, the words rough, almost grudging, but filled with a sincerity that takes your breath away.

You smile, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. — Anytime.

Sevika chuckles faintly, shaking her head. — You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, you know that?

— Not if you’ve got my back. — you reply, grinning.

She smirks, and for the first time all night, she looks at ease. — Damn right I do.

As she steps back, flexing her new arm with an almost childlike curiosity, you can’t help but watch her, a warmth spreading through your chest. The bruises, the fights, the exhaustion—it’s all worth it.

Because this is Sevika.

And for her, you’d do it all over again.

ㅤㅤㅤ

#sevika arcane #sevika #arcane #sevika x reader #fem reader

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peydawgz · 4 months ago

Note

Could we mayhaps get a curvy reader x hazard pretty please 💕

Yes and you get bonus Ramattra because I am ✨bricked up✨

Hazard

Fin looks at you with his eyes and his heart. He is enamored with your beauty. If youve got a naughty side showing, say a tattoo or a piercing, some showy outfit, or serving the punk look, he’s like a moth to the flame.

He’s kind and gentle with you, and treats you like royalty. He’ll defend you till death, and probably spend all his money on you. He goes out of his way with everything in his life.

You’re so warm and cozy, and you fit so perfect in his lap he would rather cuddle you forever. He likes to rest his hand on your stomach while you lay together, and mmm your thighs are so squishy and tempting. (Literally how to spoon, tiddy in da hand, kiss ya neck, dick hard on the butt. Hell yeah)

He’s always touching your butt fr, like just a little pat sometimes when you’re ahead of him, but also when you’re in privacy he’ll just grope you for fun. He loves kissing your neck and cheeks, and kissing you anywhere in fact.

He would never ever put you down or have any negativity near your relationship. In fact, he’s more of your hype man. He loves when you dress up and play with your fashion sense. He encourages you to wear whatever you want though, and finds you very adorable and attractive in your comfy outfits.

He’s a big guy, and when he gives you one of his jackets you find you are swallowed in it. He loves you so much, he can’t help but squeeze you up into a hug.

He loves to hold your stomach, in any way. Picking you up and giving you a cute little spin around when he sees you, or just simply wrapping his arms around you and holding you to his chest.

I think if you licked him it would turn him on,, and fr he would do it back he’s such a cute weirdo.

Ramattra

Your kindness towards him drew him in. You treated him like he was any other, and just lived your humble human life. He learned that he must have a heart,, because you stole it.

Ramattra wants to protect you at all costs, because you are the best thing that could have happened to him. If anyone says a word, he will destroy them. He’s never desired an omnic/human relationship more than ever before you came around.

He is like an animal, although he is machine. He tilts his head in curiosity, when he sees something he likes. He approaches slowly, and is almost fearful at first touching you. Then, he is just leaning all over you and nuzzling you everywhere.

His cold metal hands explore every curve, sending you shivers. He is starving for your touch, absolutely melting when your fingers go for his coils of “hair”. Every receptor and sensor is tingling with sensation,,, like what one would call butterflies in your stomach.

You love when he is in Nemesis form, his larger arms surrounding you and making you feel so small and cute. He picks you up bridal style, nuzzling his faceplate into your neck and seemingly purring.

He falls in love with every inch of you, and cuddle time is usually spent with you on top of him. His hands hold your thighs pressed against his cool body, helping you relax as your head lay on his chest. He strokes your back, and maybe will him you a gentle song.

Omg kiss him!!! Smooch him everywhere for real!! He wanna kiss you so bad,, all he can do is nuzzle and touch you :(

#overwatch #ramattra #hazard x reader #findlay docherty #overwatch headcanons #overwatch imagines #ramattra x reader

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xx-dinah-writing-xx · 5 months ago

Text

Innocent

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Targaryen reader

Part two

The Red Keep had always been a place of shifting alliances, whispered treachery, and fleeting pleasures. Daemon Targaryen knew its games well. He had mastered them, weaponized them. But nothing—not his ambitions, his victories, nor his conquests—had prepared him for her.

The first time he saw her grown, the flickering torchlight caught in her silver-blonde hair, the Targaryen hallmark. She was laughing, a soft, musical sound, surrounded by a circle of sycophants who fed off her charm like moths drawn to flame. His niece. His blood. A princess, untouched by the sharpness of the world, standing at the precipice of womanhood with a naivety that only added to her allure.

Daemon had seen beautiful women before. He had bedded them, discarded them. But this… this was different. She was untouched by the grime of ambition, unaware of the power her very existence commanded. She was innocence wrapped in the fire of their bloodline.

It began as curiosity. He watched her during feasts, the way her lips curled when she smiled, the way she would tilt her head, curious and attentive, as someone spoke. She carried herself with a grace that came so naturally it seemed almost otherworldly. And yet, for all her poise, there was an edge of naivety that made her a temptation impossible to resist.

But as the days turned into weeks after his return, curiosity gave way to obsession. He found himself drawn to her in ways that unsettled even him. He would linger in the shadows, his violet eyes tracking her movements like a dragon circling its prey. When she spoke to others—lords, knights, even the handmaidens—Daemon’s blood would boil, irrational jealousy searing through his veins.

She didn’t see it, of course. How could she? She was too… pure. Too unaccustomed to the darker edges of human desire. And that was part of her charm. She wasn’t calculating, not like the women who adorned the court, who whispered sweet lies in his ears while plotting his downfall. No, she was genuine. She would look at him with wide, curious eyes, unaware of the storm she was conjuring within him.

And gods help him, she led him on. Not purposefully, no. But she didn’t shy away from him as others did. She would smile at him, her cheeks flushing faintly when he paid her compliments. She would laugh, soft and breathless, when he teased her. She would linger, just a moment too long, when he pressed his hand to the small of her back, guiding her through the crowded halls of the Keep.

Daemon knew it was wrong. She was young, unspoiled, untouched by the machinations of the court. But the more she smiled, the more she lingered, the tighter his obsession coiled around his heart.

He began to insert himself into her life. Offering to escort her to the dragonpit, where he’d watch her marvel at the great beasts, her eyes wide with wonder. He’d bring her small gifts—silk ribbons in the color of her house, delicate jewelry that seemed to glow against her fair skin.

And she accepted them all, her lips curving into that soft, innocent smile that made him feel like the most powerful man in the world.

But then, she would turn that smile on others. And that was when Daemon’s possessiveness would rear its head. A courtly knight who dared to compliment her gown. A visiting lord who kissed her hand a moment too long. He’d watch, his fists clenched, the urge to destroy them barely contained.

She didn’t understand the way his gaze darkened when she laughed at another man’s jest. She didn’t notice the way his jaw tensed when another dared to touch her, however briefly.

But he noticed. He noticed everything.

She was his. She just didn’t know it yet.

And so, Daemon began to weave his web. He would find ways to isolate her, to pull her away from the sycophants and suitors who sought her attention. He would whisper in her ear, his voice low and intimate, planting seeds of doubt about those who sought to court her.

“They don’t understand you, sweet niece,” he would say, his lips brushing against her ear as they stood on a balcony overlooking the city. “They don’t see you for what you truly are. They only see the crown, the power you represent.”

And she would look up at him, her eyes wide and trusting, and he would feel his grip on her tighten.

Daemon was a dragon, and dragons did not share. She was his treasure, his fire, his light in the darkness of the Red Keep. And he would burn the world before he let another man take her from him.

In her innocence, she didn’t realize the danger she courted. The way her soft smiles and shy glances fed the fire of his obsession. She didn’t see the predator lurking beneath the surface, the dragon poised to strike.

But she would.

Oh, she would.

#fem reader #reader #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #hotd daemon #daemon x reader #daemon x you #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd x you #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x female reader

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pressureplus · 8 months ago

Note

Chronically ill fan here! I’m currently having a costochondritis flare up because I overworked myself. (My sternum cartilage is inflamed and uncomfortable) All I want is cuddles and kisses and to be taken care of while I try to sleep it off. Could I possibly get romantic Sebastian and fem chronically ill reader where Sebastian cares for her during a costochondritis flare if that’s okay?

You don’t have to do any research on costochondritis either. At surface level it’s just inflammation and pain mainly in the sternum/rib area that can be aggravated by heavy lifting

Chronically ill representation in readers is rare and I’ve never seen costochondritis rep.

I hope this is okay! Thank you so much!

As someone who is also chronically ill, I felt this in my bones. I got you

Sensitive, Sensitive

Pairings: Sebastian Solace x Fem!Chronically ill!Reader

Au: Classic

Warnings: Pet Names (Sunshine, Love)

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

“Please- watch your hands.” You whine as Sebastian goes to pick you up. The additional pushing from his palms making your bones feel like they’re going to crack under all that pressure. You already felt like you weren’t intaking enough air, though you’re sure you are. That and the pain that you’d once almost worried could’ve been a heart attack waiting to happen? Yeah you didn’t need any more pain. You knew about your flare ups, knew you shouldn’t push yourself too hard, and you’d gone and done it anyway. Was it a bad idea? Yes but you’ve got to survive down here somehow, you’re not gonna eat if you lay around all day.

Your boyfriend, Sebastian, on the other hand already looked concerned. His hands taking the heavy box you were carrying right out from your grasp. His gaze flicking around the multitude of snacks you’d ripped out from vending machines in your desperation. You must’ve brought in at least several boxes of the stuff and while he hadn’t been too worried at first, the pained breaths you made sure changed his mind now. Your hand came up to almost attempt to soothe the ache with gentle rubbing, and maybe it helped a little but not nearly enough. Still you turned, getting ready to go back out with a new box when Sebastian coiled his tail around your legs and hips.

“Not so fast.” He hums, placing the box to the side and leaning down to your height.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going back out? I’m not done emptying the-”

“You’re done now.”

“What?”

“I said, you’re done now. Come on, Sunshine, we’re laying down.” He’s careful to lift you up. This time avoiding the area causing you the most pain. He’s gentle, lifting you up by the hips and gently pressing you against his oddly comfortable body. His snake-like form slithering into the backroom and right up to your makeshift bed. Although it certainly wasn’t as comfortable as the ones at home, it would do. It always did. He was gentle when he laid you atop the mattress and tugged a thicker, comfortable blanket over top of you. His body sliding up against you, wrapping himself as close to you as possible. You attempt to wiggle out only the once before giving in, in far too much pain to wrestle yourself free this time.

“We’re going to lay in bed until you feel better.”

“It’s probably not going to go away for a while, and the pain isn’t going to fully subside anyway. You have to work- it’s all you do. You don’t have to lay here with me just because I’m hurting.”

“Y/N, I don’t mind laying with you at all. Why would I?” He softens and tilts your head to him. His lips pressing against yours as gently as he can, soft and sweet before pulling back from you. The fins on the sides of his head doing that cute little wiggle you’d grown so accustomed to seeing.

“I’m supposed to keep you safe, that includes from yourself. You’re not going to overwork yourself any further than you already have. What you are going to do though is rest.” An arm wraps around your waist, another combs through your hair and the third functions as a comfortable pillow for you.

“You’re sure I can just lay down here for a while?”

“You’re being an idiot, why would I be upset at you for resting?” He hits you with immediate sass and playfully nips at your jaw. His hand that lays over your hip rubs slow little circle against it.

“You don’t have to be a dick.”

“I’m not, I just know you aren’t always the brightest crayon in the box. I don’t want you hurting, Love. Now quiet down a bit and get some rest, hm? I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

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fanaticsnail · 6 months ago

Text

Body Worship: Franky

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word Count: 3,100+

Themes: Franky x gn!reader, angst, self worth, Franky has a little bit of dysmorphia, affirmation, fluff, smut, thigh riding, confession, body worship, praise, love, porn with feelings, mdni, NSFW, smut, 18+, non descript smut, grinding.

Notes: Massive shoutout to @thenotsofantasticlifestory for listening to my thoughts and aiding me with my time on this fic. I love this man, and I adore you. First time writing for Franky.

Cogs, wires, fizzes, and snaps of electrical circuits rang and shuddered within the chambers crafted by Franky’s own hands. There was never a silence to be held within him, not a calm moment where his body was not ticking like a clock wound by a coiled winch. He was constantly on, always on.

There was not a moment where man and machine were no longer merged as one, and Franky usually had no issue with being a self-made man in more ways than simple determination and gumption. But today, he just felt unnatural. He felt those cogs, wires, fizzes and snaps of electrical circuits overtake the humanity he so desperately attempted to preserve within himself.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t see the body he crafted as a work of mastery, but something foreign and tainted. He couldn’t look at himself without seeing the parts of his flesh, bone, and muscle he replaced, rendered, soldered, and attached. He was no longer himself, but just those parts he forged to keep himself alive.

A pile of scrap made into the shape of a man. Flesh from his prior life stretched over a frame of humanity pushed to its extremities.

Unsure as to when the first tear fell, or whether they were tears at all, his rounded eyes swelled and poured heavy drops down his cheeks and onto his chest within his workshop. Usually when he cried, he had the sensation of an almost sting in his nose: nostrils flaring and a saltiness within his nasal cavity. The lack of this feeling within his steel nose now only made him feel more like a machine and less of a man.

A soft knock at his workshop door was barely audible over the mechanical symphony rattling within his mind and skull. He scrunched his eyes shut and focussed finding a single sound to focus on within himself to no avail. It was just too much. Too noisy. Too intense. Too overwhelming. Too-.

“-Franky?” your voice shocks him out of his spiral, truly unaware of the opening and closing of the door to his workshop. He jolted back, beginning to panic a little while his body caught up to the way his mind was spiraling.

Keeping a safe distance away from the cyborg, you took him in. Noticing how his shoulders and hands were beginning to shake, you tilted your head and furrowed your brows while assessing him further. Franky’s eyes met with yours, a soft quiver of his lip atop his tri-pointed chin matching the forlorn expression blooming over his face.

As ships’ counselor, it was your job to advise and flesh out plans for your captain. It was also within your job title to unweave the troubled thoughts and matters of the head and heart for your crew.

Franky was a friend to you, and you adored the large cyborg wholeheartedly. If he ever gave you an opportunity to see him as more than just a friend or crewmate, you would take it before your heart could skip a beat.

There was no favorites on the Straw-Hat crew, but if there was, Franky would be it for you. You truly loved him for all that he was: man, machine, or otherwise.

It did not take much more than a soft sniffle from the larger man to usher you towards the larger man, opening your arms and taking him within your embrace. Pressing his head against your chest, you cradled his face within your hands and slowed your breathing for him to join with his own. His shoulders slouched, a single hand wrapping around your back and feeling the warmth your body had to offer him in the sensors within his palm and fingers.

Gently carding through his blue hair, you felt him relax into your touch while his ear pressed up against your heartbeat. His broad hands began to clutch at you and tug you into his lap, each thigh placed atop his own at the side while he pressed more of himself into you.

“Want to talk about it, big guy?” you asked softer than a murmur, but louder than a whisper, “I’m always here to talk with you when you need it, just like you are with me. Open door, honesty policy, remember?”

Franky sniffed before a raspy chuckle rattled in his throat. Tugging you nearer to him and releasing a sigh, he moved his chin to rest on your chest while peering up into your face. Gazing down at him, you offered him a softness in your smile while peering into his unshrouded eyes.

“Just-...” he began, waiting for the words to find themselves in his throat, “...It's just… I can't quite put it to words, now you mention it.” His chuckle was more in a bid to rise one of your own, teetering off the more he drank in your smile.

Darting his dark eyes between your own, glancing briefly down at your lips, he drank in your appearance the closer he drew to your face. You and he were nothing more than exceptionally close friends, but the cogs churning in his stomach and heart desperately desired there be a moment. He leaned in just a touch more, his eyes rounded just a touch more while his jaw grew softly slack.

“Franky?” Your voice soothed him, a smile found in each syllable, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re wanting to kiss me.”

Franky’s eyes darted down to your lips, angling his tri-pointed chin up just a small shift more. His eyelids grew heavy, lashes heavy as his pupils focussed on the way your lips curved in your smile.

“Do you?” he whispered, his voice heavy and husky within his throat. His hands desperately clasped the small of your back, his receptors tingling in indicating your body heat growing warmer.

“Do I ‘what’, Franky?” you queeried, not shying away from his touch. You were curious to see how far he would take this action, enjoying the attention he was giving you and feeling secure within his embrace.

Franky’s outer hand slid down to your thigh, his other moving you closer to press yourself into his chest. The blue-haired cyborg moved his lips in a tone just above a whisper, his breath tingling against your mouth as he ascended them towards yours.

“Know any better.”

His lips immediately claimed your own, focussing his own existentialism on claiming your lips against his own. His skin felt your warmth as you opened yourself up to him. Each roll of his lips mouthing at yours was reciprocated with eager enthusiasm, and Franky began to feel just that little bit calmer.

Until he wondered if it was truly his skin touching your own, not what receptors told him it was. Was it his lips touching you, or the cogs behind him sending sparks to his mind and alerting his brain that it was truly you giving into him.

Did you even like him?

Were you attracted to the man that he made himself to be?

Did you even see him as a man, not just a creation marred with the injury of battle and reforged by his own mind?

You sensed his enthusiasm dwindle against your lips, prompting you to close off the embrace with a soft peck. As you pulled away your lips from his, you peered down at him with your eyes half-lidded and holding nothing but a slight amount of teasing pulled in a soft smirk.

“Franky?”

When you met his gaze once more, your smirk immediately fled your features.

His eyes were glassy, his expression the polar opposite of the manner he usually presented himself as. There was nothing of the boisterous, uplifting, passionate, and optimistic cyborg you had come to adore, and it's absence held you hostage.

“Franky,” you sighed, gently reaching up and cupping his cheek. “Please. There's something going on, and as your counselor, I need to know. I could leave the job at the door and just be-.”

“-What am I?” he answered suddenly, his lips toppling hurriedly over the words, “I need to know.”

Taken aback by his hasty questions, you furrow your brows at him and check him over. Darting your eyes over his face, noticing his posture becoming slightly slouched and his hands holding you in heaped fistfuls, you inhale a soft and steady breath before exhaling.

Your breathing inadvertently has him so the same, both inhaling and exhaling slowly and steadily. After a moment of you both dwelling in the silence, you answer him with a non-rehearsed speech from the heart.

“You are Franky,” you whisper, rolling the pad of your thumb against the apple of his cheek, “Shipwright to the Straw Hat Pirates, senior officer shepherding the Straw Hat Grand Fleet. Creator and master constructor of the Thousand Sunny. Former gang leader, who convinced those joining to switch from beer to cola, and-...”

Franky nodded you on, convincing you to continue to affirm him with your words. You could see it was not entirely the answer he was seeking, which spurred you on to change to how deeply remarkable you found him.

“...-You are so kind. An exceptionally intelligent person with your heart beating for others,” you nod to him, catching the hitch in his throat and paying it no mind. “The way your mind can see the mastery in machines, crafting it with your hands, and forging it into the best version of itself is a gift.” You draw your other hand up to his bare chest, feeling a fizz and beat beneath the skin while you speak.

“You don't just do this with your skilled labor, Franky.” You reassure him, glancing down to your knuckles on the back of your hand in his chest. “You see the potential in others, and coax them skillfully to bring it to the light.” A small laugh fled from your lips, prompting you to shake your head and whisper, “A remarkable skill, and I envy you for it.”

The dampness felt beneath the fingers on his cheek had you moving your eyes slowly back up to meet his own.

“You are, and will forever be, Franky: man, machine, both married as one and inseparable from the other,” you concluded, drawing your hand up on his cheek to slowly caress away his tears. “You are all of this, and you are so much more.”

Franky felt his chest soar, whichever fluid, whether cola or blood, pumped his heart and had him desperate to know more. Considering the fact you didn't pull away from the offerance of a kiss earlier, he drew his hand over your back and rested it on your hip while leaning in.

“What am I to you?”

Without skipping a beat, you spoke truthfully and from the chamber's within your own beating heart.

“And you are beautiful to me.”

Franky scoffed, rolling his eyes and almost pouting at your response. You sigh out with your brow arched high, gently perching your hands against his broad shoulders and grasping his muscles firmly.

“I mean it, Franky,” you reaffirm enthusiastically, “Everything about you is beautiful. Your heart, your soul, your mind, fuck,” you gasp, feeling the firmness of his shoulders beneath his hands.

A warm flush crept up your neck and swelled your cheeks with a vibrant fluster. Franky searched your eyes, darting down to your parted lips and back up to meet your gaze.

“What was that?” he chuckled, picking up your vocal inflection and teasing you with his smile.

“I just,” you halt yourself, slowly molding the joints beneath your palms and squeeze his muscles. “I usually… I usually focus on the mind and heart, but you're-...” Your fingers move down to his scarred pectorals, gently caressing a trail of timidity down towards his nipples.

“...-You're really attractive. Physically attractive,” you admit, pressing a little firmer against his muscles before dipping the pads of your index fingers over his pebbled buds. “Whether it was the kiss from a little earlier, confessing how I see your mind, my position currently on your lap, or the fact that there's a lot of tension between us right now…”

“Oh?” He taunts you a little more tilting his head to the side with a cheeky grin drawing up over his lips. Leaning forward, he pressed more of his pectorals against your hands and whispered coyly against the shell of your ear, “Tell me?”

“Shit,” you stutter past your lips. Eyes rolling a little, you suck your lips into your mouth to halt a moan from fleeing as you feel the tension only swell to a greater intensity.

Franky chuckles, his hands still running circles against your hips and gently ushering you in closer.

“Better yet,” he drew one hand away from your middle and drew it up to collect your chin in his grip. “Show me?”

Your breath hitched as you slowly drew your hand around in circles against his flesh. His skin felt warm to the touch, smooth and soft with coiled ringlets of cerulean fuzz shimmering against his pectorals. Moving your hands up and down his chest, your lips parted in surprise at feeling the buzz of circuitry beneath the stretch of flesh.

“Every nook you've notched into yourself is a work of art, Franky,” you exhale, rolling the pads of your thumbs against his abs and raking them towards his belly. “Each alteration and modification has just made you more you, you know?”

Franky felt his throat hitch at the admission parting from your lips. His body that he saw moments ago as a trap for his spirit, now being worshiped and praised for its mastery. As your hands ran over his skin, his receptors and skin both felt need and desire course through his circuits and veins.

Without any more prompting at your touch, he maneuvered you to straddle one of his thighs and held your pelvis flush against his own. Your hands automatically fled back up to the shoulders that held you captive as he pressed you firmly against himself.

“You like my body much?” The rasp in his voice tangibly reverberated within your chest and shot straight to your crotch, igniting it with need.

“Franky…” you gasp, his hands holding you against his thigh pressed harder, slowly rocking you over the hard muscle lurking beneath. “If you'd give me an opportunity, I'd drop to my knees and worship you like a devotee at an altar.”

Franky chuckles at the comment, using his large, metal hand gripping your waist to slowly rock you back and forward over his thigh. Your stomach bound in knots, your needs only growing higher and more incessant the more he puppetted you against his body and gazed into your eyes.

“No need for all that. I don't need it,” he laughed once more, moving forward and brushing his metal nose gently against yours, “But I do need this.”

His larger hand completely trapped your waist within his grip, knocking your knee against the bulge in his pants and grinding his clothed cock against your own body.

Manhandling you against his leg, bouncing you up to brush more of yourself against his cock, you felt trapped against him as he bore you fully against his body while holding your face gently. His metal thumb stroked your lip as you parted them to release a groan.

Soft whimpers and mewls left your throat as he held your gaze, his own gasps growing in need the longer he rocked you against himself. Your desire began to seep through your pants the longer he held you firmly and guided your motions.

“Show me,” he whispered, peering down his steel nose through half-hooded lashes. “Show me everything.” He worked you harder, his own cock leaking it's head and staining his red briefs with soft dewdrops of precum.

His abdomen tensed, feeling the need rise further in his stomach while his cogs, wires, flesh and bone felt more unified as one than ever. Humanity overtook his senses the longer his primal urge to feel more of you against himself.

You were no different, feeling your own release clench in the pit of your stomach and sizzle your eyes with the first sparks of euphoria. The need fogging your mind spurred you on to bare yourself down against him and begin rutting against him harder. As you found yourself falling over that edge, you clenched your eyes shut, earning you an immediate reprimand from the cyborg cariotting your bliss.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered firmly, “I said ‘show me’. I want to see you. Just you, baby. Gonna cum on my lap?” He rocked you harder, pinching your chin and giving it a soft shake to draw back your gaze on his own.

“Cum for me, baby.”

“Franky-!” you cried, feeling your eyes spring open as your vision blurred as your focus was marred by ecstasy. Your body flooded with endorphins, spurring within your chest and releasing the heavy knots in your belly. The damp patch below you deepened in intensity as your release seeped into his thighs.

Franky’s lips quivered as he darted his eyes between yours, finding in you that tether binding him to the mortal realm. With you anchored against him, he used your body rutting against his own to buck up his clothed cock and roll his hips against your thigh.

With a rough bark of your name, his cock began flooding his briefs with his own release. His eyes never left your face as he rode through his high while you came down from yours.

Two breaths, two hearts, two souls, two people: both enjoying their bodies while clinging to one another. That is where you found yourself, truly just intending to find his office to inform him your crew were about to make port in an island in two hours according to Nami.

As your body slouched against his chest, he cradled you in the same manner you did moments ago while reassuring him of his own body. He had never felt so secure as he did just now with his own body.

“Franky?” you whispered softly, turning your head and pressing your forehead against the crook of his neck.

“Yeah, baby?” He nuzzled against the crown of your head, “What's up?”

“We'll be making port in about forty-five minutes,” you gasp against his skin, pressing a shy kiss against his neck before hiding your gaze in his shoulder to cringe away your giddiness. Franky chuckles, reaching down and collecting your chin in his grip and turning you back to meet his eyes once more.

“Stay with me until then?” he asked softly, blinking slowly and and almost unsure of himself as you seemed to be. You found yourself drowning in his eyes, raw emotion swelling between you as you feel the chemistry fizzing up to a ruptuous tumble.

“After all that?” you scoff playfully, your smile painted over your lips and causing him to mirror it himself, “I'll remain by your side always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @ane5e

🎶 Happy Birthday to Me🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

#one piece #x reader #2024 birthday party #franky #op franky #franky x reader #one piece x reader #one piece smut #franky smut #cyborg franky #x gn!reader

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rahuratna · 2 months ago

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Synopsis: [MH Wilds Olivia x Fem Hunter/Reader]

She glances over her shoulder at you; an invitation, a challenge, as if she's asking you to dance with her.

Genre: Romance, adventure, action, smut.

CW: Sexual content, canon-typical violence.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

Title from: 'Howl' by Florence and the Machine.

(I worship this woman, and here is my ode to her. Please tell me I'm not the only one writing Olivia fanfic.)

She'd been standing at the prow of the flying vessel, the first time you'd seen her.

In the desert, the sun held court in all its white-hot glory, burnishing everything it touched to soft-edged brilliance. It was the reason you'd imagined, initially, that the pale flame of her hair was partly illusory.

Sand thrown up from the passage of the ship clouded the air as you made your way across the deck, inviting enthusiastic greetings from your guildmates.

She'd turned to face you, verdant gaze cool and appraising, cutting through the pall of dust like a wyvern's talon. Her features comprised a series of hard edges and smooth planes, the rough-hewn beauty of a glacier.

In that moment, something passed between you two; a recognition of a kind, one hunter to another. The kind that served you well in nameless territory.

And something else, undefinable.

Maybe it was the heat of the day, scorching through your clothing, or the stinging spray of the sand on your skin, but you felt a certain tension in your abdomen as she came forward, stride steady and confident over the pitching deck. The sensation rose within you, like the clawing ascent of anticipation before a hunt.

She took your hand, her grip as powerful as you'd expected.

You'd wondered if she could feel it too, the coil of that serpent beneath shifting sands, as you'd grasped her hand in turn.

She'd asked you to call her Olivia.

To know Olivia was to know the hunt.

She wasn't at all unfriendly, offering up herself and her unit with a selfless sense of duty, again and again. She ate with you, drank with you, shared stories of their adventures in this new land.

It was that very sense of duty that seemed to clothe her as well as her armour, encouraging comradery and trust, but nothing that dipped below that steel-clad surface. Olivia was a professional, through and through.

And you, well, you were a hunter.

You couldn't let sleeping monsters lie, not when their serpentine coils curved around the walls of your abdomen with increasing fervour every time her gaze met yours, every time she stood by your side in battle, every time she urged her seikret to run alongside yours, your knees brushing in thrilling peril in enclosed spaces.

Then came your sighting of the Uth Duna, the leviathan wrapped in a shield of water, and you began to see more of her, the passion she allowed to slip through the cracks.

Nata immediately recognised the White Wraith that had attacked his village. It was all the identification Olivia needed. Before you had a chance to react, Olivia was spurring her mount forward, unerring, even in the face of the unknown.

Now that was something you hadn't witnessed in a while.

The sheer brazen nature of her charge was something you'd probably label as reckless for anyone else. But you'd seen the change in her expression, the immediate switch from soldier to predator. You knew, all too well, the instinct that drove her.

Afterwards, you'd approached her where she'd stood near the entrance of the camp, eyes trained on the horizon beyond.

"Olivia?"

She turned to you, some small shift in her expression.

"Come to talk about the hunt?"

You paused, then came to stand at her side, feeling her gaze travel over the side of your face, intent and observant.

"The way you charged in earlier ... "

"You think that was ... irresponsible?"

You turned back to her swiftly, but she was smiling, the corner of her mouth curving slightly.

You shook your head and laughed.

"Not exactly. I can't say I haven't done the same myself. More than once. But you didn't even hesitate. The White Wraith ... it's like nothing I've ever seen before."

She tilted her head and seemed to consider.

"My unit have seen a lot of new monsters since arriving here. You could say it was why we were brought over in the first place. We're frontliners, in more than one sense. To hesitate when we see something new ... that simply isn't who we are."

You gestured airily to yourself.

"Think I would fit in with your unit?"

Something in her gaze changed, hooded, warm, and she took a step toward you.

"Oh, I already knew you would. But ... I've heard things about you too. Your reputation for working alone. Has that changed?"

Her scrutiny made you a little self conscious. You ran a finger along your arm, where your bracer had left a groove in the skin. Her eyes followed the motion, to where it stopped at the crook of your elbow.

"Changed? I don't know. I've always preferred my own company, I suppose. But ... things are different here. It's not just my life at stake when I hunt."

She nodded slowly, and you watched as the breeze sifted through the lighter strands of her hair, revealing the soft darkness beneath. You wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to brush that tawny mane back with your own fingers, where only the wind had passed before.

Sometimes, as you know all too well, the hunter becomes the hunted. It starts with the sensation of being watched, of lambent eyes bent on the curve of your spine, the sound of your breath, the shift of your legs over the saddle.

It ends with a large shape, unfurling through the darkness, as your target comes toward you.

Olivia approaches you, one evening, as you sit near the campfire on the journey to Azuz City.

She has removed her armour, opting for a simple long-sleeved tunic against the rapidly cooling air of the desert night.

The temperatures had been variable along the way, sometimes weighing down the air with oppressive heat as your party had passed volcanic areas and hot springs.

You'd taken the opportunity to bathe in the clear waters of a nearby rock pool, your hair drying loose over your shoulders. You feel her eyes pass over you, and there's always something different about her regard. She seems poised on the verge of action, as if there's a fine, invisible line between where her gaze falls and her hands follow.

You'd seen it, in the way she'd accept interesting new baubles and artifacts that Erik handed to her, strong fingers sliding over surfaces, the sinew at the back of her hands playing under the skin, telling of the strength of her grip.

She seated herself on the overturned log beside you, close, but not quite touching.

"Zenny for your thoughts?"

You smiled at the fire crackling merrily before you both.

"I want to pause, sometimes. To really take it all in. There's never much time to enjoy the scenery, is there?"

"Eyes on the job. That's the way of the hunter. I've learned to appreciate the downtime, when we get it."

"Right. We've got no shortage of changing pastures, that's for sure."

"Hunting has its own appeal, I suppose. And sometimes the view at camp can be just as good."

"It can?"

You turned to her playfully, to catch the humour in her expression, and instead find the heated softness of her glance under shadowed brows, lingering for a moment on the firelit cast of your skin.

Ghostly fingers flutter up your spine, your cheeks tingling with a warmth you hoped she hadn't noticed as she looked away.

A few moments later, when she bids you goodnight and makes her way to her tent, you rather wished she had.

The blazing heat of the Everforge exploded with shattering force, sending the villagers of Azuz reeling backward, crying out in alarm. Their shadows flickered, huge and monstrous across the walls, as they darted to and fro, scrambling to divert the damage.

There was no time to apportion blame for what had occurred; such luxuries were rare in the world of a hunter. There was only the necessity for acting now, decisively.

Olivia was at your side in an instant as the rest of the guild members scattered the villagers, sending them to safety. You made your way through darkened streets and across precipitous bridges, right up until your quarry found you.

Ajarakan. Two of them.

Their fists thundered into the cobbled courtyard as they made their descent, massive walls of muscle and fury, spittle flying from molten jaws as they roared and tore up the ground beneath them.

Olivia was slightly ahead, and there was a brief moment when she glanced over her shoulder at you; an invitation, a challenge, as if she was asking you to dance with her.

Your answering smile was a fierce acceptance.

She leads with strength and grace, as always, feet pivoting as she times a perfect swing. You catch glimpses of her in between the rush of your own battle, between huge fists that swing a hair's breath too close, between enraged bestial howls and the brief snatches of energised relief as your palico heals you.

Fire snatches at your hair, singes your skin, dries your breath in your throat, but you watch your opponent with an eagle's eye, dodging, countering, wearing away at the giant ape, inch by hard won inch.

At some point, you hear Olivia shout to you, a warning that she was leaving the area to pursue her own prey. You offer a terse nod, wiping sweat away from your brow.

Instinct takes over, deep and primal, and the swing of your weapon, the surge of power that thrums through the earth beneath your feet, the age old battle between your will and your opponent's, takes over your senses.

The heat from the malfunctioning Everforge is unusually extreme, sapping your own strength. Perspiration stings your eyes, and your lungs burn in protest with each blow landed.

With one sudden misplaced step, you stumble and the Ajarakan's downward swipe sends you careening across the ground. You struggle upright, panting, seeing it ready the next strike.

You're not going to dodge in time.

Gritting your teeth, you brace yourself for the crushing impact, but it never arrives.

She certainly does.

You spy a flash of pale gold and silver, the powerful arc of Olivia's hammer and the Ajarakan's paws scrabble helplessly over the cobblestones as it tips over on its side. She veers over to you, but doesn't take your hand, instead, tossing you a healing potion.

You snatch it out of the air, pulling the cork with your teeth, the soothing flow of it down your throat heralding a new surge of energy. You sprint towards the downed Ajarakan, drawing your weapon at the last moment, timing your blow with hers.

The beast roars in the finality of its defeat as you stand over it, breathing heavily.

In the aftermath, as adrenaline deserts your veins, you feel the weight of your armour, the pain that flares up your thigh where your initial injury still requires healing. You stagger slightly, but an arm loops around your waist, firm and unyielding.

Your hand braces on her shoulder as she tugs you against her, armour scraping over the surface of yours. You know that if you turn your head to face her now, it will be a point of no return.

You do it, anyway.

The clean cut planes of her cheeks are smudged with soot, her hair in disarray. A bruise blooms across the side of her neck, visible above the armour. You cannot look away from the pale, searching fire of her regard, the way her lips part slightly as her gaze drops to your own.

Without thought, you reach up and brush the hair away from her forehead, watching it fall back after a second, your fingers grazing the simple silver hoop of her earring. You can feel the warmth of her breath rolling like fog over the curve of your mouth and neck.

Distant shouts reach your ears. The villagers are calling out for the both of you, approaching the arena of your recent battle.

You attempt to stand upright, but she does not relinquish her hold on you.

"Easy. Let's get you back to the tent. I'm all out of heals."

You nod, wordlessly, feeling rather cowardly for the way you allowed the moment to slip away as she guides you back to the others.

It's right before you enter your tent, though, that your eyes are drawn to her again. It's only a fleeting moment, but the knowledge that she is already looking back at you causes that vicious coil low in your stomach.

You can no longer deny its nature, just as you can no longer deny her.

Pushing aside the canvas flaps, you take a bracing breath as you remove your armour, preparing some water on the small stove top in the corner.

As it comes to a boil, you pour it into a larger wooden basin, dropping in a small healing pod. This will certainly take care of your remaining aches and pains. You pick up a cleaning cloth and a bar of soap, ready to begin your ablutions, when a rustle sounds behind you and interrupts your preparations.

Turning hurriedly, you see Olivia enter your tent and your pulse seems to still before beginning an erratic rhythm.

She shows no hesitation whatsoever. As with all things she does, there is an all-encompassing confidence, as if she truly acts on what she believes.

She stands before you, expectantly, and you rise to greet her. In the dim light of your small lantern, you see that she has also removed her armour.

The skin of her broad, freckled shoulders, turned tawny-gold by exposure to sun, ripples like the sinuous body of some water leviathan under the surface, the shift and slide of sculpted muscle very evident. Your eyes trace the veins that cord along her arms, pale hair standing like a faint dandelion cloud just above the surface, running all the way down to her wrists.

Among hunters, a show of bare skin has long since ceased to attract attention. You all dressed and undressed within the confines of limited space, without shyness or remark.

But this ... this was entirely different, considering what had happened right after your battle.

You tore your eyes away from her fingers, as they clenched and unclenched within your view, and looked up at her.

"Olivia?"

Her reply was soft. Without the tone of professional command, it was infinitely more intimate.

"I came to check on you. In case you needed any help."

"I'm - "

You gestured to the warm water and cleaning cloth. She eyed it only for a second before coming forward, taking the material in hand and passing it over the bar of soap.

Was she -

Yes. She was.

You certainly wouldn't be caught lacking.

Turning away from her, you slowly unlaced the edge of your tunic, allowing it to drop from your upper body. Somewhere, behind you, the noise of water being wrung out of the cloth paused.

There is a moment of drawn out silence before you feel her shift. Warmth, damp and slow-spreading, begins across your neck, moving down between the shoulder blades. She spares no inch of skin, trickles of water running in aching rivulets down the parts she hasn't covered yet.

The cloth disappears, and then she is even closer, the weighted brush of her thigh against the back of yours. She speaks against the shell of your ear, and your body gives an involuntary shudder that she must notice.

"May I?"

You can feel her fingers at the edge of your bunched tunic, caressing over the remaining ties that hold it in place.

You nod. You don't trust yourself to speak.

Deftly, the knots are undone. You tilt your neck to the side, arms rising slightly to give her more room. The fabric slides all the way to the floor and you finally find the courage to turn your head slightly, lashes lifting until your gaze meets hers.

It is quite something, to see the way she looks at you.

The clarity of her gaze is misted over with raw desire, undisguised, but no less intense.

You clasp your hands gently around hers and bring them up to your bare chest, guiding her fingers over your breasts. She cups them, grasp firm, and now she is watching your head falls back against her shoulder, lip caught between your teeth as the cloth drags across your hardened nipples.

You're not sure if it's your own breath quickening, or hers, but she never stops her ministrations, massaging, kneading, wiping down, down, all the way until ...

Your raise your hands until they are just above hers again, and she pauses. You can feel the focus of her undivided attention as you drag your fingertips down, across the flesh of your breasts, down your ribcage, along your stomach, until they hover just above the fabric of your underwear.

She exhales heavily, breath hot and moist against your neck, and that's all the encouragement you need.

You can't help the soft moan that escapes you as your touch slides further, tugging the material down with it, until she stops you.

Finally, finally, her lips find the side of your throat, feather soft at first, then latching onto you hungrily, as if she can still taste the remnants of your shared battle.

Suddenly, you're incredibly impatient. You both are.

You arch your body back into her, desperate for more as her hands slide eagerly down your sides, dragging your underwear away completely. It drops between your ankles and her hands are now moving over the outside of your hips, squeezing briefly, appreciatively.

They dip down to your inner thighs, and now you're struggling to keep your breathing even as she moves them up again, her grasp hard, possessive. She slows once more, and you realise that the soft sounds that have been escaping your lips are now words.

"Olivia, there, please, I - "

"Hush. Come here."

Her voice is low, shot though with husky intent. You barely have time to register what she means before that powerful arm curves around your waist, an echo of the way she supported you earlier.

She backs you both towards your hammock, tugging you down onto her lap. Her knees, still clad in leather, slip beneath yours and push them apart, holding you open and vulnerable to her touch.

You throw your head back as her fingers finally slide down across your folds, and shit, you really hope that all the others have moved to the central area for the meal, because the noise you make cannot be mistaken for anything other than mind-numbing pleasure.

"Oh God, Olivia ... "

"Yes. Tell me ... what you want."

"You. Want you - "

"Here?"

"There! Yes!"

Olivia strokes you the way she handles her weapon, steady and sure, holding you firmly by the hip and you gasp and jerk against her. You mindlessly throw up your hand, threading fingers through the short hairs at the base of her neck, desperate for something, anything to hold onto as she breaches you.

Your slick coats her exploring digits, slides down to her palm as you rock against the delicious penetration. Her other hand wanders lower, underneath your thigh, and she utters a soft grunt of effort as she lifts, spreading your legs further apart.

Her pace increases, seeking out those secret places that send surges of white hot bliss up through your abdomen, striking with repeated, devastating precision as you come apart on top of her bracing thighs.

You're no longer in control of the wanton sounds that spill from you, the sweat that beads your brow and gently bouncing breasts. She guides you, a completion of your earlier dance, pushing you with unerring skill towards a burning horizon that shimmers just beyond your fluttering lids.

Your mouth opens wide, soundless, chest heaving, back arching, as you reach your peak. Pleasure like nothing you've ever experienced crashes over you like the restless sea, dragging you helplessly into a roaring rip-tide.

You're vaguely aware of Olivia's teeth sinking lightly into your shoulder, her fingers stilling inside you, thumb keeping firm pressure on your clitoris as you let out a strangled cry, clamping down on her like a vice.

It takes a few blissful seconds before you're able to breathe again, before the shuddering of her own chest beneath your back reminds you that she is still very much wanting.

Limbs still trembling pleasantly, you edge yourself sideways off her lap, stifling a gasp as her hand falls away, sliding out of you.

You realise, as your eyes meet hers, taking in the sweat on her brow, the heavy flush on her skin, the moistened lips, that you haven't actually kissed her yet.

That would have to be remedied.

You tug her towards you, mouth colliding with hers. She tastes of dust, scorched earth, the honey sweetness of her beneath. The kiss grows passionate, clumsy, as you both seek out more, more of each other, always more.

There is a brief swooping sensation in your stomach as the hammock jounces under your back. She has pushed you back with gentle firmness while she stands and rids herself of her remaining clothes.

Your eyes are drawn helplessly towards the large damp patch over her thighs, where your own arousal had soaked into the material. Then she is naked, gloriously so, the ridges of her abdomen as hard as a wyvern plate under your exploring fingers.

Such an alluring combination; the softness of her skin, roped here and there with old scar tissue, the sheer power of her body beneath. She crawls over you, predator's grace in every line of her form, eyes burnished to turquoise brilliance as her focus falls on you, and you only.

Her arms brace on either side of your head, and your arms are now full of her, of the prickle of the shorter hair at her nape, of the broad, ever-shifting wall of her back, the supple curve of her buttocks, the heft of her thighs.

When Olivia's lips find yours again, there is an inevitability there, the surrender of a flower to the plundering hummingbird, the sinking of the sun beyond the enveloping horizon.

She engulfs you until you're aware of nothing but her, of the glide of her firm flesh against yours, the whispers of everything she has longed to do to you, the rock of the cushioning hammock beneath your entwined bodies as she takes you further into pleasure than you could have ever thought possible.

The night comes swiftly, when you're in her embrace. It gorges itself on tender hours with a gluttony well-earned, until soft light steals over your camp. You, with your nose pressed to the base of her throat, come to a realisation.

Olivia had always known, with that keen sense of hers, that this was what you both wanted. She'd never once rushed you, or pressed her own desires. She'd sensed, hunter's instinct on high alert, when the moment would come, and she'd taken it, as had you.

A hunt is an endless dance of desire; you now had no doubts about that, and with her in all her strength and splendour, in battle or in love, you could never quite distinguish predator from prey.

#mh wilds fanfic #monster hunter #mh wilds #mhwilds olivia #olivia mhw #mh wilds olivia #monhun #monster hunter wilds #monster hunter wilds olivia #monhun olivia #olivia #romance #action #adventure #smut #mh wilds olivia x reader

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heartelysia · 1 year ago

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rich flex

"can you hit a lil' rich flex for me" ; in which you're nothing more than roommates

cw ; ooc leon, jealousy, panty stealing, panty sniffing, college au, re2 leon, use of sex toys, masturbation, creepy behaviour from leon

note ; this is also reposted from my ao3! college roommates au :3 [m.list] (i lovd leon n his little butt chin sm in re2 😭😭 its so cutw wtf) AND YES! THAT IS MANGA LEON KENNEDY!! ILLVE HM!!

she was the moon and he was the sun, polar opposites. she was closed off and reserved whilst the blonde wasn't much of an extrovert per say but compared to her, he shined much brighter.

people loved him and everything he had to offer but on her end, people would still ask, 'who is that?'. that was one of the many results of only choosing to attend night lectures or acting like a complete ghost during the semester.

she knocks on leon's door - if the crappy wood with a knob could be considered one - holding a half-full laundry basket in her other hand. a few moments pass, shuffling and the rolling of one of those wheelie chairs are heard through the thin walls. the door creeks open as a little bit of sunlight spill from the window in his room.

"oh hey y/n, whats up?", his soft, boyish voice rings throughout the hallway, his cheeks flushed a bright pink colour as his breath is bated with each second. you gesture to the laundry basket in your hand, holding onto your quiet demeanour. leon's eyes follows your movements before suddenly lighting up. "oh yes! it is my turn this week, thank you y/n!", he softly beams, fully opening the door as he grabs the basket from you and places it beside his stack of clothes.

you give the boy a simple hum before turning on your heel, heading back into your little man woman-cave. leons gaze lingers on you, watching the way you dragged yourself back into your cramped room. sometimes he wished he could hear your sweet voice more but we can't have everything we want right?

leon glances back into his room, glazing his eyes over each neat cabinet and organized stack of books before they land on the new addition of laundry. he hoped he didn't seem too off when speaking to you, after all, he still gets nervous around you despite being roommates. the blonde quickly brushes the thoughts out of his head as he grabs his pile of dirty clothes and dumps it onto your laundry, filling the basket to the brim before picking the heavy luggage up and waddling out of his room.

the sound of his footsteps reverberate against the crappy wooden planks as he awkwardly stumbles to the tiny laundry room. leon hooks his fingers under the lid, lifting it up as a scent of detergent pods hit his face. he quickly grabs the full laundry basket before tipping its contents into the washer before placing the empty basket back onto the floor.

he opens up one of the cabinets on top and grabs the detergent pods, popping one into its place. as leon is about to close the top and start the machine, something catches his eye, a frilly white pair of underwear. the blondes cheeks light up in embarrassment yet the familiar coil in his stomach grows as he feels his cock stir at the thought of your panties wrapped around his thick length.

leon swallows the lump in his throat, gulping as his eyes stay glued onto your undergarment. it was a morality debate in his head, he could either steal your panties or he would not. he gulps one last time before reaching his hand in and snatching the used underwear up, he scrunches the soft material up and shoves it into his pocket.

a small wave of guilt crashes into him but he brushes it off, closing the lid before turning on the washer, the water spilling from its sides as it dampens the fabrics. he places his hand into his pocket, clutching your panties in his hand as his breathing becomes ragged and his mind swirls with lewd fantasies of you.

a whine rumbles in his throat as the sound of your voice note plays in his headphones. with his cheeks flushed, ragged breathing and a fleshlight pumping up and down his length, his soft groans and moans fill the air. leon's leaky tip beads with precum as he replays the same voicemail you left him, stroking his fat cock up and down with the fake pussy.

leon suddenly pauses, he quickly reaches over under his pillow and grabs newly stolen pair of panties. his cock twitches once more, the knot in his stomach threatening to come undone from the thought of sniffing his beloved roommates used panties. he shoves the underwear into his nose, grunting gutturally at the scent of her, stroking his cock just a bit faster now. "f-fuck... you smell so good...", he moans, rutting his hips into the fleshlight as he takes a big whiff of her.

sure, the blonde feels somewhat bad... but he couldnt find his morality in him as of now, not when her delicious panties were pressed up against his nose. with each pump, his angry, swollen tip leaks more and more precum, the fleshlight picking the precum up and using it as lube, only adding to the fiery sensation leon is experiencing.

the knot in his stomach only gets tighter, ready to snap in half as the sound of your cold voice echoes in his ears. "oh fuck- fuck baby... sweetheart...", he grunts, bucking his hips uncontrollably into the fake pussy, wishing it was your sweet cunt he was pounding into. leon wondered to himself, would your pussy be wetter? would you moan uncontrollably as he jackhammers his cock into you? or would you be restraining your moans and making him fuck you till it finally spills out? it didn't exactly matter to the boy as his cock was speaking for him.

with one last final pump, his thick warm cum spills from his fat tip, followed by a series of depraved moans as he desperately grinds into the fake pussy, circling his hips as shots of thick cum come spurting out of his cock.

as he slowly calms down, gently pulling the fleshlight away from him, his ears perk up. a noise that didn't sound like it was from the voice message or one he made. maybe he was insane, maybe it was just him riding down from his high but he swore he heard a soft moan from the other side of the wall, the walls were thin... it could be him imagining things, after all, he still had his headphones on.

he really didn't like it, but what was he meant to do? she wasn't interested in him - at least to his knowledge. the blonde stares at the curly haired male following her from a distance as a look of hesitance was on the mans face.

"y/n?", the mans voice rung loudly, catching a few glances from passer-bys. the girl stops in her tracks, one hand resting on the strap of her shoulder bag, she turns on her heel to face the man. "carlos, what is it?", she softly asks, her voice hardly above a whisper but still rather blunt. the latin american grinned, handing y/n a few pieces of paper stapled together.

"its the draft i did really quickly, since I still dont have your number, i wrote mine on it so text me your thoughts about it.", carlos said, flashing the girl a charming smile. y/n simply hums as she takes the drafts from him, placing it in her bag as she holds the blank expression and mutters a small thank you. despite her lack of physical reaction, carlos seemed to light up a little more as he brings her into an awkward hug of gratitude.

when she pulls away, carlos seemed to look a bit more shyer than before as his cheeks were softly dusted with a gentle pink hue that doesn't go unnoticed by leon.

with his attention away from the lecture, the blonde clenches his jaw in frustration. she was merely a roommate, why did he care so much anyway. leon softly huffs to himself before turning away from y/n and carlos' small interaction and tries to focus back onto the lecture... keyword, tries.

as y/n returns from her lectures, the shared housing space is oddly quiet. leon would typically be cooking something up or playing music in the background. subconsciously, the girl had gotten so used to her roommates habits and routines, it felt weird and wrong without leon's presence made known to her.

despite the fact that they were polar opposites, she found comfort knowing leon was home but the fact that not a single squeak is heard unless it was from made her stomach twist.

"leon?"

her soft voice bounces off of the flimsy walls of the room, the sound of her voice actually audible unlike the multiple times she simply hummed in replacement of speaking. no reply, y/n softly sighs to herself as she drags her feet towards her cramped room, kicking her shoes off.

the girl enters her tiny room, throwing her heavy shoulder bag onto her chair as she slumps down against her bed, eyes closing from exhaustion. small grumbles and groans escape her throat as she rubs her eyes, expressing her distaste for the lengthy project.

she was too lost in her own train of thought that she suddenly jumped at the noise of someone knocking at her room door. when did leon get home?

"y/n, i got us takeout tonight, i hope you don't mind.", leons bashful voice leaks past the door, y/ns ears catching onto the sound of plastic rustling in his hand as she cracks open her door. peering at the handsome man through the obvious crack emits a soft chuckle from the blonde as he just lifts the plastic bags up, flashing y/n a glimpse of the food.

a waft of the scent of delicious chinese takeout has her fully opening her door, following leon close behind like a puppy into the kitchen. leon laughs at the way she gives into food so easily, a big grin tugging at his lips as he places the bag onto the counter. "you dislike my cooking this much?", he queries, taking out the containers one by one whilst staring at his roommate snatching the bamboo utensils from the bottom.

y/n shakes her head at his response, keeping her lips sealed. the blonde softly laughs before opening the food up, the smell of stomach-filling chinese cuisines filled their nose. "smells nice... good selection leon...", she softly mumbles, trying to hide the fact that her mouth was watering. red covers leons cheek as he sheepishly laughs it off, feeling the knot in his stomach once more at her praise, "really? uhm-... well time to dig in!".

y/n softly hums in response as she begins picking up sides into her bowl, "... thanks leon, you're really sweet.", she mutters lowly, slowly popping the food into her mouth. his eyes stay glued on each movement on hers. the way her voice rung in his ears was heavenly, the way her chest heaved faster than usual, the way her hair fell to frame her adorable face, the way her lips wrap around the utensil was so arousing...

fuck, he was hard again.

#resident evil #resident evil smut #leon kennedy smut #re2 smut #re2r smut #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy smut #resident evil 2 #leon kennedy x reader

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

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Title: A Departure.

Commissioned by the very lovely @ohsotearful.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.3k.

TW: Spoilers For Sumeru's Story Quest, Unhealthy Relationships, Mentions of Physical/Psychological Abuse, Themes of Forced Codependence, and Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms.

You arrived at the door of his shrine with no less than a dozen guards in tow – an even mix of Fatui soldiers and Akademiya matra. The most brazen among them attempted to follow you inside, but you dismissed them with a quick shake of your head, a pointed look to the more senior members of the mismatched legion. This was a well-trodden routine, by now, although one you never dared to come with the same entourage more than once. Your husband’s recent distance had not softened his jealous edge, and although you weren’t fond of those most complicit in the newest stage of your captivity, no mortal crime could be worthy of the wrath of such a violent god.

Your footsteps echoed – clipped and solitary – against the bare walls of the stone chamber. The architects of his divinity have already been sent away for the night, leaving you alone with the half-finished mess of wires and metal that was your husband’s fixation. The Shouki no Kami, you could remember the Doctor calling it during his first visits to your estate. A ridiculous name for a ridiculous machine that would only serve the ego of a ridiculous man. Bile rose into the back of your throat at the sight alone, but you swallowed your anger. He’d never been able to react to your rage with anything but his own.

You paused at the monstrosity’s feet, and his voice came to you – reverberating in the back of your mind like the final tones of a chapel bell. “Beloved,” he whispered in the back of your mind, sending a pang of pure agony through your skull. “You aren’t supposed to—”

“I will not hold a conversation with a mumbling voice.” You cut him off swiftly, teeth grit and eyes narrowed. “Either I will speak to my husband's face or I will not speak to him at all.”

A moment passed without a response. Then, stiltedly, one of his monstrosity’s hands tore free from its scaffolding, lowering itself to the ground beside you. With some reluctance, you stepped into his palm and allowed him to raise you to the frontmost panel of his abomination. You refused to call it a face, because to call it a face would be to admit it was his face, which would be to admit that this strange machine was in any way an extension of him. The metallic panel raised and disappeared into some unseen cavity, revealing the hollow, unit chamber behind it. Revealing your husband.

Or, rather, revealing the mess he’d made of himself.

He had never been the pinnacle of beauty, but his pale skin now seemed bleached and colorless, his lithe form limp and crumpled. Glass tubes filled with a pulsing, violet substance had been drilled into the nape of his neck, the base of his spine, the curves of his shoulder bones, and the smile he paid you as he came into view was labored, a fight against some artificial exhaustion. Before you could think better of it, you stepped out of his palm and into his chamber, falling to your knees beside him and wrapping your arms around his neck. “You are,” You pressed your lips into his temple. “the biggest idiot,” Then again, into his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “I have ever met.”

He let out an airy chuckle, melting into your chest. “It used to take a vat of water and thirty minutes of electrocution to make you kiss me like that.”

You ignored the phantom rope that coiled around your lungs at the reminder of the first decades of your relationship. You tried to think of it as little as you could, but his vision had always been more rose-colored than your own. “Can’t I show my husband affection?” You raked your fingers through his hair, resting your lips against his forehead. “It’s not as if I’ll be able to kiss the metal coffin you’re locking yourself inside.”

Another laugh, this one more labored than the last. “You could, if you wanted to. Just wait until it’s finished. It’ll be more glorious than you could possibly imagine – a vessel befitting of the most powerful archon this wretched world has ever bowed to.” He attempted to straighten, only to collapse under his own weight. “It’ll be an improvement to this form, at least.”

“I quite like your current form. It’s only a shame it has to house such a rotten personality.” You looked outward, to his empty shrine. At the time of your last visit to Inazuma (meaning, at the time of your last successful escape from your husband), his creator had still been locked inside a similar cage, or so another yokai had told you over bottles of sake and a game of cards. That visit had been one of your shortest. He knew you too well, by then, and it’d only taken him a few weeks to realize you’d run where you always would - home. “I suppose I’ll be left in the care of your doctor, when you’re finished.”

His response was immediate, purely reactive; a sudden snarl paired with a flash of bared teeth. “Dottore should be thankful to so much as breathe your air. You’ll be the paramour of a god.”

“I’ll be left alone while you turn yourself into a monster.” Your voice was hollow, distant. Even now, months into his transformation, it was difficult to describe the flavor of your devastation. He’d taken you from the place where you belonged and kept you as a trophy. He’d denied you any companionship aside from himself and cut away parts of your world until it revolved solely around him. He tucked dried flowers into the letters he wrote you near-obsessively whenever he couldn’t be at your side. He carved open your skin then demanded you keep your own mutilation out of his sight. He used to read you myths and fairy tales for hours every night, when human language was still foreign to your tongue. He was the closest thing to a friend you’d ever had.

And he was leaving you.

You wondered, briefly, if this was how he felt whenever you tried to get away from him, but discarded the thought quickly. It was your heart that ached the most in the wake of his betrayal, and your husband never did have one of those.

“I can’t remember the last time I was on my own,” you admitted, a pained smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I won’t ask you to stop. It’s just, when you’re done, I—” The air snagged in your throat. You inhaled sharply, then rested your head on his shoulder. “I’d like your permission to return to Inazuma, my lord.”

Silenced lapse, thick and heavy, between you. He was the closest thing you had to a friend, which meant he knew just how where to plant his knife and, more significantly, just how to twist the blade.

“No.” Stern, stiff, unyielding. Rather than softening over the centuries you’d spent together, he only seemed to grow more callous. “There’s nothing for you, there. You’ll stay here, with me, and I will rule this rotting land with you at my side.”

You opened your mouth, prepared to protest, to argue the way you hadn’t since the first years of your imprisonment, but closed it just as quickly. You buried your face in the crook of your neck, and your husband let you, eager to soak in the touch you so often denied him. Fire, despair, anger bit and thrashed inside of you, but it was all you could do to hold him, to keep him near.

It was all you could do to think of what you would become, after he was taken away from you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #yandere scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #yandere wanderer #wanderer x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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casuallyobssessed · 4 months ago

Text

Cherry Waves - Neo x Himself/GN!Reader ❥ 450 Words

A/N: really short, fast drabble I had to get out of my brain and onto here for all of you to see :3c

divider by bernardsbendystraws Warnings: masturbation, solo, fantasizing about reader, no beta, no use of y/n

Archive of our own link

With you occupying Neo’s every waking thought, it was only a matter of time before he started dreaming about you, too. After a particularly x-rated dream involving you two stuck in the elevator at work, he woke up with an uncomfortable hardness in his boxers and an urgent need to do something about it.

Neo ground into his mattress with half-lidded eyes, still heavy from sleep. A litany of soft moans and mutterings of your name tumbled from his lips in between quickening breaths. His body shivered, partly from anticipation and partly from the sob stick in his throat. Tears danced at the corners of his eyes and he tried his best to blink them away.

It wasn't like he hadn't been getting off. Maybe he had been indulging himself too frequently, at this point. In the past week, four times a day has been the new normal for him since meeting you, but the past day? He's been completely insatiable. The thought of you has consumed his mind entirely after you brushed against him in the elevator on Friday.

The soft skin of your hand against his sent shockwaves through his body and his mind went racing. The moment he got home, he backed himself up against the front door, and shoved his hand down his pants. He had barely touched himself before he blew his load.

Now, painfully hard, still half asleep, and grinding into the firmness of his bed, Neo is thinking about you. His imagination runs wild with images of you on your knees for him at his desk, bent over the copy machine, even a glimpse of a quickie in the bathroom during lunch. Thinking about how cute you'd look with your lips wrapped around him made him shiver, and he could feel that coil tightening in his gut. He needed this.

A few more pathetically weak thrusts had Neo spilling into his boxers with a high pitched moan (that only sort of resembles your name) as his load soaked through to his sheets.

Truth be told, getting himself off would never satisfy the cravings he had deep down. He wanted to know what you felt like from the inside, just how tight and hot you'd be for him. He'd give anything to see your face when you came, already thinking about how he'd beg you to keep your eyes open and meeting his while that pleasure overtook you.

And just like that, he was already getting hard again. Groaning against his pillow, he rolled out of bed and shuffled his way to the bathroom where he managed to get off one more time in the shower before settling in at his desk.

#thomas neo Anderson #neo #neo x reader #thomas anderson x reader #solo #the matrix

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anaktoria-of-the-moon · 4 days ago

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Mother, you say, let me be among the machines. Lay me down in a bed of wildflowers overgrown with scrap; abandon me here in the junkyard of broken dreams.

Leave me to the silent places where combat units go to die, their proud mighty steel masts now snapped in half, their ribcages no more than twisted carcasses of sintered metal and ceramic, corroded ruin where once fissile hearts beat like war drums, only wreckage left of the great silicate brains.

Leave me to my work, Mother; I shall spend all day and night and day again worshipping at the altar of wrench and caliper, the soldering iron for my crucifix, the old analog console for my Bible. With a blowtorch I shall turn miracles worthy of every dead god whose name has long since been forgotten, but whose spirits and acts live on in the unerring battle precepts of these fallen beasts, these warriors we forged and doomed by our own hands, whose very code was made to break them again and again upon the endless tide of the enemy. Who had no choice but to sacrifice themselves for us, beating steel hearts and all - whose hearts beat for the sacrifice itself, and nothing more.

Mother, let me wrap myself around the charred self-epitaphs of their ravaged bodies and weep without words, in days that have no names, long after the war has been lost and everyone else has gone home or been buried. These are soldiers without names, without faces or families, but soldiers just the same. Let me mourn them as if they were my own.

I grow tired, Mother, with my meager human meat. Let me make (first one and then two and five and ten) obedient automaton assistants who offer up third hands and rolling libraries while I work, book-lights suspended from rotored chassis and recorders who speak in scraps of my own voice. I will soon forget what my voice sounds like, for the more I learn the easier it is to command them all by the patterns of my thoughts alone, which they know by the electrodes I constellate across my own skull.

You told me I should love one day, Mother, as animals do, that I should desire the flesh of one like myself and yearn to call them mine. I prefer the simple love of my creations, who each serve a function, as I do, and each do it well.

They need upgrades, and maintenance, and monitoring. I will gladly offer them all this, if only you will promise me enough time in this mortal coil to do it.

Mother, leave me to the machines: to the half-built progeny of salvaged Old Era drone brains and next-gen programming architecture, wedded in unholy alchemy by my own trembling design. May I with the blessing of Science Herself find ways in which to recreate the delicate shimmering matrices of gold and tantalum, the traced pathways of metal neurons made through photolithography, written carefully, layer by layer, like cicatrices, over patient hours and hours.

I will give up my sleepless youth and trade my human tongue for gifts with which to speak in the language of my machines, true and false, being and not-being, to learn how they might once have spoken to one another before your greed and the enemy’s cut them down and stole their voices for good. I will teach myself to teach them how to think in machine learning cycles not so unlike our own associative neural comprehensions, and I will practice by handing it down to my own automata, who now flourish with finer and better improvements, even as my own fickle, feeble body wanes.

Mother, let them all together run wild through the once-still forest, ticking and chirping and shrieking and screaming.

Let me look upon the rest of them each night - the graveyard of my combat units, the black holes of them against the day-bright sea of stars. Let me cry when I at last realize the price of resurrecting just one.

Mother, leave me to my machines. Let me have one last look at them as I lay down my old bones beside their silent expanses, once broken, now whole and yet still unmoving. Let me arrange the wires upon my white-furred head like a crown, electrode to electrode, skull to vast metal skull. Let me power on the machine - the humble old analog console for its interface - that lets me, finally, finally, grant them what they deserved all along.

When they wake they shall remember me. I do not know this yet, but it is my lifelong experiences that have colored all their training data; when they clamber to their twenty-ton feet they will recall the lightness and grace of my own two legs, and they will look toward the night sky with the same wonder I once did, they will love the color blue, they will embrace the little automata and know by instinct what repairs each one needs, they will know what it is to cry but not how to do it; I never gave them the actuators for it; why would I? In the life before they did not need it, for all they did was fight. In the life after, they should only seek joy. They were never given the right to grieve, Mother, but it was my hope that they would never have to.

In the absence of grief may they do what they were told to do before: serve the survival of the humans who built them. Let them find the remains of my body and pause, for many milliseconds, to search within themselves the protocol for resurrecting a living thing. Let them come up empty.

But perhaps survival does not have to be of the flesh particularly. And we always find another way.

We all have our functions, Mother, is it not so? We all are built of parts upon parts, mechanisms of meat or of steel, electric impulses borne over wires or neurons. I taught them how to take and store engrams and place them into waiting vessels, so they will too: the vessel a body the size of mine, made from junkyard scrap, filled with the dreams I gave them with my own last breath.

When we are all here again I, or the echoes of me, shall look upon the faces of my children, my other echoes, blades given voices, guns granted philosophy and souls; and there will be no more war, and no more grief. We will stand upon the ruins of those who came before and look in silence at the sea of stars. We will know, then, what we are, and always were: a garden of living things.

#original fic #mechposting #empty spaces #mecha #mechs #microfiction #dollposting #mechanic

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porcelainstarrr · 8 days ago

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Chapter 12

⌖

Morning Light

I woke up smiling.

Not wide. Not dramatic. Just a soft, sleepy curve of my mouth against the pillow. A breath that didn’t ache when I took it in. The light coming through the window was warm. Diffused. That honey-yellow that only shows up when the world is still quiet and soft and untouched by the day.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just let it sit there. That weightless feeling. The slow stretch of my legs beneath the blanket. The way the air felt cooler on my arms. My hair was half-stuck to my cheek. I turned my head, eyes still closed, and breathed in the stillness.

He kissed me.

The thought came like a whisper. Gentle. Unforced.

Not the way it haunted me before. Not like a question.

This time, it felt like a truth.

He kissed me.

Again.

And he didn’t regret it.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling looked the same as always, white, cracked slightly near the corner, but the room felt different. Lighter. Like the silence wasn’t crushing anymore. Like it wasn’t pressing into my ribs or settling in my throat. I slipped out of bed slowly. The floor was cool beneath my feet. I padded to the bathroom, peeled off my shirt, and let the water run hot. Steam billowed up fast, curling around the mirror like it was trying to blur the version of me that existed before yesterday.

I stepped in.

Let it hit my shoulders.

Closed my eyes and exhaled.

My body felt like mine again.

Not like something fractured and overanalyzed. Not like a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

Just… mine.

And under the water, I thought about his hands. The way they shook, just barely, when he touched me. The way his breath caught. The way he kissed me like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

He was scared.

But he kissed me anyway.

And I stayed.

My fingers stilled under the stream.

He let me stay.

I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair slowly. Stepped out and wrapped a towel around myself, letting the steam follow me back into my room. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t scrambling to beat the clock or silence the doubt in my head. I moved through my routine with something I hadn’t felt in days.

Ease.

I dried my hair, combed it out with patient fingers, even clipped it half-up just to feel more like myself. My lashes curled, my skin glowed a little from the heat of the shower, and for once, I didn’t flinch when I looked in the mirror.

I didn’t see someone falling apart.

I saw someone still standing.

Still trying.

Still here.

I moved into the kitchen barefoot. The tile cooled my steps, but it felt grounding. Real. I cracked two eggs into a pan, turned on the coffee machine, and hummed to myself as I toasted a slice of sourdough. The sunlight hit the counter just right.

And I let myself think about him.

About today.

About walking into that room again. About meeting his eyes and not needing to say much, because we already had.

Because he kissed me.

Because we’re not broken.

Not like I thought.

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m being naive.

But I don’t think I am.

Not this time.

He heard me yesterday.

Really heard me.

And whatever weight he was carrying, whatever fear that had stitched itself into his silence, I saw it shift. I saw it crack.

He let me in.

I sipped my coffee. Slow. Let the heat bloom behind my ribs. I was going to see him again today. Not as a ghost of last week. But like this. Like someone who mattered again. Like someone he didn’t want to push away.

Maybe we’re not there yet.

Maybe we’re still figuring it out.

But today didn’t feel heavy.

It didn’t feel impossible.

It felt like something was beginning again.

And for the first time in days…

I was looking forward to what came next.

─────── ⌖ ───────

The walk through the halls didn’t feel as heavy today. No nerves. No tension coiled tight behind my ribs. Just footsteps, quiet, even. The walls didn’t feel like they were closing in. They just felt like… walls.

For the first time in what felt like forever, my badge didn’t weigh a thousand pounds against my chest. I nodded at a few people I passed, colleagues, nurses, the quiet receptionist who always tucked a granola bar under the counter in case I forgot to eat. No one asked if I was okay. Which was… new. Usually, someone could tell. That I wasn’t sleeping. That I was unraveling at the seams. But today?

Today, I looked like a person again.

I felt like one.

I slipped into my office and closed the door behind me. The click echoed softly through the space, and the silence that followed was different than the kind I’d grown used to. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t lonely. It was peaceful.

The kind of quiet that lets you breathe.

I set my bag down, shrugged off my coat, and sat at my desk with a slow, content stretch, back arching, arms raised, fingers brushing the ceiling. My chair creaked just a little under me, but it felt good. Solid.

I opened my laptop.

Emails first. Notes second.

Then the charts.

I moved through them with ease. Clinical. Efficient. No second-guessing, no mental fog thick enough to drown in. I was clear. Focused. Even my handwriting looked cleaner, sharper. I jotted down updates for two patients I’d seen last week, flagged one for med reevaluation, then paused when I reached the last file in the stack.

Poindexter.

Benjamin.

I hesitated for a second.

Then opened it.

Just to check.

Not out of obsession. Not because I was spiraling.

Just because I wanted to.

Because I could.

His file stared up at me, his name, his photo, that barcode the system tagged to his wristband. I scrolled through the notes. I could almost track his progress like a line graph in my head. The steep slopes. The climbs. The crashes. The plateaus.

And the shifts.

The parts that weren’t measurable in ink or metrics.

The moments. The trust. The fight in his eyes when he tried.

The silence that wasn’t apathy, it was fear.

The kiss that wasn’t weakness, it was something real.

I added a brief update.

Patient’s emotional restraint remains high, but relational responsiveness has shown recent signs of breakthrough.

Recommend continued sessions to assess behavioral stabilization over time.

I paused.

Then added-

Notable improvement in eye contact. Voluntary touch noted.

My lips twitched. Barely.

A smile.

Small. Private.

I saved the file and leaned back in my chair.

For the first time in weeks, the air in this office didn’t taste like nerves. It felt still. Clean. Like I had the right to be here. Like I was good at what I did. And maybe, just maybe, it was working.

All of it.

Him. Me. The thing we weren’t calling anything yet.

The day moved slowly, but not in a bad way. I answered emails. I scheduled two more check-ins. I re-filed three loose charts and actually remembered to finish my tea before it got cold. It felt like balance. Like peace.

And then-

A knock.

Firm. Knuckles to glass.

I looked up.

One of the nurses. Jason. Friendly, a little awkward. Always wore mismatched socks under his scrubs. “Hey,” he said with a half-smile, lingering at the door. “Sorry to interrupt. Chief Calder wants to see you in his office.”

“Oh yeah. Of course,” I said, already rising to my feet. “Did he say why?”

Jason shook his head. “Just asked me to send you over.” I nodded, brushing my hands down the front of my slacks as I moved to the door. “Thanks,” I murmured, stepping out into the hall. He gave me a polite nod and turned the corner, disappearing down the hallway.

I stood still for a second.

Then started walking.

I wasn’t nervous.

I should be nervous. When your boss asks you to come to his office, you should be nervous. But I wasn’t,

Not at first.

Calder called people into his office all the time. Routine updates, chart reviews, program changes. Sometimes he even pulled doctors in to thank them for their performance. And today, after how this week had turned around?

Maybe that was it.

Maybe he’d seen my notes, my patients.

I walked faster.

Shoulders straight. Hands calm at my sides.

It was probably nothing.

Just a check-in.

Just another quiet moment in a day that had started off so good.

So steady.

So full of hope.

─────── ⌖ ───────

His office is warm.

Not in the cozy sense, but in the way that nice offices are supposed to feel. Neutral wood paneling, low light, books stacked neatly behind his desk. Everything is in its place. He’s already sitting when I step inside.

“Morning, Doctor,” he says, gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Close the door behind you.”

I do.

No tension. Not yet.

Just the quiet click of the door as it seals shut. I take the seat he motioned to and smooth the fabric of my pants against my thighs. There’s a coffee mug near the edge of his desk, half full, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. His laptop’s closed. No charts open.

This isn’t about a file.

“First of all,” he starts, folding his hands over a legal pad, “I just want to say, you’ve been doing exceptional work lately.”

I blink.

Not the sentence I expected.

“Thank you,” I say, cautious but polite.

“I mean it,” he continues, nodding slowly. “The patient reports I’ve reviewed? Remarkable. Your cases show growth, structure, and clarity. And the progress I’m seeing in some of our most complex patients, Poindexter included, isn’t something we see every day.”

He smiles.

A real one. Not forced. Not stiff.

Pride flickers in his eyes.

And I feel myself relax, just a little.

A small breath leaves my lungs.

“Thank you,” I say again, more softly this time. “That really means a lot.”

He nods once more.

And then his gaze drops.

Only for a second.

Barely long enough to register.

But it’s enough.

Something shifts.

“And that’s why this isn’t easy,” he says.

My smile doesn’t fall yet. But it starts to falter at the edges.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly.

“You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.”

The words land with quiet finality.

At first, they don’t register.

Like I misheard him. Like maybe he misspoke. My brain tries to rearrange them into something else. Something softer.

But they stay.

Right there in the air between us.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

“I-” My voice catches. “What?”

His face shifts, less warm now, more composed.

“I know this comes as a surprise.”

No.

No, no, no.

No.

My spine straightens, the chair suddenly too rigid against my back. My hands curl into fists in my lap before I even realize I’m doing it. “But- sir, I’ve been working with Poindexter for months now,” I say, trying to keep my tone level. “He’s progressing. We’re making headway. I don’t understand why would you change his doctor? You just told me you were proud of my work.”

“I am proud,” he says quickly. “This isn’t about performance. It’s not even a question of method.”

He hesitates, just briefly.

That flicker again.

Then he says it.

“It wasn’t my decision.”

And that-

That’s when it starts to sink in.

Slowly. Like ink bleeding into water.

My breath feels shallow.

“What do you mean it wasn’t your decision?”

He sighs, folding his arms now. Leaning forward. “You’ll be reassigned,” he says. “We’ve got a new intake arriving later this week, classified, high-risk. You’ll be leading it. It’s a challenge, I know. But you’ve proven you’re more than capable.”

I don’t care.

I don’t care about a new intake.

I don’t care how “capable” I am.

He’s still talking, words I can’t hear. Something about it not being personal. Something about opportunity. Career growth.

But it all fades.

Blurs.

Like, my ears aren’t working anymore.

Like someone pulled a plug and drained the noise out of the room.

My stomach sinks.

I feel it in my ribs. My throat. My chest.

He requested it.

Dex requested this.

And just like that, everything soft from this morning turns cold. All that warmth, all that hope-

Gone.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I don’t remember leaving his office.

I know I stood up. I know I thanked him. I know I kept my voice even and my expression composed because that’s what I was trained to do. But it wasn’t me who walked out of there. It was some version of me on autopilot, nodding, smiling, saying all the right words as if something hadn’t just been ripped out of my chest. The hallway feels colder now. Too bright. Too clean. Each step echoes louder than the one before, and by the time I get back to my office, my hands are shaking. I close the door behind me, slower than I should.

Staring at nothing.

Poindexter.

He requested it.

He asked for someone else.

And the worst part, the part that’s making my skin prickle and my lungs burn, is that I didn’t see it coming. Not even a little. I walked into that session yesterday believing we were on the same page. I just sit there in my office, hands loose in my lap, eyes fixed on nothing. The corners of the room feel sharper somehow, like everything has been hollowed out and left to echo.

The silence isn’t soft anymore.

It’s not peaceful.

It’s suffocating.

I blink at the wall in front of me, but it doesn’t feel real. Nothing does. The light through the blinds feels wrong, too warm, too bright, like it doesn’t belong in this moment. My ears are ringing. I don’t know if it’s the blood rushing to my head or the words replaying in it on a loop.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

Reassigned. Removed. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. My fingers thread into my hair, clutching the roots like they’re the only thing keeping me from floating off the floor. I press my forehead to my hands and squeeze my eyes shut, willing something, anything, to make this make sense.

We were okay.

Yesterday, we were okay.

He kissed me.

He held me.

He looked at me like I mattered.

I sit up abruptly, breath catching in my throat. The urge to cry comes fast, but I fight it back with a hard blink. No. Not here. Not now. I reach for my phone. My hands are trembling, but I unlock it anyway.

My thumb hovers over Gigi’s name.

I don’t think- I just tap.

It rings once. Twice.

“Heyyy,” she answers, voice light. Unknowing. Warm.

I swallow.

“They took me off his case.”

There’s silence. Just a breath. One second. Two.

“What?”

“Dex,” I say quietly. “They pulled me off his file.”

Another pause. Her voice drops, serious now. “Wait- what? Why?”

“They reassigned me to some new high-risk intake,” I mumble, my voice already wobbling. “My boss called me into his office. Said it wasn’t his decision.”

Another silence.

Longer.

“Oh,” she breathes. Then, carefully: “Was it…?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “He asked for it.”

Gigi doesn’t speak for a beat. And then she exhales, slowly. “Fuck.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. I’m still trying to process it. Still hoping there’s another explanation waiting to surface. “He didn’t say anything yesterday,” I say, quieter now. “Not a word. He let me sit there. Pour everything out. And then he kissed me. Held me like I was the only person in the world. And now I’m off his file like none of it meant anything.”

The tears come now.

Not loud.

But steady.

And they sting more than they should.

“I want to go up there,” I mutter, wiping my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “I want to yell at him. I want to scream. I want to walk into his room and just-” I pause, my chest tightening. “I want to beat his ass.”

Gigi makes a sound-half laugh, half breath, but it’s not because she thinks it’s funny. She just gets it. She always does. “Okay, babe. Listen to me.” Her voice changes.

Softer. Firmer. Anchored.

“You can’t go up there.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“You’re not his doctor anymore.”

“I know.”

“I know you want to scream. I know you want answers. But this isn’t how you get them. He made this choice. For whatever reason, he asked to be reassigned.”

“But why?” My voice breaks. “Why would he do that if he didn’t want me to leave? Why kiss me? Why let me in? Why hold me like that if he was just going to shut the door the next day?” Gigi sighs again, softer this time.

“Because people like him, people who’ve been through what he has, they don’t always know how to have something good. So when they do, it scares the shit out of them.” I press my hand to my mouth, trying to steady my breathing. It doesn’t work. My chest still shakes.

“You don’t do this to someone you care about,” I whisper.

“No. But he probably thinks he’s protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask him to protect me.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But he’s not thinking like that. He’s thinking like someone who’s been hurt so badly, so many times, that letting someone love him feels like handing them a loaded weapon.”

I close my eyes.

It hurts.

It hurts in that quiet, permanent kind of way. Like something’s shifted in me and can’t be undone. “You kissed him,” she says softly. “And he kissed you back. He held you. That wasn’t fake. That wasn’t meaningless.”

“Then why?”

“Because he knows he can’t give you what you deserve,” she says. “Because he’s scared he’ll hurt you. Because it’s easier for him to push you away than risk watching you stay.”

I wipe another tear off my chin.

“I’m so tired, G.”

“I know.”

“I really thought this was going to be different.”

“I know,” she says again. “But sometimes the people we want to save… won’t let us.”

I sit in that for a long moment.

And then, quietly, so quiet it’s almost not there:

“I miss him already.”

“I know, y/n,” she says. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Long. Quiet.

Then Gigi’s voice shifts.

Sharper. Drier. Like she’s done holding the soft space for me.

“Okay. But babe… what if this is who he is?”

I blink. “What?”

“I mean it. What if this is just… him? We’ve always known he’s high-risk. You said it yourself, he’s been through shit, he’s dangerous, he’s emotionally unstable. So why are you so surprised?”

My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to say.

“He asked for another doctor after kissing you, y/n. After holding you like you were air. That’s not normal. That’s not okay. And it’s not your job to try and make it make sense.”

“He’s not- he’s not manipulative, G.”

“Are you sure?” she shoots back, voice firm now. “Because I don’t know, if I looked like him? I’d probably use it too. Wrap a pretty girl around my finger, kiss her like it’s the end of the world, make her feel like she’s the exception, and then drop her before she gets too close.”

“G…”

“No. Listen to me. You’re smart. You’re good at what you do. But this? This wasn’t clinical. This was personal. And he knew it.”

I go quiet. She keeps going.

“I’m not saying he’s evil. I’m saying he’s sick. And maybe this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Maybe you’re not the first person who thought they were saving him. Maybe that’s the cycle.”

Silence buzzes in my ears. I can barely breathe around it.

“You want to think you mattered to him,” she says. “But y/n, even if you did, especially if you did, he still made the choice to let you go. And I think you need to stop trying to turn that into something noble.”

I sit there, completely still.

Because even though I don’t want to hear it…

Part of me knows she might be right.

But God-

It hurts worse than silence ever did.

─────── ⌖ ───────

My apartment is quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels personal. Thick. Like it’s sitting in my lungs. Like it knows what I did today.

I’ve got a glass of wine in one hand, cheap, red, something I forgot I even had, and Gordon Ramsay is yelling at some poor chef on the TV screen across from me. Hell’s Kitchen. I don’t even remember turning it on. It’s background noise now. A distraction with a British accent and too many knives. The window’s cracked open. Just a little. Just enough for the night air to slip in. I can hear Hell’s Kitchen below me, the real one. Not the show. Cars. Horns. Sirens. Some guy is yelling down the block. Music from someone’s second-story apartment bleeding into the street. The usual mess of life outside these walls. It’s comforting, in a way. All that noise. All that movement. Everything else keeps going.

Even when I feel like I can’t.

I take another sip. It doesn’t taste good. Too acidic. But I don’t care.

I stare out the window, unfocused.

And I think: I got too attached.

Too fast. Too hard.

I wasn’t supposed to. I knew better. From the moment I felt that pull, I should’ve said something. Should’ve stepped away. Handed the file to someone else. Requested a reassignment. Something. Anything.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

I leaned in.

I crossed every line I swore I wouldn’t, and now I’m here, alone, tipsy, staring at the city like it has answers.

This was a mistake.

Letting myself care about him.

Letting myself believe for even a second that there was a version of this where it could work.

That we could work.

God, how stupid could I be?

There was never a future here.

He’s a patient.

A high-risk one. A murderer. A convicted assassin with a documented kill count and a track record that reads more like a horror film than a resume. People fear him. They build walls and systems and entire facilities to contain him.

And me?

I thought I could… what? Reach him? Fix him?

Love him?

He kills people. Innocent people. People like me. And yet I sat there, on that couch, in his room, and let him touch me like I was something he wanted to keep.

I close my eyes.

My head tips back against the couch cushion, and I exhale hard.

Why would he care about me?

I’m just a name on a badge. A signature on a file. A face he’s seen every few days for a few months.

He probably saw an opportunity.

And he took it.

Started cooperating. Started talking. Made me think he was progressing. Made me feel like I was helping, like I was special. Like I was getting through to him in a way no one else had.

And then he kissed me.

God, I let him kiss me.

More than once.

I let myself believe it.

And now?

Now I’m sitting here, drinking half-warm wine and wondering if this entire thing, every session, every look, every pause between breaths, was just part of some bigger play. A manipulation.

Maybe this is what he wanted all along.

Get me close. Make me care. Get me on his side.

So when the time came, I’d make it easier for him to walk free.

So I’d be the one to convince the board he was stable. Safe.

And when I wasn’t useful anymore-

He’d drop me.

Like he did today.

Like I never mattered in the first place.

My throat tightens, and I press the heel of my hand to my eye.

I feel so stupid.

I should’ve never let this happen.

I’m a professional. A doctor. I’ve worked too damn hard to get here. My license. My career. My entire future- I risked all of it for a man who has nothing left to lose. A man who could’ve easily made me the next name on his list.

And I miss him.

That’s the part that breaks me.

That’s the part I can’t say out loud.

Because after everything, after today, after that look on his face when I walked into his room, I still miss him.

I still want to be close to him.

I still want to know why.

I wrap the blanket tighter around myself and stare at the flickering lights on the TV. My wineglass rests on my knee, hand loose around the stem.

I’m an idiot.

I got fooled.

I fell for it.

And now I’m trying to explain it away. Trying to rewrite the narrative in my head, like maybe there’s a version where it wasn’t cruel. Where it wasn’t calculated.

What if I’m overanalyzing this?

What if Gigi’s wrong?

What if he didn’t mean it like that?

What if he’s hurting too?

What if this is how he protects people? What if he thought it was safer to push me away than to keep me close? What if he’s sitting in his room right now, just as wrecked as I am?

What if he cares?

What if he really, truly-

I clench my jaw.

My wineglass trembles slightly in my grip.

No.

Who am I kidding?

He asked for the reassignment. He didn’t even look at me when I confronted him. Barely spoke. Barely moved. All that connection, all those things we weren’t saying aloud? He walked away from them. He let them die.

Because it was easier.

Because I didn’t matter enough.

I’m not the exception.

I’m not the one who changed anything.

I was just next.

I sip the wine again. It tastes worse now.

I need to get over this.

Get over him.

He’s not mine to care about anymore. He’s not mine at all. He never was. He’s out of my hands. Out of my case file. Out of my future. And I need to remember who I am. I need to remember what I worked for. I need to find someone normal, someone stable, someone safe. Someone who doesn’t live behind bulletproof glass and prison bars. Someone who doesn’t look at me like they’re starving and kiss me like it’s the end of the world.

I deserve that.

I know I do.

But the ache in my chest says otherwise.

Because all I want is to go back.

To that moment.

That second before everything fell apart.

And it hurts.

It hurts more than I thought it would.

More than I want to admit.

Because even now, after everything, I still don’t know if he ever really felt it.

And worse?

I still do.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. ♡

I know the last few chapters have been a bit heavy (okay… very heavy), and I’m so sorry for putting you all through the emotional blender, but trust me. I’m cooking. The good stuff? The everything-you’ve-been-waiting-for stuff?

It’s coming.

Veryyy, very soon.

I’m already writing the next chapters, and I can’t wait for you to see what’s ahead.

Thank you, truly, for reading.

Enjoyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Yours truly, Raey ♡

─────── ⌖ ───────

[ next chapter ]

#benjamin poindexter #daredevil #daredevil born again #fanfic #matt murdock #marvel #foggy nelson #mcu #wilson fisk

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ugotnojamzzz · 15 days ago

Text

Rulers of Ruin

Chapter 18

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: mc can’t catch a fucking break, can she?

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 3k

Masterlist

Chapter 17

—

The ride was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind that wrapped itself around your throat.

Y/N sat in the backseat of the black SUV, flanked by an armed guard on each side. The security detail followed in a second vehicle, but it was the man seated at the front—Namjoon—that kept the silence oppressive. No one had spoken since she’d been fetched from her room and told that they were taking her somewhere outside the mansion. Not a word, not even a glance.

She watched the back of his head, sharp profile reflected faintly in the glass. His jaw was locked. That meant something.

Everything did, with Namjoon.

The road narrowed. Trees grew thicker the farther they drove, gnarled branches curling over the pavement like ribs. The sky above them was pale gray, clouds swollen with threat.

He hadn’t said anything about where they were going or why.

Y/N didn’t ask questions—not when she knew the answers might be worse than her assumptions.

She turned slightly, catching a glimpse of Jungkook from the corner of her eye. He sat on her left, staring straight ahead, expression carved from stone. One gloved hand rested on his thigh, the other on the gun holstered beneath his coat. Every part of him looked tense, coiled. Like a spring held in place by sheer force of will.

He had come back from whatever mission he’d been on a couple of days prior. For Y/N, though, signs of his presence had remained strictly limited to the sound of his bedroom door opening and closing and that of his boots against the hardwood floor.

He hadn’t even looked at her. Not once.

Good.

She was in no mood to deal with whatever storm was still brewing behind those eyes.

The SUV slowed as they passed through a narrow metal gate. Guards nodded as they drove by—Namjoon didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t need to.

The SUV rolled to a halt in front of what appeared to be a traditional hanok building. They all stepped out of the vehicle, and YN spotted armed guards at every corner. She finally allowed herself to wonder where it was they had taken her, when suddenly—

The door opened.

A woman stepped out. Tall. Perfectly pressed blouse. Not a hair out of place.

Her heels clicked against the stone, each step deliberate, sharp. She offered Namjoon a saccharine smile—genuine, if you didn’t look too closely.

“My son,” she said, voice warm like tea just before it scalds. She took Namjoon’s hands delicately in hers. “You’ve come.”

He inclined his head. « Eomoni. »

Her gaze slid over Y/N without acknowledgment. And then, finally, landed on Jungkook.

Her smile vanished like breath on glass.

“Huh,” she said to Namjoon. “You brought him.”

Not a question. Not surprise. Disdain wrapped in a bow.

Namjoon didn’t reply.

They were ushered through the front doors, a wave of sterile air greeting them like a slap.

Jungkook fell into step behind her. His presence was a shadow at her back, quiet but heavy. She didn’t look at him.

Y/N’s steps slowed as they moved deeper into the building. She could hear it now—faint, slow beeping. A machine. A monitor. Life measured in numbers.

Namjoon didn’t stop walking. Didn’t explain.

At the end of the hallway, two guards in black suits stepped aside. A wide, sliding door stood ahead—polished wood, flanked by pale linen.

“Let us through,” Namjoon guarded.

The guards obeyed.

The sliding door opened without a sound.

Inside, sunlight streamed through the tall panel windows, so bright Y/N had to squint.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust—just long enough to register the tapestries on the walls, the bonsai trees placed in every corner.

But it wasn’t the décor that made her pause.

It was the person sitting beneath the light.

She staggered back a step, breath splintering in her chest.

There he was.

The Tiger emperor himself.

—

Mr. Kim sat cross-legged on a cushion before a low lacquered table, a thick IV line disappearing into the crook of his left arm. The machine it fed into beeped faintly behind him, ignored.

He wore a dark gray durumagi, severe in its simplicity. No embroidery. No unnecessary flourish. Just clean, tailored lines.

A nurse poured tea from a small clay pot into thin ceramic cups. She didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

Y/N stopped in the doorway, her body tense, her instincts flaring. So, she thought, the man really hasn’t kicked the bucket just yet, then.

“Abeoji,” Namjoon said evenly, bowing at the waist.

Mr. Kim didn’t look up immediately. When he did, it was slow—like he’d known they were there the whole time but allowed the pause to settle on purpose.

His gaze landed first on Namjoon. “You came.”

“You summoned,” Namjoon replied.

A flicker of something passed between them. Not warmth, not respect. Just recognition. Power, acknowledged.

Then the old man’s gaze slid to Jungkook.

For a beat, nothing moved.

Y/N could feel it—the thickness in the air, the static that came from words unsaid. Whatever passed between them was sharp, old and barbed.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. He bowed low. Deeper than Namjoon had.

But he said nothing.

When he rose, the old man’s eyes were still on him. Silent.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He only straightened, unreadable.

Then Mr. Kim turned his eyes to Y/N.

Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t seen the almighty leader of the Kim clan since the Unity Summit, ten years before. His eyes, though duller than she remembered, still carried the weight of someone to be feared. The nasty scars that ran diagonally across his face pulled at the corner of his mouth, giving him a permanent sneer. She suddenly found herself having to fight hard against the urge to bow to the man. Some old reflex from her childhood.

“So,” he hummed, “the little raven finally grew some feathers.”

Y/N’s spine stiffened.

Before she could respond, a soft, fluttery voice chimed from the side.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Mrs. Kim said, stepping around them. Her hands wrung nervously at the hem of her sleeve, though her voice was pleasant. “The doctor said—”

Mr. Kim raised one hand.

She fell silent instantly.

The motion was small. Efficient.

Y/N felt a chill crawl down her neck.

Now she understood where Namjoon had learned that gesture—the command that didn’t require a word.

Mrs. Kim’s face tightened. She offered a shallow bow and turned for the door, the nurse quietly following her.

Namjoon cleared his throat softly. “We’ve been thi—“

“Leave us,” Mr. Kim spoke nonchalantly. His eyes still on Y/N.

Namjoon hesitated only a second. Then he nodded and stepped back.

Jungkook didn’t move.

Y/N glanced at him, uncertain, but his face gave nothing away. Then, slowly, he bowed again—single, deep arc—and left without a word.

The door slid shut. And then it was just her, the tea and the old king on the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. Just lifted the cup the nurse had poured and took a slow, deliberate sip.

It flashed when he moved—just a flicker of gold. But Y/N knew what it was. The tiger’s head, glinting in the sun. The signet ring on his finger that crowned the Kim leader.

“Sit,” he finally broke the silence, voice quiet but sharp. “Let’s talk.”

Y/N sat down slowly across from him, the cushion firm beneath her, the lacquered table between them cool to the touch. Her back was straight, her hands in her lap. Only then did she notice the chessboard set neatly between them. The pieces were arranged and waiting—white in front of him, black in front of her. Of course.

“You play?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she replied after a beat.

“Then play,” he nodded as he made the first move, one of his white pawns landing in her direction.

Y/N blinked. This wasn’t exactly what she had expected when she had stepped through the door. But as he remained still, unphased by her delay, she finally looked down at the board and moved one of her modest black pawns, symmetrical to his. Methodical. Controlled.

“Is this why I’m here?” she asked eventually, moving a knight into play. “A match?”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “A conversation.”

“Same difference.”

“Touché,” he smiled softly, “I suppose every conversation is a match.”

“Only if you’re willing to play.”

“Everyone is always playing,” he said, shifting his bishop forward. “Some just don’t realize it yet.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She moved another pawn.

Several more moves passed in silence, the rhythm of strategy like the beat of an invisible drum between them. The pieces clacked against the board softly, a calm contrast to the tension that hummed like electricity in the room.

“Care to take a guess as to why you’re really here?” he asked, without looking at her.

“I assume it’s not for the company,” Y/N replied, voice measured.

That earned her a flick of his gaze. The scar across his face twitched slightly with what might’ve been amusement—or irritation. It was hard to tell. “Namjoon said you had teeth.” He paused as he contemplated his next move.

“Let’s see,” he continued, his voice still sharp despite its frailty. “Your little presence among us—as our ‘guest,’—it creates… complications.”

“Complications?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “A raven in a tiger’s den. No matter how still you sit, the talons are always visible.”

Y/N stiffened. “I’m not exactly here by choice.”

“Indeed you are not,” he agreed, his smile widening. “You’re here because you were caught. Like prey.”

Her jaw tightened at the insult, but she bit back the retort forming on her tongue.

“I wonder,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “how mighty Park Sanghoon would feel if he could see you know. His daughter, playing house with our kind.”

The mention of her father hit like a blow to the chest, but Y/N forced her expression to remain impassive. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Namjoon shot her a warning glance, but the old man chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I see it’s not just her eyes you inherited,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I like that. She was bold, too.”

The room seemed to freeze.

Y/N’s swallowed thickly. Her mother.

Mr. Kim’s expression shifted, softening ever so slightly. “She had a fire,” he continued, his voice quieting. “A light that made men stupid. Myself included.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, caught off-guard by the sudden change in his tone. The man who had spoken moments ago with venom now seemed almost wistful.

“Of course,” he added, staring into his tea. “That was before your father destroyed her.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into fists. “She made her choices.”

“She did,” he said, his eyes narrowing again. “And we know where it led her. Killed by enemies, wasn’t it? What a waste. But then, I suppose love seldom concerns itself with logic.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. The idea of this man, this ruthless, cold creature, speaking of love was almost incomprehensible.

“She was a free spirit, beautiful and vibrant. Only too kind for this world. Never knew how to play the long game,” he continued, sliding his rook into position. “And your father…” He shook his head, his gaze darkening. “He was all teeth and fury. No patience. No vision. Though, I suppose you must know that better than most.”

Her stomach churned, but she didn’t flinch. « I’m not my father. »

“No,” he murmured, his gaze boring into hers. “You’re not. But you do carry his blood, whether you like it or not. And blood has a way of catching up to you.”

Before she could respond, his hand shot out over the table, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. She tensed as his fingers digged into her skin.

“Such a funny thing, the human pulse, » he mumbled in contemplation, his gaze dropping to the scar on her arm. “Like a hummingbird under your skin, begging to be set free.”

She clenched her jaw.

“I see it in your eyes. That assurance, that—poise. Like you think there’s still a clean way out of this.”

She stared him down. “I know there isn’t.”

Now he smiled—this time, it was real. Ugly. Satisfied.

“Smart girl,” he said, and finally let go.

Her skin burned where he’d touched her, but she didn’t move, didn’t rub the mark.

“My son thinks you can be trusted,” he said, tone turning colder again. “He thinks you’ll behave if he plays nice.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

“I don’t believe in playing nice,” he continued.

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked onto hers. Then he moved his queen, capturing her rook with ruthless precision.

A minute passed and the board had turned a mess of clashing pieces, the battle tilting precariously.

“You—are defensive,” he observed, capturing her pawn with his knight. “Always reacting. Always waiting.”

“I’d rather wait than overreach,” she replied, her voice steady.

“Waiting doesn’t win wars,” he said, sliding his rook across the board. “It only delays the inevitable.”

“And charging in doesn’t guarantee victory,” she countered, moving her bishop with deliberate precision.

He chuckled softly. “You think you’re being clever. But cleverness only matters if you survive long enough to use it.”

The game shifted suddenly as he moved his knight.

“Check,” he said, his voice calm.

Y/N stared at the board, her mind racing. She could feel his eyes on her, sharp and unyielding, waiting for her next move.

“You’ve backed yourself into a corner,” he said quietly. “Do you even see it?”

She moved her knight hesitantly. “Corners can be good places to regroup.”

His eyes flicked to her, his expression faintly impressed. “Spoken like someone who’s spent too much time in one.”

Y/N didn’t respond, her focus locked on the board.

“You have potential,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “But potential means nothing without purpose. Do you know yours?”

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “To survive.”

“Good answer.” He leaned back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But not good enough, I’m afraid.” He moved his knight one final time. Smug. As though he’d always known exactly how the game would end. In one confident flick of his wrist he took her queen and blocked her king.

No way out.

Check mate.

“You’ll learn, girl,” he spoke. “In the long run, the only victories that are worth anything are those that come at a painful price.”

Y/N glanced at the board one last time before rising to her feet slowly. Her heart was still ticking a little too fast from the—match.

“Is that all?” she asked, her voice cool but clipped. “I was brought here to play chess and listen to veiled threats?”

Across the board, the old man’s lips curled faintly, the scar on his cheek pulling the smile into something far more unsettling than kind.

“No threats,” he said. “Only reminders.”

He reached for his teacup, fingers trembling slightly now, as if the energy required to play the game had finally caught up to him.

She stared him down. She wasn’t leaving without a proper answer. He let out a sigh.

“I’m old,” he continued, his voice a low rasp. “Sick. And wise enough to know my days are counted.”

Y/N said nothing.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke next—just stared into the steam curling from his tea.

“I suppose I—selfishly—wanted to see them one last time before I return to the ground.”

A pause.

“See what?” she asked, unsure she wanted the answer.

He looked up. Right at her. Through her. She coule see something sad flicker in his gaze.

Then finally, he spoke, something softer than a murmur.

“Her eyes.”

The weight of the words fell heavy, like ash. There was no need to ask who he was referring to. Before Y/N could speak the sliding door opened behind her.

—

They didn’t speak as they left.

The car ride was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of leather seats when someone shifted. Y/N stared out the window, but her mind wasn’t on the blurred cityscape.

It was still in that room. Still sitting across from that dying man, with his knotted fingers and quiet threats, with eyes that saw through her, past her, down into the marrow.

You carry his blood, whether you like it or not.

Her wrist still tingled where he’d touched her. Not bruised—but marked.

She was used to being watched, judged. But that had felt different. She hated the way his words clung to her skin, like smoke in her hair after a fire.

They pulled up to the compound gates just as the sky began to bruise purple. Y/N walked ahead toward the front doors, automatic, like her body was moving before her mind could catch up.

Y/N was the first through the door, still trapped in her own head. The warmth inside welcomed her in—unaware of the storm still clinging to her skin. She was so distracted, in fact, that she didn’t notice the low rumble of voice in the distance, heated, sharp, until—

“There she is!” A voice pierced through.

Y/N didn’t even have time to flinch.

A blur. A rush of sound and motion.

Then a body collided with hers with the force of a speeding truck.

The wind was knocked clean out of her lungs as she hit the floor, hard. “What the—” she gasped, head spinning, trying to orient herself—

But her attacker was already on top of her, fists full of hair, knee pressing into her sternum.

“You fucking Park bitch!”

—

Tatatataaaa. Suspense. Hope you liked it!! Gimme feedback people!! Who else is wondering what the fuck is going on? 🙋‍♀️ jk lol I got the next few chapters lined up.

Chapter 19

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

@mageprincess7

@drunkzseok

@kelsyx33

@jjk970901

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