#Continuous Casting Steel Machines

[warpdrive-witch]

Remind Me

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader Warnings: NSFW, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Oral, Grinding, Plot: Agatha picks you up from jail after being arrested at a protest. Smut. Pure fucking smut. MEN AND MINORS DNI! Buy Mommy a ☕️

The door to the holding cell groaned open with a mechanical click, a burst of stale air and flickering fluorescent light bleeding across the cement floor. It spilled into the room like something sour and uninvited. You squinted as the frame widened—like the night itself had blinked awake, and you were the first thing it saw.

“Harkness!”

The name cracked through the stale air like a warning shot—sharp, nasal, and clipped with bureaucratic disinterest. The desk sergeant didn’t look up from his clipboard. He didn’t have to.

A summons. A signal. The sound of consequences catching up to chaos… and letting it walk free.

It took you a full breath to register he was calling for you. Your last name, detached and impersonal, echoing across steel and stone like it didn’t belong to flesh. Before you could even respond, it came again—louder, more impatient this time: “Harkness!”

Your name, barked out like an accusation. Like a command. Like you were both the problem and the proof. You rose slowly from the concrete bench you'd been slumped on for hours, spine creaking, shoulders groaning under the weight of stillness and dried sweat. Your legs protested, stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. Every muscle in your body buzzed with fatigue, but you moved like you weren’t giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.

Nothing was broken. Nothing that wouldn’t fade. But the ache was real. The skin around your wrists stung, raw and red where the zip-ties had dug in deep. Raised welts circled your skin like branding, half-faded but unforgettable. Your shirt stuck to your back—damp with sweat, dried gas, maybe blood. You couldn’t tell anymore. Couldn’t care.

You smelled like protest: Pepper spray. Adrenaline. Smoke. Truth. And you walked like you’d earned every second of it.

Boots hit concrete with a weight you didn’t bother to hide. Every step was deliberate. Measured. Yours.

The Sharpie number on your forearm was half-smeared from sweat and friction, but still visible. Still inked into your skin like a spell. Still there. Just like you would continue to be until people woke up to the insanity around them taking place.

The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel built from fatigue and bad lighting. You passed fingerprint stations and cold metal desks. You passed other faces—blank, bureaucratic, bored. The hum of vending machines and overused fluorescents filled the air like static.

And then— him.

The cop.

The officer who’d slammed your face into the sidewalk during the scuffle, who’d muttered something about “you people” when the zip-tie bit into your bone. He sat behind a glass partition in a side office, half-shadowed, chewing the end of a pen like it owed him something.

His eyes didn’t lift. But his presence soured the entire hallway. As you passed, he muttered without looking: “Stay out of trouble and listen next time.”

You didn’t break stride. Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. You just raised one hand behind you—deliberate, smooth, no hesitation—and extended your middle finger like a quiet act of war. A blessing, even. A fucking benediction. That gesture was a full sentence. A punctuation mark. A signature. One last message to the officer who thought the right to protest needed to be approved by him personally.

The door to the lobby buzzed. A low, grating sound—followed by the clank of an electronic lock disengaging.

You pushed it open with your shoulder. And there she was. Agatha.

Standing just inside the threshold, like she’d been pacing seconds before and froze the moment the door released. A single line of harsh overhead light caught the crown of her head and the curve of her cheekbone, casting the rest of her in shadow.

Her coat was black, unzipped, thrown on in a rush. Her hair was pulled up into a loose knot, haphazard and unstyled—too high, too tight, like she hadn’t meant to come out. Like she hadn’t expected it to be you she was bailing out until it already was. Jeans. Boots. No makeup. Still beautiful. Still furious.

She didn’t move. Not right away. Just stood there, arms folded tightly across her chest, one boot angled slightly out—her weight tilted like she didn’t trust the ground beneath her anymore. Her eyes found you instantly. They dropped to your wrists first, where angry red bands still marked your skin. Then up to your face—your swollen cheekbone, your tear-gas eyes, the smirk you couldn’t quite wipe off your face. And then her gaze hardened. Not in rage. Not in judgment.

In something worse. Fear, choked and weaponized. A gut-punch of helplessness buried under the brittle armor of restraint. Her head tilted just a fraction. Her brow arched just enough. That look. The Agatha Harkness look. Sharp enough to slice through steel. Soft enough to hold your name inside it. Somehow, impossibly, it held both: You absolute idiot and thank God you’re standing. Judgment and devotion in one unbroken, devastating line of sight.

Your lips parted. You had something cocky on the tip of your tongue—something like “Miss me?” or “Wasn’t even the worst night I’ve had.” You almost said it. But before a single syllable passed your lips, her voice cut across the space—low, quiet, final: “Not now.”

It landed like gravity. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just a truth wrapped in warning. An invocation of privacy. Of safety. Of boundaries drawn by love, not law. You stopped. The smirk faded just slightly, tucked back into the corners of your breath.

A pause bloomed between you. Thick enough to carry everything unspoken: the worry in her shoulders, the heat in your ribs, the way you had both seen this moment coming and still hated the fact that it had arrived.

She turned before you could answer, pushing the door open to the parking lot without looking back. The concrete was slick with dew. The air still held a trace of smoke. The smell of asphalt and distant rain filled your nose, wiping away the bleach and stale sweat of the jail behind you. And as you passed her to slide into the car, your thigh brushed hers—accidental, but real. She flinched. Just barely. Just enough.

You climbed into the car without a word. The seat creaked under your weight, the scent of her perfume rising up from the upholstery like muscle memory. She closed the door behind you with the softest click. You closed your eyes for half a second—just long enough to feel the ache settle.

She got in beside you, turned the key, and backed out with a sharp turn of the wrist. Headlights flooded the cracked concrete in front of you, catching the faint haze of rising mist. The tires rolled slow over the speed bump in the lot, then faster once the road widened, away from the building, away from the cuffs, away from everything that reeked of detention and authority and stale coffee breath.

The city was quiet at this hour, not asleep but sedated. Fog drifted low across the asphalt, blurring the orange glow of the streetlamps into watery halos. The roads were slick from earlier rain, and everything smelled like pavement and static.

Agatha said nothing.

The dashboard cast her face in a dim blue wash. Soft shadows sat beneath her eyes, deepening the sharp line of her cheekbone. She looked composed, but not calm. Her jaw was too tight. Her hands too still on the wheel.

You shifted in your seat, restless. Your knee bounced on a melody of its own. Your fingers picked at the half-smeared Sharpie ink on your arm. The numbers were fading fast, blurring into a mess of gray lines and sweat, but you kept rubbing them anyway. Like the act itself might keep you tethered to her voice on the other end of the phone. The bruises on your arms pulled tight when you leaned to adjust your seatbelt. You winced—quietly. Didn’t want her to see.

She saw. She always saw.  Her eyes flicked to you at the next red light. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze lingered on the movement of your hand, your arm, the slight shake in your knee. She didn’t speak. But she didn’t have to.

The silence in the car wasn’t cold. It was thick. Dense with everything she wanted to say but wouldn’t. Not yet. The light turned green. She drove on. Another few blocks passed before her hand moved—slow, deliberate, cutting through the heavy stillness between you. It slid across the center console and found yours.

Warm. Steady. Real. You didn’t squeeze back. Not at first. Afraid to misread it. Afraid this was about control, not comfort. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles. Once. Twice. A soft, rhythmic motion. Not forgiveness. Not approval. Reassurance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your throat tightened. You cleared it, voice catching in the silence. She didn’t look at you, not fully, but her voice came low and edged: “My number is on your skin.”You nodded.

“I said you it might happen. I didn’t even think. Just…Wrote your number before I left the house. I knew it might get bad.” You glanced down at your arm. The numbers were nearly gone.  Her fingers paused. Then gripped tighter. Not painfully. Just... present. “And when I didn’t hear from you for hours?” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack. But you heard it anyway beneath the words. That coil of emotion she wouldn’t let unspool. Not yet. Frustration. Fear. The helpless, gnawing dread ofnot knowing. And something else, too. A flicker. A break in the current. Relief.

You stared out the windshield, the empty stretch of road ahead gleaming with scattered puddles. “I knew you’d find me,”you said quietly.“You always do.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t pull her hand away.

She just kept driving.

The city gave way to quieter streets. The fog thickened, wrapping around the windshield like cotton gauze, softening the edges of the world. The headlights carved a narrow path through it, bright and breathless.

Her hand stayed in yours. You could feel the tremor in her palm—barely there, like something she was holding back on instinct. Rage, maybe. Or the memory of hearing your voice from the other end of a jailhouse phone line, too calm, too quiet, using the word “processed” like it didn’t mean caged.

She took the next turn too quickly. The tires skidded just slightly, and her knuckles went pale around the wheel. Still, her hand in yours never wavered. A streetlight passed overhead. For a moment, her face caught the glare. You saw the tightness in her jaw. The way her lips were pressed thin. The way her eyes flicked to you and then away again like she couldn’t look too long or she’d unravel something she didn’t want you to see.

When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper: “They could’ve hurt you worse.” Her voice was barely above a breath. Flat, restrained. Not numb—but trying to be. You turned your head, slowly, watching the way her fingers tightened against the leather of the wheel. Her other hand was still tangled in yours, thumb still frozen against your skin like she didn’t trust herself to keep moving.

The car was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the tires on wet asphalt. You inhaled through your nose—slow, steady. “They have,” you said finally, eyes fixed ahead. “Not me. But others. Way worse. For generations” Your voice didn’t shake. Not even close. “This?” you added, glancing down at your arms, the bruises just now darkening to a sick shade of violet. “This I can handle.”

She didn’t respond. But her jaw clenched again. You let the silence fill the space between you. Let it be uncomfortable. Let her feel it all.

Because it wasn’t about her. And she knew that. And still—it wrecked her. The drive turned familiar. The houses started to look like memories instead of background noise. You passed the little bookstore she liked, dark now, the yellow awning damp with rain. The corner market. The faded mural three blocks from home.

She made the last turn tight, then slowed into the driveway. The engine ticked softly as she shifted into park. The headlights cut off. Just the amber glow from the porch light now, and the long shadow of the night trailing behind you. She didn’t move to open her door. Neither did you. Her hand still cradled yours, still unmoving. But something in the air shifted—like a held breath exhaled, slow and unwilling. You turned to her fully this time, the side of your body screaming from the movement, but you did it anyway. You turned to her, slow and aching. “I’m okay.”

The words felt small in the air between you, too neat for the wreckage they were meant to contain. Agatha didn’t respond at first. Her hand flexed on the steering wheel—once, then twice—leather creaking beneath her grip. Her jaw was tight. Set. Not clenched in anger, but in preservation. Like her whole body was holding something back.

When she spoke, it was quiet.nNo drama. No theatrics. Just precision. Just truth.

“Your friend called.” A pause. Measured. “Said they took you.” Another. “Said no one knew where.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the road ahead, but her voice came sharp—like frost under fire: “Your friend. Not the police. Not the station.” You heard the emphasis, the edge under it—the insult of being forced to rely on someone who shouldn’t have been the one to tell her. “Then their phone died.” That silence bloomed again—thicker now. Nearly unbearable. “No location,” she said, quieter still. “Just… ‘on the ground. Bleeding.’”

You felt the breath leave her—not all at once, but in pieces, like it cost her something to remember it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. “Three hours of silence.” Her voice hit like a knife honed on restraint. “I had your blood in my head and some asshole at the desk asking me to spell your name like it was a trivia question.”

She let out a breathless laugh—sharp and mirthless. It sounded like something that had been waiting days to escape. “They made me wait.” Her voice lowered, dropped into something dangerous. Controlled. Clipped. Each word like a match struck and held just shy of flame. “While I imagined your body in the back of a van. Head hitting the floor. Face-down. Cuffed. Bleeding.”

The weight of it landed on your chest before you could process it. She shook her head, just once—barely a movement, but loaded almost like she didn’t trust herself to do more. “I looked at every blank face behind every window and asked for you.” Then, finally, she turned. And when her eyes found yours, they didn’t just hold fury. They held proof.

“And no one said a word. No one gave a shit that you were missing.” A pause. “That you were mine.” The word landed soft, but final. Like it had already been carved into the bones of the night. She exhaled. Not shaky. Not broken. Just steady—like someone who had made it out of the worst moment of her life and hadn’t forgiven the world for it. “The system didn’t just take you.” Her voice lowered to a level that chilled your skin. “It erased you. For hours.”

A pause so long it bordered on sacred. “Like your name didn’t matter.” She blinked once. “Like I wasn’t standing right there. Demanding it. So don’t tell me you’re okay.” There was no venom in it. Only grief sharpened into something lethal. “Let me be angry first.”

She stared straight ahead.

And you sat there, head bowed slightly, fingers curled loosely in your lap. Sharpie smeared. Wrist raw. Still breathing.

A minute passed. Maybe more. You counted the beats of your pulse like footsteps in your chest. Then, without a word, Agatha opened her door and stepped out. Not loud. Not abrupt. Just done waiting. You watched her walk around the front of the car, her silhouette catching the faint wash of the porch light as she moved—composed rage wrapped in denim and shadow. She rounded the passenger side, pulled the handle, and opened your door. She didn’t speak. Just looked at you. Her face was unreadable—not because she was hiding it, but because the storm behind it was still deciding whether to retreat or rise again.

Still, she was here. Still, she’d come for you. Still, she was holding the door open with one hand and her breath with the other.

You stood. It took effort. Your legs protested the movement.  Her hand brushed your back once, barely there. Not a push. Not support. Just… proof. The gravel of the driveway crunched beneath your feet. The porch light caught the corner of your jacket, your frizzed hair, the shine still clinging to your cheeks from dried gas and sweat.

Agatha didn’t walk ahead. She matched your pace. Shoulder to shoulder. No words. Only the quiet weight of everything she hadn’t said—and everything she already had. She unlocked the front door and opened it.

The house greeted you like it had been holding its breath. Soft light spilled in from the kitchen—left on, maybe out of hope. The air was warm, still faintly scented with whatever candle she must’ve blown out before she left. Rosemary. Smoke. Wax. Home.

You stepped inside first. Your boots met hardwood with a soft thud. The ache in your thighs flared with every movement, and your ribs pulled tight where the bruises were beginning to set in. Sweat still clung to your back, to the backs of your knees. The scent of tear gas and adrenaline followed you like a second skin.

Behind you, Agatha closed the door. The lock clicked into place—clean, final. You didn’t look at her. You didn’t need to. You moved on instinct now. Down the hall. Around the corner. Through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The path was muscle memory now—dim light, familiar shadows, every step echoing louder than it should have. You peeled off your jacket as you walked, fingers fumbling a little at the zipper. Then your shirt, tugged over your head with a wince. Every movement dragged at tired muscles, each one aching in a different register. The fabric stuck to your back, damp with sweat and tear gas and hours of tension. You let it fall in the doorway without looking back.

The mirror caught your reflection under the soft, gold light from the fixture overhead—low, almost merciful. Still, it didn’t hide the truth.

Your skin was flushed, red from heat and movement. Dried tear tracks curved down your cheeks in uneven lines. Your hair stuck out in every direction, curls frizzed and tangled from sweat and smoke and the weight of the night. But what caught your eye first—what made your stomach pull—were the bruises.

Dark. Ugly. Blooming across your arm in shades of violet and rust. The edges had already begun to swell, pooling in thick shadows under the skin. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

You reached forward, turned the water on hot. Steam rushed up almost immediately, fast and thick, wrapping itself around the glass and climbing toward the ceiling. Within seconds, the mirror blurred, softening the edges of your reflection until you couldn’t see yourself at all.

It helped. One by one, your clothes hit the tile—pants, underwear, socks. You didn’t fold them. Didn’t bother. You just wanted them off. Wanted everything that clung to you—the night, the fear, the humiliation—gone.

You stepped into the shower. And the water hit you like gravity. Hot. Relentless. Real. The first few seconds stung, the heat dragging across raw skin, catching every scratch and welt. But then… you exhaled. Not dramatically. Just a slow, shaky breath from somewhere deep in your ribs, like you hadn’t let yourself take one since the moment you were cuffed.

Gas. Dirt. Someone else’s blood. It all swirled down the drain in thick streaks, carried away with the last traces of control you didn’t even know you were still clinging to. You pressed your hands against the tile wall, head bowed, water pounding against the back of your neck. The pressure pushed into your spine, your shoulders, your bruised ribs, until it felt like you might finally collapse.

You didn’t cry. But your shoulders shook anyway. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just from release. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Softly, so quietly it could’ve been imagined, you heard the door open behind you. You didn’t flinch You knew it was her. You reached for the knobs and turned the water off slowly, each movement deliberate, aching. Your hands trembled as you pushed the glass door open, steam rolling outward in thick waves. The room had filled with it entirely, fogging the mirror and blurring the outside world to a haze of silver and light.

Agatha stood by the sink, arms crossed, still in the black coat she hadn’t bothered to take off. Her hair had begun to fall from its pin, a strand curling against her cheek. She didn’t speak. Her eyes caught yours in the mirror first—dark, unreadable. Then they dropped.

To your ribs. To your thighs. To the darkening bruise on your shoulder. The raw, red pressure marks around your wrists. The angry welt stretching violet across your hip.

Her entire body tensed, but she didn’t move. And just for a second, you saw it again—the exact expression she’d worn in the jail lobby.

Not horror. Not pity. Rage, tempered only by awe.

Not awe at what had been done to you— But awe at the fact that you had walked away from it.

She didn’t move toward you. Not immediately. Her eyes continued to scan your body, slow and deliberate, like she needed to memorize it. Every mark. Every place they had dared to lay hands on. Every part of you that hurt.

She stepped forward only when the silence between you shifted from fragile to sacred. Her movements were quiet. Almost reverent. She reached for a towel on the nearby rack. Unfolded it with careful hands. Wrapped it around you in one slow, precise motion—starting at your shoulders, tucking it close at your back.

And then, she knelt. Not fully. Just enough to place herself lower than you. Just enough to bring her eye level with the bruise near your hip, the abrasion across your thigh. One of her hands reached out—hovering just above your skin. Waiting.

She didn’t need to ask. But she did, with her body.

You nodded.

Her fingers ghosted over the bruises. Light as air. Not pressing. Just present. Her voice, when it came, was almost nothing. Just breath shaped into words. "This… they’ll answer for this.” Your throat tightened. You swallowed. Still wrapped in the towel, still damp and shaking.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer now. Not to reassure her. Not even to reassure yourself. Just to mark that you were still here. But she shook her head, rising to her full height with measured grace. “No.” She took a breath, steady and quiet. “You’re hurt. And you’re mine.”

The words rang out low and absolute—like a spell cast not to control you, but to protect you. She looked at you fully now, eyes locked on yours. Every inch of her tall with fury, with grief, with love she hadn't been able to voice while you were missing. “So no—they don’t get to walk away from that.”

And in her gaze, you saw it:

Claim. Sanctity. A rage that bent toward justice, not vengeance.

You stayed like that for a few seconds longer—still damp, wrapped in the towel, her hands no longer touching you but her presence close enough to feel. Then you moved. Not far. Just a few steps out of the fogged bathroom and into the bedroom. You walked slowly, body aching, towel clutched tight around your ribs. Agatha followed without a word, the rhythm of her footsteps deliberate and light behind you.

The bedroom was dim, quiet, safe. Moonlight brushed the edge of the comforter. One lamp glowed on the nightstand. You sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling long and slow. She moved around you—methodical, steady—and pulled a soft shirt from the dresser. One of hers. Black cotton, worn thin from years of wear. The kind that smelled like her skin, like amber and salt. You took it without speaking, tugging it gently over your head. The motion hurt your arms, made your back sore, but once it was on, it felt like being held. Not fabric. Her.

She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass of water. She knelt in front of you again, the glass offered in silence. Her hand brushed yours as you took it. You drank slowly. Half the glass, then set it aside. She didn’t move. “You smell like smoke and injustice,” she murmured then—almost to herself, almost like it surprised her.

You let out a breath of a laugh. Not quite humor. Just something loosening inside your chest. You shifted, resting your hands between your knees. “We were handing out water,” you said, voice rough but steady. “It was calm. Peaceful. People were chanting, walking. Holding signs.”

Agatha didn’t interrupt. “Then they brought the riot gear,” you continued, your gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past the floor. “And the gas hit. I didn’t flinch.” You looked up then. Let her see the fire still sitting behind your eyes. “I didn’t fucking move.”

Her face twisted at that—something sharp and unreadable crossing over her features. Not surprise. Not pride. Something harder. “Of course you didn’t,” she said softly. Her voice was flat, but her body wasn’t. Her shoulders had drawn inward slightly, her hands curling in her lap like she was holding back more than words.

You looked down at your thighs. The bruises. The raw skin near your wrist. “But they saw that as defiance,” you said. “Guess I was easy to grab.” Her exhale was quiet but fierce. Her hand slid along your thigh, slow and grounding, then came to rest on your knee. Warm. Anchored.

“I know why you went,” she said. “I’m not mad.” You turned your head. Met her eyes again. There was something else in her face now—something softer beneath the heat. Something that hadn’t had space to show itself until now. “But next time,” she added, voice lower, almost reverent, “you don’t go without me. Not again.”

There was a beat of silence. Your breath caught somewhere between protest and understanding. “You’d get arrested too.”

“Good.” She didn’t blink when she said it. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flinch. And she meant it. You stood slowly, rising from the edge of the bed. Her shirt—the one she’d handed you minutes ago—hung loose on your frame, skimming the tops of your thighs, still damp from the towel you let fall in a hush to the floor. The fabric smelled like her. Cedar, smoke, and something deeper—clove, maybe. Home.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone. Her eyes tracked you as you moved—every step, every breath. But she didn’t move toward you. Not yet. You stepped in close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough to taste the tension that lingered in the space between your bodies like static before a strike. And then—gently, reverently—you reached for her hands.

Her fingers were warm in yours, a little unsteady. You didn’t rush. You brought them up, guiding them to your waist with a care that felt like ceremony. Her palms settled against your skin. They hesitated for half a second. Then spread—slow, open, searching. “Touch me,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “See? I’m still here.” Agatha’s lashes fluttered once. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She obeyed.

Her hands began to move—not with urgency, but with a sacred slowness. She traced the edge of your hips with the same focus she might have used to trace runes. Her thumbs swept inward, brushing the slight dip just above your pelvis, then up—across your ribs, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch she touched was treated like proof of life. Of endurance. Of return.

She didn’t speak. But her hands said everything. They moved up your sides, cataloging every bruise, every scrape. Her fingers paused at each one—lingering, memorizing. Not because she needed to know where you hurt, but because she needed to know where they had dared to leave a mark.

And then, her mouth followed. She leaned in and pressed her lips to your collarbone, slow and open. You tasted her breath against your skin, warm and uneven. She kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower. Her mouth ghosted over your sternum, then down the side of your ribs, just shy of the bruise beneath. When her lips found the edge of it, she paused. Exhaled. Pressed a kiss there, too. It wasn’t comfort. It was claim. You felt it in the way her lips lingered, in the press of her cheek to your ribs. And then she whispered—barely audible, thick with need. “I need to feel you safe.”

The words hit harder than any bruise. You nodded. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t need to. Your hands moved to her shoulders—strong, steady. You turned her gently, guiding her backward toward the bed. Her knees hit the mattress first, and she sank down without protest, her hands never leaving your waist. And then—gently—you laid her down, pressing her down like a benediction. The mattress dipped beneath your bodies, the sheets whispering around you. She yielded beneath your touch like water bending to pressure—unresisting, unafraid.

She looked up at you like she was trying not to fall apart. Like she was trying to memorize the angle of your face above her. Her breath caught when your fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist, then her forearm. You kissed your way down to her throat, over the pulse beating there like a secret.

Her hands slid up to your sides, not pulling—just holding. Her touch was slow. Devout. Nothing selfish in it. Just devotion, made flesh. You kissed her like a confession, mouth soft but sure. You opened against her lips, let her taste your exhaustion, your survival, your hunger to be seen again outside of pain. She kissed you back like absolution. Like she needed this to believe it was over.

You whispered her name. Not as a question. Not even as a prayer. Just to say it. Just to feel it in your mouth. Agatha exhaled like she had been holding her breath since the second your name came through the phone hours ago—dry, hoarse, and terrified. Your mouths found each other again, slower this time. Her lips parted under yours, soft and seeking, as though she were relearning how to be kissed after hours of holding her breath. Her hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt—the one now clinging to your damp skin—fingertips brushing your waist like they were rediscovering a coastline she used to know by heart.

Your hands moved up her shirt, lifting it just enough to press your palm to her stomach. You felt her muscles jump beneath your touch—tiny, electric tremors. She let you pull it over her head in silence. Underneath, she was bare. No bra. No armor. Just skin—warm, freckled, trembling faintly where your breath touched her.

You didn’t lunge. You looked at her. The pink rise of her nipples. The soft swell of her stomach. The tension still curled in her lower abdomen like a held note. She didn’t cover herself, but her eyes flicked up to meet yours—waiting to see what you’d do next.

You bent, kissed her sternum. Lowered your mouth to one breast and wrapped your lips around it slowly, drawing her into your mouth with purpose. Her breath caught instantly. One of her hands flew to the back of your head, not to guide but to feel—to tether herself to the reality of your mouth on her.

You sucked, slow and sure, tongue dragging against the peak of her until she arched beneath you. A low sound spilled from her throat—half-gasp, half-growl. You moved to the other breast and gave it the same devotion, your free hand sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, fingers following the subtle lines of muscle and tension.

She was already shaking. Not from fear. From release—emotional, physical, holy. You kissed your way lower, slow as sunrise, your breath warm against her belly as your mouth descended. Her thighs parted instinctively, one drawn up at the knee, the other falling open to welcome you in. Your fingers found the button of her jeans and lingered there—not for permission, but to mark the moment. She watched you with parted lips and a flush blooming along her chest, her pupils wide and swallowing the light.

You undid her pants with deliberate precision, the metal catch releasing with a soft click, the zipper rasping down like silk drawn through clenched teeth. She lifted her hips without being asked—composed, compliant, offering. You eased the denim down her legs, the gentle curve of her thigh, the ridge of her kneecap, the vulnerable softness of her calf.  She was laid bare before you. Her underwear was damp. Not just from arousal, but from everything that had built between you since the moment you stepped out of that jail. Her body had been waiting for this—not just release, but restoration. Her breath hitched as you hooked your fingers under the waistband and dragged the last barrier down, watching the way her body responded: muscles twitching, thighs parting further, the gleam of her already-slick folds catching the low light.

When you reached the edge of her, you paused—your lips hovering just above the place where her scent thickened, where heat pooled, where need lived. She looked at you then, eyes glassy and dark, lips parted around a breath she hadn’t let go. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. You licked her slowly. From base to tip. Flattening your tongue and dragging it up her center like you were writing something into her skin—something she could only read with her body.

Her hips jolted beneath you. Not a flinch. A response. Her thighs locked tighter around your shoulders, anchoring you in place, as if her body already knew this was where it had been trying to return all night. You moaned softly into her—the taste of her warm and familiar and wild. Salt and heat. Lightning and earth. You licked again, slower, firmer, letting your tongue press into her like a vow she could feel in the marrow of her bones. She gasped, a sound caught low in her throat, one hand flying to the headboard as if something in her needed grounding—needed anything to keep her from coming apart too fast. The other found you. 

Her fingers slipped into your hair, threading through the damp strands with the kind of pressure that made your spine tighten. She wasn’t pulling, not exactly. Just holding—curling her fingers into the roots like she needed the physical proof that you were real, grounded, there. Her palm pressed flat to the back of your head, her thumb stroking behind your ear. She guided you not with force but with reverence, her whole body trembling beneath your mouth.

You kissed her clit gently, lips sealing around the swollen flesh, tongue flicking once, twice, slow and deliberate. Her grip in your hair tightened just slightly, and a low, broken sound slipped out of her—half need, half disbelief.

You pushed two fingers inside her—slow, steady, unyielding. Her whole body jolted as if struck from the inside. A gasp tore out of her, raw and ragged, sharp enough to leave her throat aching. It wasn't just breath—it was need, it was the wild instinct of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long.

She clenched down around you immediately, tight and wet and pulsing, the heat of her body drawing your fingers in like a promise. You didn’t give her time to settle. You filled her with purpose, curled your fingers inside her with the quiet rhythm of worship, of knowing. The press of you was deep, certain, reverent. You kissed her clit again, slow and soft, then harder—your tongue circling with aching, relentless care. Agatha’s legs trembled violently around your shoulders. You felt it in the way her calves tensed, the way her thighs bracketed your body like instinct and defense and surrender all at once. She tried to breathe through it—but her body was speaking louder than her control ever could. You didn’t want stillness. You wanted the way her hips bucked upward, wild and graceless, seeking more. You wanted the way her voice cracked open, not in language but in pure, desperate sound. You wanted the way her breath staggered as her fingers twisted deeper into your hair, holding you to her like her life depended on it.

Agatha—always composed, always calculated. The sharpest voice in any room. But here, under your mouth, around your fingers—she fractured. Her back arched off the mattress, the curve of her spine a perfect, trembling bow. Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent plea. One hand fisted the sheets beside her, white-knuckled, pulling until the fitted corner snapped loose. Her other hand never left your head. It gripped the back of your skull like she didn’t dare let go, like if she did she’d be dragged under completely.

You pressed harder. Worked her deeper. Tongue circling her clit in unrelenting spirals, fingers curling inside her with divine purpose. You could feel her starting to break—her muscles locking, her core tightening, the low whimper curling in her chest like lightning about to strike.

You watched her fall apart from the inside out. And just as the first cry spilled from her lips, her hand flew upward—reflexive, frantic—covering her mouth like she could somehow swallow the sound. You lifted your head just enough to speak, your voice dark with reverence and heat. “Agatha.” A pause. Her eyes met yours, wide and wet. “Don’t you dare hide those moans from me.” The hand fell away slowly, shame stripped bare beneath your gaze. Her lips parted, but it wasn’t an apology you were after. It was release. And when she did moan—raw, shattered, helpless—you groaned in return. Low. Hungry. Possessive. The sound of her pleasure ricocheted through your spine, setting your body alight. You moaned into her, the vibration of it surging through her clit like a spark to kindling.

Her whole body jolted. “Fuck—” she gasped, the word dragged from her throat like a secret finally exposed. That’s what you wanted. Not silence. Not restraint. You wanted her loud. You wanted her to give herself over to it completely.  You moaned again—because of her,for her—and she cried out, hips bucking against your mouth like her body couldn’t take it anymore. The way you said her name, the way your voice trembled around her, the way your fingers curled just right inside her—it tore something open.

Her voice followed, thick and broken between panting gasps. “Please—don’t—don’t stop—” The words spilled out of her like a dam had cracked wide. Her voice was hoarse with desperation, her body straining for you, toward you. Every muscle in her thighs trembled, her hands fisting the sheets on either side of her hips. Her knuckles had gone white.

Your fingers stroked deep inside her, slow and relentless. Your mouth latched onto her clit again, tongue pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Your name fell from her lips like worship. Her voice caught on it. Broke. “I need to—God, I need to cum—on your mouth, I want to come on your mouth—”

You paused just long enough for her to feel the absence of your tongue. Then you lifted your head—barely—just enough to speak against the slick heat of her. “Is that what you want, Aggie?” you whispered, voice dark and rich with authority. Your breath dragged over her, teasing the edge of her clit. She whined—high and wrecked.

You slid your fingers deeper.  Her head tossed against the pillow, her voice hoarse with need. “wanna cum for you—please.” You moaned at the sound of her begging, the raw edge of it cutting straight through your chest.  She arched off the mattress, a full-body quake that overtook her entirely. Her thighs trembled, locked around your head like she could fuse you to her. Her fingers dug into your hair—not to guide, not to control, but to hold—to anchor her in the only truth she knew anymore: you.

You pulled your fingers out slowly, deliberately, watching the way her body clenched around the absence. Slick coated your knuckles, glistening with the proof of her need, her surrender. But you weren’t done. You leaned in lower, kissed the inside of her thigh once—then again, a whisper-soft press of lips against skin flushed with heat.  You pushed your tongue inside her. Her moan broke apart mid-air, jagged and helpless. She convulsed. The moment your tongue slid into her—deep, slow, possessive—her back bowed hard off the mattress. Her legs trembled violently on either side of your face as you fucked her with your mouth—smooth and strong and steady—tongue stroking deep, then pulling back, then driving forward again with the full weight of your devotion.

“Fuck—” she sobbed, and the sound was wrecked, nearly inhuman. Her voice cracked in half around it. “Mmmf—right there—””

You curled your arms under her thighs and pressed deeper, locking her in place. You moaned into her and the vibration made her choke on her next cry. She broke. Hard. Messy. Loud. Soaking your mouth, twitching under your tongue, gasping your name like it was the only anchor left in the world. Her thighs shook. Her body trembled. And still, you stayed with her. Inside her. Worshipping her with every stroke of your mouth, until she had nothing left to give but your name, whispered again and again like prayer.

You kissed her one last time, slow and deep, letting your tongue linger inside her. You felt the final tremors roll through her body like aftershocks, her thighs twitching, her chest still heaving, one hand still tangled in your hair like she couldn’t quite bear to let you go.

Your palms pressed into the mattress on either side of her hips as you climbed—not over her, but along her—tracing the altar of her body like scripture. Your mouth dragged over the soft plane of her stomach, the fluttering curve of her ribs, the flushed slope of her breast. She shuddered beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight in the echo of what you'd already given her—legs parted, chest rising in shaky, uneven gasps.

Her eyes found yours through the haze, wide and reverent and burning. Not begging. Offering. You leaned down, just enough to let your breath ghost over her lips. “I’m not done with you,” you whispered. A vow against her mouth. Your voice was low, wrecked, raw—full of need, full of knowing. “Not even close.” Your mouth collided with hers in heat and hunger, tongue sliding deep. She tasted like salt and surrender—like skin and aftermath, like the echo of your name caught in her throat. She gasped into you, helpless, and you swallowed it whole. Her hands flew to your back, clawing hard down the damp curve of your spine like she needed to leave marks. Maybe she did.

Your chests brushed—nipples tight and aching—and the contact made you both groan into the kiss. A low, shared sound. Desperate. Devout. You sat back slowly. Moving your body to let her see you. Let her watch. Your fingers found her right leg—slick, trembling. You lifted it gently, reverently, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee. And then, in one smooth motion, you draped it over your shoulder. Her body flexed beneath you, breath hitching.

You leaned against her left thigh, sliding into place like you’d been sculpted to fit her. Not above her. Not controlling. Aligned. Open. Anchored. The angle was perfect—your leg slotted beside hers, your center catching hers with devastating precision. That first touch—clit to clit, slick and swollen—made your whole body jolt. Your mouth parted around a gasp, head falling back as heat shot down your spine like lightning.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You leaned back slightly—just enough to keep her leg curled over your shoulder, just enough to rock your hips into her with deliberate rhythm. Your clit caught against the underside of hers—that ridge—so sensitive, so swollen it felt like it was made to meet yours. Agatha’s breath tore from her throat in a raw cry, her head dropping back, spine bowing off the bed. Her hips twitched, chasing your rhythm. Her fingers dug into your waist—not to stop you, never that—but to anchor herself. To feel.

You circled again. Firmer. Sharper. Each pass of your clit dragged through hers with a heat that bordered on unbearable. The contact was obscene—wet silk, soft friction, slippery pressure that made your breath shudder out in broken pieces. Her leg trembled over your shoulder. Her breath faltered. You kissed her calf. Then your voice dropped—low, guttural, trembling. “Just like that.”

You moved—hips grinding in a soaked, sacred rhythm. Every circle hit that same angle, that same nerve-rich ridge where you met her perfectly. Agatha whimpered. You moaned. The sound of your slick bodies meeting filled the air—wet, rhythmic, shameless. And still, you moved. Again. And again. And again. You leaned into the drag—controlled, wrecked, reverent. The pressure bloomed at the base of your spine, sharp and divine. The angle. The heat. It was all too much and not nearly enough. Your clit caught beneath hers again—right in that aching spot—and her entire body arched like she'd been struck by lightning.

“Ahhh—fuck—” Her voice cracked, hands flying to the sheets, the mattress, you. “You feel—oh God—” You rolled your hips again, your breath catching on the impact. The drag was soaked. The ridge was sharp. The friction was perfect. You cried out—raw, guttural—as pleasure surged through you like fire. You kissed the inside of her knee again, teeth scraping lightly against the muscle as your back arched and your hips snapped.

Your grip tightened—one hand braced on her hip, the other still holding her leg where it crowned your shoulder like something holy. She held on. You found your rhythm—deep, slow circles that made her whimper with every pass. Her clit pulsed beneath yours, slick and swollen, catching you in that divine slide. Her head thrashed. Her hips bucked. “Look at me.” Your voice was rough now, cracked with need. Sacred. Sharp. “I want to watch you while I fuck you like this.”

Her eyes flew open—wrecked, glassy, pleading. But they met yours. Locked. Wide. Glowing. And what you saw there was beautiful. Ruined devotion. Wide-open need. It nearly broke you. You ground down harder. Slower. Let your clit drag through hers in one long, brutal slide that made her cry out, voice splintering in your name. Her mouth opened. But no words came. Just sound. Just you. Your body was fire—burning from the inside out, every nerve wired to hers. Every grind of your clit sent new waves of heat crashing through your spine. You moaned—louder this time, no shame, no restraint—as your climax clawed its way up from your core. “F-fuck—Aggie—fuck—”

Your hips moved faster. Deeper. Tighter circles that slammed your clit against hers again and again until the pleasure went white-hot, ragged, unstoppable. The drag of your bodies was slick and relentless. Soaked. Sacred. Her breath caught. It hit her like a tidal wave—her thighs locking, hands clawing at the sheets, mouth torn wide in a moan that cracked into pieces. She came hard, convulsing under you, her whole body seizing with the force of it. You were right behind her. Your orgasm slammed into you like thunder, blinding and wild. You cried out her name—wrecked, gasping—as your clit spasmed with every beat of your heart. Your body shook. Your vision blurred. The pleasure tore through you like something holy.

You kept circling, trembling, your body grinding through the aftershocks as if you could give her more, all of you. You moved her thigh off your shoulder, kissing it once more. Laying it down gently. You collapsed into her, chest to chest, trembling, your breath hot against her throat. Agatha was gasping, your name slipping from her lips in pieces—quiet, hoarse, like a prayer spoken through tears. Her hands slid slowly up your back, not searching, just holding, like she needed to feel you pressed close to believe you were still real. She was shaking, still whimpering softly into your neck, her legs quivering around your waist, her entire body limp with the weight of what had just passed between you. Your slick mingled with hers in a soaked, sacred mess between your thighs—evidence of need, of trust, of everything you’d just given and taken.

The room around you vibrated with aftermath—wet skin, broken rhythm, the trembling hush of something holy having torn through both of you. The air smelled like sex, like salt and heat and skin, but beneath that, it smelled like home—like her. You kissed her. Not hungrily. Not to claim. But because you needed to. Because the only thing left to do in the wake of what you’d shared was to seal it with reverence. Your lips pressed to hers with the kind of aching slowness that meant everything. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand or devour, but promised. A kiss that said, I see you. I always will. You lingered there, mouths open and soft, letting the weight of the moment settle into the center of your chest like gravity.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words catching on what little breath you had left. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration. It didn’t need to be. It came out like marrow—raw and unshakable, undeniable in its truth. Her breath caught, just once. And then her hands began to move.

They slid up your sides in long, steady strokes. Down your spine. Into your hair. Her fingers cradled the back of your head, firm and sure, like she was taking hold of something she already owned. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her mouth opening beneath yours, guiding rather than asking. “I know,” Agatha murmured against your lips, her voice still frayed around the edges—wrecked, but shifting.

And then she moved. It was subtle at first. Barely perceptible. Just the tilt of her mouth against yours, but you felt it. The shift. The transfer. Something beneath your skin recognized it before you did. Her lips parted beneath yours—and then sealed again—this time deeper, firmer. Her kiss was no longer a reply. It was a command. Her tongue met yours, coaxing at first, then catching. And then she sucked—slow, hungry, deliberate—pulling your tongue into her mouth like she was taking something sacred. A taste. A vow. Your breath. The sound you made cracked open from your chest, half-moan, half-sob. You shivered beneath her, your hands slipping, trying to hold on—but she had you.

Agatha kissed you like she wanted to swallow your pulse. And as your hips trembled up into her, she began to rise. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other slid down, anchoring at your hip. She rolled her body against yours—not aggressive, not forceful—but with the quiet power of someone reclaiming ground that had always belonged to her.

She shifted her weight, one leg sliding between yours, her thigh nudging yours apart again, her breath still catching but her movements gaining precision. You felt her fingers flex against your ribs as she took a breath and exhaled through her nose—steadying herself.

And then she rolled you. It happened in a fluid wave. One moment you were on top—straddling, trembling, kissed open. The next, her hands were guiding your hips and your spine, your body turning beneath hers with the ease of water answering gravity. You landed back against the mattress with a soft gasp, your hair fanned across the pillow, your legs open and wet and waiting.

She followed you down. Didn’t hesitate. Her body stretched over yours in one long, heated press—shoulders shadowing yours, her thighs bracketing your hips. She hovered just above you for a breathless second, her gaze drinking you in—cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, lips swollen from the way she'd kissed you.

You stared up at her like you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your life. Agatha was trembling—but it was a different kind of tremor now. Not overwhelmed. Not undone. It was control, newly returned to her hands. It was power, held gently, like fire carried in open palms. She looked at you like she’d waited her whole life for this moment. Her hair fell forward around her face as she leaned in again, mouth just barely brushing yours.

When your lips parted beneath hers, she didn’t hesitate—she sucked your tongue into her mouth with a low, shuddering moan that made your hips jerk up beneath her, involuntary, aching for her again.  She kissed you like she wanted to live inside your mouth. Like she wanted you silent and shaking beneath her. Each pass of her lips tasted like gratitude. Like a name whispered in a temple. There was nothing rushed about it—just warmth and breath and the shared stillness that follows sacred things. And then, slowly, she pulled back.

Her hand slid down your thigh again, steady and grounding, and then she rose—leaning back on her knees, settling between your hips like she belonged there. You blinked, dazed and open, every inch of your body slick and oversensitive. She looked down at you, and something in her expression shifted. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes roamed over your flushed chest, your parted legs, the shine of your arousal spread across your skin—and something ancient unfurled behind her gaze.

Without speaking, she brought her hand to her abdomen. Her fingers splayed across her skin just below her navel, and the air changed. You felt it first—a pulse, soft and rhythmic, like two heartbeats meeting in the dark. A violet glow flickered to life beneath her palm, faint at first, then brighter. Tendrils of energy coiled outward from her center, crawling across her torso in patterns that looked almost alive. The magic trailed over her hips, down her thighs, up her sternum, like molten silk, casting her skin in otherworldly shimmer. The heat of it rolled off her in waves, thick and heavy. She gritted her teeth, her jaw flexing with the effort of containing it. Every muscle in her body rippled with purpose, tightening as the spell took shape.

Her back arched, and then she gasped. The sound came from deep inside her—a raw, broken groan that fell out of her before she could stop it. Her head bowed. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain as her shoulders shuddered. You could feel the magic converging, sharpening, concentrating in her pelvis.

And then it appeared. Not an illusion. Not a trick. Something real. Summoned from the place where desire and divinity meet. A cock—thick and heavy and irrefutably hers—rose from her body, glowing faintly in the soft violet light of her magic. Veins ridged beneath the skin, hot and flushed, pulsing with the rhythm of her spell. It curved upward as though it had always been there, summoned not just from flesh but from need, from history, from some buried truth made manifest.

She moaned again, quieter this time. Shaken. Her hand wrapped around the base of it, tentative, like she was still learning the shape of herself. She stroked once. Then again. Slow and reverent. Her breath caught on the third pass, her shoulders twitching as her body adjusted to the new weight, the new heat. Her magic shimmered across her chest and arms, trailing after every movement like her skin couldn’t stop singing.

Her arms trembled. Her hips flexed with each slow stroke. She was still getting used to the weight of it, the power of it, the promise of it. "Fuck," she whispered. Her voice broke over the word like it didn’t know how to survive it. Her thumb dragged over the head, gathering her own shimmer-slick, her breath catching as her cock twitched in her grip.

When her eyes lifted to meet yours again, they burned straight through you. You didn’t realize you were moaning until she tilted her head, lips parted, and said your name so softly it sounded like an invocation. There was nothing performative in her expression. Just hunger. Reverence. Love, edged with something wild and claiming. “You’re trembling,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, roughened by sensation. “Look at you... spread open for me.”

The words hit you like a wave. You whimpered, hips canting upward in pure, instinctive offering. The air between you crackled. Her hand kept moving between her legs, stroking herself slowly to full hardness. She groaned under her breath, teeth gritted, her jaw clenched like she was holding something back. Then her fingers stilled, and she leaned forward.

She exhaled hard, and her cock twitched in her hand like it heard you. Her magic pulsed with it. Her whole body seemed to sharpen, realign, steady itself around your need. Then she moved. Slow at first—like a wave shifting its weight before the crash. Her hands slid to your knees, guiding your trembling thighs into place with a touch so gentle it hurt. And then she rose higher onto her knees, the heat of her body pulsing between you. Her cock, flushed and gleaming curved up from her hips like something holy. A weapon forged from magic and want. She held it loosely at the base, breath hitching as she watched the way you fluttered open beneath her.

And then—deliberately, devastatingly—she leaned forward. Her thighs slipped between yours like water seeking depth, parting you with reverence. Her body lowered above yours, the air shifting with the weight of her presence, the gravity of what she was about to do. And then you felt her.

The crown of her length, flushed and slick with need, brushed your inner thigh like a secret you weren’t ready to hold. You gasped. The sensation was maddening—too soft, too searing, too much, not enough. A whisper and a thunderclap all at once.

Her skin clung to yours—slick with sweat and humming with magic, the heat between you thick enough to taste. Her hips hovered just above yours, mercilessly patient, but the weight of her cock hung low, suspended in tension, dragging across your thigh like a vow she hadn’t yet spoken.

The tip of it glistened, leaking warmth in slow, deliberate beads. Each time she shifted, it left behind a searing trail—a streak of wanting—a mark not yet visible, but already burned into you.

Her left hand braced beside your head, palm flat, arm trembling under the strain of control. With the other, she reached between your bodies—fingers steady, reverent—and wrapped around the base of herself like she was holding a relic, not flesh. She adjusted the angle, her knuckles grazing your skin as she guided her shaft down to meet you.

And then—you felt it.

The velvet heat of her cock slid through your folds. Once. Twice. Again. Deliberate. Worshipful. Her tip nudged your clit on the third pass and your whole body jumped, a cry torn from your throat as fire shot up your spine. She groaned above you—a low, wrecked sound, as if it cracked something open in her.

But still, she didn’t push in.

She moved through you slowly, the underside of her length dragging across every swollen inch—thick, heated, reverent. Her palm followed the motion, firm around the base, guiding each stroke with ruthless, aching precision. Each pass made your breath stutter. Each drag sent another jolt through your core—not deep, not even close—just enough to leave you soaked and trembling.

The tip of her, slick and flushed, circled your clit with maddening patience before sliding down again, catching against you, spreading you without entering. She kept her grip steady. Adjusted the pressure. Aligned herself perfectly with every trembling inch. Her knuckles brushed your skin as she moved—controlling the rhythm, controlling herself.

The head nudged again, pressing into your clit in a slow, deliberate arc before dragging back down to rest—just barely—at your entrance. The anticipation coiled, sharp and unrelenting. You could feel it gathering in your belly, your throat, your skin—a need edged in reverence.

Her jaw was clenched. Her thighs shook. Her breath came hard and shallow through her nose, and still she didn’t give in. You could feel it—her restraint. A tremor disguised as control.

“God, look at you,” she rasped. “So wet for me. So fucking ready.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as she grounded herself in the sensation. When she looked at you again, her pupils were blown wide, her face caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets. Your mouth opened but only broken sounds came out. Her cock teased your entrance again, pressing in just enough for your body to part around her crown, just enough to make you sob with need.  

“Look at me,” she rasped.

Your eyes flew to hers. Her gaze was fire and storm—wide, blown, burning with something old and sovereign. The magic behind her eyes glowed faintly violet at the edges, laced with reverence, with need, with the terrible beauty of being known. Her fingers released their grip from the base of her cock and braced instead beside your head, caging you in. You felt the shift. The change in gravity. The surrender of resistance.

With the slowest, most devastating precision, she began to push forward. You felt her enter you inch by inch—her, not a spell or a toy or a placeholder, but Agatha. Her cock stretched you open with reverent force, thick and alive, pulsing with magic and heat. Your body gave way around her, clutching tight and slick, your cunt fluttering in desperation as she filled you deeper than you thought you could take.

The pressure was overwhelming, but not pain. It was fullness. Expansion. A claiming. You could feel your walls adjust to her shape, your muscles trembling with the effort of holding her, welcoming her, keeping her. The sensation tore a cry from your throat—raw and helpless—and your head tipped back on instinct.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, as though the feeling of your body accepting her was the reward she’d waited her whole life for. Then her mouth was on yours—hot, breathless, consuming—as her hips pressed forward in one smooth, controlled motion. She slid all the way in. Not fast. Not rough. Just full. The stretch burned its way through your core, your body breaking open around her, split wide by the sacred pressure of being taken. Her moan spilled into your mouth, ragged and low, vibrating against your tongue. Her body shook above yours, her muscles clenching with the effort it took not to lose control.

She collapsed against you, breasts pressed tight to your skin, both of you slick with sweat and spellwork and need. She throbbed inside you, thick and impossibly deep, every pulse matched by the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. Her thighs braced around your hips, trembling as she held you down with her weight, surrounding you in heat and strength, in the unbearable intimacy of now.

A soft, broken moan spilled from your lips, your mouth grazing her collarbone. “Ahh—Agatha…”

Her breath caught, a low, strangled sound rising in her throat. “Nnh—fuck…” Her hips jerked just slightly. Barely. Just a slow, languid pull of her hips—an inch, maybe two—before she slid back in, deep, deliberate. The stretch renewed, softer now, the ache melting into something wetter, something hungrier, and you moaned again—louder this time, throat open, breathless.

“Ah—god—yes…”

Your voice broke against her skin, trembling against the slope of her neck. She felt it—heard it—and her mouth curved into a smile so gentle, so wrecked, it made your heart seize. “There you go,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence.

She thrust again—slow, fluid, the drag of her cock thick and heavy as she pulled back and sank in deeper, letting her hips roll in a way that made your entire body bow beneath her. Your moan spilled out raw and unrestrained, your hands scrambling from the sheets up her back, trying to hold her closer, tighter, as if you could pull her inside your bones.

She groaned in response—low, breathy, helpless. “Mmmnh—fuck, you feel incredible…”

Her cock slid against every nerve, every tender edge inside you, and her next thrust came with more weight—still slow, still aching, but impossibly deep. You whimpered into the heat of her neck, your lips catching on damp skin as her rhythm built—steady, patient, devastating.

“I’m gonna take my time,” she whispered, breath hot in your ear, voice laced with the strain of control. “I want you to feel all of me… every inch. Every goddamn stroke.”

You moaned again. The syllables dragging out of you like worship. And she gave it to you. One deep, sinuous thrust at a time. Not fast. Not hard. Just full.

She moved like the tide, hips pressing forward in slow, shattering waves, your core gripping her with each stroke, wetter by the second, slick running down your thighs with every deliberate grind. The sound of your bodies meeting—wet, obscene, sacred—filled the room in soft stutters: smack… mmgh… fhh…

“God,” she rasped, biting gently at your earlobe, her hips circling as she stayed buried. “So fucking wet for me already…”

You could barely speak. Could barely breathe. A soft gasp broke from your lips—“Mmh—”—as your head turned into her shoulder, the tremor in your exhale betraying just how deep she’d reached. She pulled back again, then pushed forward once more—deep, slow, consuming—and made your whole body jolt.

“Aahh—Agatha—!”

She leaned in closer—her mouth brushing your jaw, then lower, lips parting against your neck—and sucked just beneath your pulse, slow and deliberate. The drag of her tongue made your breath hitch again— “Ahh—fuhhh—”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered against your skin, voice frayed. “I’m gonna take such good care of you…”

You nodded beneath her mouth, unable to speak—only moaning, low and helpless, as she kept moving. “Nnh… mmh… fuhhh—”

Each thrust was a vow, sinking into you with deliberate pressure, making your body light up, cell by trembling cell. Her cock dragged along every swollen nerve—thick, ridged, pulsing with heat—slow enough that you felt every vein, every twitch of her arousal mirrored through your walls. You were soaked. Slick dripped from the place where you took her deepest, where your body clung to her with desperate, greedy rhythm.

Your moan turned sharp—“Ahh—fuck—Agatha—oh my god—”—your back arching under her weight as you trembled beneth her.

She groaned, low and guttural, a rough sound torn from somewhere deep as you clamped down around her. Her mouth never left your skin—lips dragging upward now to kiss the corner of your mouth, her breath shaking as she murmured into it.

“mhhaahh—shit, baby,” she breathed, hips grinding slow but deeper, “you’re so tight—so wet for me…”

Your answer came in breath, not language— “Mmmh—nnh—tch—” You could barely hold still beneath her. Every inch of you was shaking, your skin buzzing, your mouth dragging open for another moan as she filled you again. The sound of her—the sound of you—was everywhere now. Moans tangled in the thick air, sharp gasps, wet cries. The slick, obscene drag of her inside you. The soft thump of her balls meeting you with each deep roll of her hips, sending shocks through your core that made you cry out, made your thighs tremble wide around her.

And she felt it. All of it. The way your body pulsed around her with every slow retreat, every devastating return. Her rhythm never quickened, not yet—just deep, deliberate strokes that left you clawing at her back, at the sheets, at yourself. She pressed deep again—one long, shattering stroke and bottomed out sending you arching beneath her, your head thrown back in a sobbing moan. “A-ah—Agatha—! I’m gonna—fuck—”

She caught your hips, pinning them down, and stilled inside you buried to the root. Her voice dropped, breath brushing your cheek, dark and loving and absolute.

“No.”

You froze, panting against her shoulder. Her lips ghosted your ear. “You don’t get to cum,” she whispered, voice tight and reverent, “not until Daddy says so.”

You whimpered—clenching hard around her in response, aching, throbbing, already teetering on the edge. The denial cut through the haze like lightning, sharp and grounding, your whole body trembling from the effort of holding back. “Daddy—please—” you gasped, your voice cracking around it.

“No,” she growled again, gently, into your neck. “You’ll wait. Be a good girl and let Daddy take her time.”

She pulled out halfway—your walls clenching, fluttering in protest—then thrust back in with such aching slowness you nearly sobbed. Your hands flew to her back, to her ass, to anything you could hold to keep from unraveling. Her shaft was too thick, too hot, too deep, every vein scraping against the inside of you in a rhythm that bordered on torture.

“You feel that?” she breathed. “Every inch of me—every fucking part of me inside you?”

Your mouths found each other in the mess of it—open, gasping, wet. Lips clashed, tongues tangled. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t composed.

She groaned into your mouth as she thrust again, harder this time—still controlled, still intentional, but the power behind it made your back arch and your thighs tremble. Her cock pushed deep and her balls slapped wetly against your ass with a smack that made your toes curl and your walls clench down tight.

She felt it.

“Fuuuck—” Her voice cracked, hips stuttering before she caught herself.

Your legs wrapped tighter around her hips, locking her in, refusing to let her go. You felt her cock throb inside you, thick and soaked, every thrust now hitting deeper, sharper—wet, messy, sacred. Her hips slammed into yours with rising urgency, the sound of your slick bodies meeting echoing between the broken gasps and frantic kisses.

Your head dropped back against the pillow, a sound catching in your throat— “Hnn—ah—mmnh—” It slipped out helplessly, your body arching to meet her.

“Ahhh—f-fuck, Daddy—!” you sobbed, your voice cracking open as her thrusts drove deeper, each one dragging more sound from your chest than you knew you had. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

She groaned—loud, guttural—as your words washed over her. Her mouth dropped to your throat, lips grazing your pulse, breath thick against your skin. “Yeah? You like how my cock feels inside you, baby?”

You moaned again—shakier this time— “Nnhh—tch—fuhhh—” Your hips twitched under her weight, your legs squeezing tighter as your body began to tremble. “God, yes—yes, I love it, I—fuck—I love when you fuck me like this, Daddy—”

Her pace stuttered, her next thrust rougher, deeper—perfect. “Mmmnnh—shit,” she growled, hips grinding into you. “You were made for this—look at the way you open up for me… this pussy’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yours,” you choked.

She moaned against your skin, the sound rough and filthy and wrecked. “I love fucking you,” she gasped. “I love how deep I get—how tight you are—how you clench around me like you never want me to leave—”

Her next thrust had you screaming—sharp and desperate. She slammed into you again—deep and wet, the slap of her balls hitting you sending stars through your vision—and you cried out, your voice breaking, body shaking beneath her.

“Listen to you,” she panted, mouth dragging across your jaw, lips brushing your ear. “So loud for Daddy. You need it, don’t you? You need my cock. Say it.”

“I need it,” you gasped. “I need your cock—”

She growled again, fucking into you harder now, her pace still controlled but relentless, every thrust sinking to the hilt. “That’s it. That’s my girl. So fucking wet for me—dripping, soaking my cock like you’ve been waiting your whole life to take me—”

Her words drove you wild—your hips rocked up to meet her, thighs trembling, moans pouring out of you like prayer. “Nnnh—ah—ahhh—”

“I can feel it,” she groaned, biting your neck. “The way your pussy’s clenching—grabbing me—like it knows it’s mine…”

You whimpered, nearly crying from how full you felt, how good she felt, how you couldn’t get close enough. Your bodies moved like one—your sounds rising together.

Her voice hit your ear again, raw and breaking. “No one else gets this. No one else makes me this hard. This gone. It’s only you. You do this to me.”

Your head fell back, a guttural moan breaking free. Your voice cracked, legs shaking around her as she rocked her hips again, just as slow, just as merciless.

Her hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head, her body bearing down with all that heat and weight. She kissed you hard—messy, open-mouthed—tongue sliding over yours as another deep thrust made your body arch, your cunt gripping her so tight she groaned straight into your mouth.

“Not yet. My brave girl.” she whispered.

You whimpered, sobbing softly, your body shaking beneath her from the ache of holding back. Every part of you was strung tight, your cunt soaked and pulsing around the heat of her cock, your breaths ragged, mouth open in helpless moans.

And then she pulled back just enough to see you, releasing your wrist.

She braced above you, trembling slightly, and her eyes scanned every inch of your face like she was trying to memorize the way you fall apart just for her. Your hair was a wild halo against the pillow, lips kiss-bruised and parted, breath coming hard and fast. The flush on your cheeks mirrored the heat in hers. Your chest rose and fell in sharp waves beneath her, the soft swell of your breasts brushing against hers with every trembling inhale.

She stared—stilled in that space where worship met want—and her pupils were blown wide, blue and endless. Her mouth hung open, the bottom lip twitching like she was about to say something, then forgot how to form words. She looked down, groaning softly at the sight of her cock still buried deep in your cunt, slick and twitching inside you. Then her gaze snapped back up—eyes glazed with heat, yes, but also something raw. Something more than hunger.

Devotion.

Her breath hitched. You felt it—tight and shaky where her chest brushed yours. Then her voice, low and cracked and full of awe: “God, baby…” Her eyes traced your every ruined, radiant inch. “Just lay there like that. Let me look at you.” Her hips rocked forward again, slow and dragging, her cock pulling nearly out before she slid back in, pressing so deep it punched a moan from your throat.

Your mouth dropped open, head falling back. Your fingers fisted the sheets. Your back arched. “Ahhh—nghhh—”

She groaned at the sound, her whole body stuttering like your voice had gone straight through her. Her hands trembled against the bed, but then she moved—shifted her weight to one arm, keeping her chest hovering just above yours. Her other hand slipped down, fingertips brushing your stomach, then lower, slow and reverent, until she found the base of her cock where it disappeared inside you.

You felt her knuckles brush your swollen lips as she wrapped her fingers around herself again—steadying, guiding. Then she pulled back. Her cock dragged through your slick heat, every vein scraping against the oversensitive clutch of your walls until just the head remained inside you. She paused there, hovering, teasing. Her breath fell hot against your cheek as she looked down between your bodies, watching the way you stretched, watching your cunt flutter open and empty without her.

And then she slid herself along you—up through your folds, thick and slick and unbearably slow—rubbing the head of her cock up your center and catching on your clit with a pressure that made you cry out.

“Mmmppphhhh—” The sound cracked from your throat before you could swallow it.

She moaned at the sound—low, wrecked—and did it again. Dragged herself down your slick folds, nudging at your entrance, pressing just enough to feel the resistance, then slipping back up. Her cock gleamed with you, soaked, pulsing in her hand. “Fuck…” she breathed, her voice unraveling. “God, baby, look how wet you are for me…”

Another pass—slow, obscene. She rubbed herself against your clit again, made you jerk under her, made your thighs twitch and your cunt clench around nothing. You gasped—“Ahhh—nnh—mmh—”—half-sob, half-shiver, your voice catching on the edge of need.

Then, finally, she lined herself up and pushed back in. Her hand stayed there, guiding herself through the tight squeeze of your cunt until her hips pressed flush to yours again, and she moaned—long, guttural, helpless. “Fuuuck…” You sobbed beneath her, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “D-Daddy—” The word fell apart on your tongue.

She did it again. Pulled back with aching control. Rubbed herself through your folds once more—slow, loving, filthy—then pushed back inside, slower this time, like she needed to feel every twitch of your body welcoming her.

And you gave it to her. Every time she slid in, you opened for her. Every time she dragged herself out, you ached for more—hips twitching, coating her cock in wet devotion. Her voice broke at your ear, thick with need. “I could do this forever… tease you, fuck you slow, watch your face every time Daddy slides back in…”

“Shit,” she breathed, eyes locked on your face as she pulled out again. Her fingers wrapped tight around the base, guiding herself back through your folds. You whimpered when the head rubbed over your clit, your voice breaking with it— “Nnh—ah—don’t—please—” She grinned—crooked, hungry, knowing. She lined herself up and sank in once more, all the way to the hilt, slow enough that your whole body arched and your breath caught. “Ohhh—fuhhh—Agatha—”

She groaned. Long. Shattered. “God, baby… you love this, don’t you?” she whispered. “It kills you, but you love it…” Her thrusts slowed again, her hand still on herself, controlling the angle, the pressure, the tease. You nodded, tears in your lashes from the burn of holding it all in. Her lips ghosted across your cheek, her breath hitching. “This drives you just as crazy as it drives me. Say it.”

You moaned against her jaw—“Mmnh—yeah—”—your voice breaking on the inhale. “I love it… I love when you do this to me…”

She pulled out again, ran herself over your folds—your clit, your entrance, back again—her cock soaked and twitching against your skin. “You love the way I fuck you slow. The way I wait.”

“D-daddy—please—” The word tore from you—broken, breathless, soaked.

Her hand still gripped her base, steadying, guiding, shaking. Then she pressed forward and slid back in, slow and devastating, until she was buried to the hilt.

Your whole body seized with it—back arching, a sob of a moan catching in your throat. “Ahhh—nnn—fuck—”

Her eyes dropped to where your bodies met, to where your cunt stretched around the thick base of her cock, soaked and trembling. “You’re so full—fuck—you look so good full of me.”

The words hit like heat. Your chest heaved. Your walls fluttered around her. She held there a beat longer, breathing hard, eyes locked on your face like she was reading every quake of your body, every trembling moan. Then her hand left the base of her cock—slow, deliberate.

And she moved.

One thrust. Then another. Deep. Heavy. Unforgiving. Her length dragged through you with unbearable thickness, every swollen vein and pronounced ridge scraping slow along your walls like a brand. It was too much—it was perfect. A stretch that lit you from the inside out, left your thighs trembling and your cunt fluttering wildly around her. Your slick coated her, dripped down between your legs, wet and hot and endless, every stroke pulling more from you.

Your fingers twisted the sheets. Your breath stuttered through parted lips. Each time she bottomed out, your voice cracked with it.

Above you, Agatha groaned—low, long, aching—her chest beginning to tremble with every thrust. “Shit—ahh—fuck—” “Mmmgh—god—baby—” She didn’t hold back now. Didn’t slow. Her hips rocked into you with rhythm and reverence, every stroke buried to the hilt.

Then she folded over you.

Bracing on her elbows, her chest flush to yours, slick with heat and breathless sweat, her mouth caught your cry as her hips thrust hard. The weight of her ground deep inside you like she belonged nowhere else—like home was something she found in you.

You felt her everywhere. The pressure. The weight. The relentless drag of her rubbing inside you. She slammed into yours, her hips pressing down, claiming. Her skin was hot and tight and trembling against yours, and your legs fell open without thought, trying to take her deeper.

Her balls slapped against your ass—wet, rhythmic, relentless. Each impact hit with a soaked precision that made your breath stutter and your cunt clench around her cock. That sound—obscene and sacred all at once—echoed between you like worship. Like ruin. Like everything she ever wanted was happening right here, in the way your bodies met over and over again.

Agatha groaned behind your ear—“Uhhhn—fuck—”—deep and thick, pulled straight from her chest. Her hips ground into you harder, her weight pressing you down into the mattress like she wanted to leave a mark on your soul.

“God—your pussy’s so fucking tight, baby,” she growled, her voice shredded with reverence and need. “So tight for Daddy…”

Your mouth fell open, your head thrown back. You couldn’t stop the moan that spilled out—high, broken, needy. “Hhhah—uhh—uhnnh—”

You could feel everything—every drag, every pulse, every twitch of her cock inside you. The way she dragged along your walls, the ridges of her veins catching and pulling against every swollen edge. The head—wide, swollen, pressure-heavy—pressed deeper and brushed the place that made your voice snap in half.

Your nails scraped down her back, desperate and trembling, your voice cracking as it left you. “Ah—ghhh—f-fuck—too much—”

She moaned into your skin, low and guttural, the sound scraped from deep in her chest. Her hips stuttered for half a breath, tension rippling through her frame. “Ffhh—shit—baby—”

Then she snapped forward again, grinding so deep the base of her cock pressed flush to your slick folds, her hips rocking in like she needed to carve herself into you. “I know, baby. I know it’s too much,” she panted, her lips dragging across your cheek, your temple, your throat—frantic with reverence. “But you’re doing so good—so fucking good—. You love how full you are, don’t you?”

You whimpered. Your voice failed. Your whole body locked up in answer. All you could do was nod—trembling, wide-eyed, jaw slack—until another thrust knocked a cry out of you. “Hh—ahh—mmgh—fuck—” The burn was sacred. The stretch was heaven. You nodded, head rolling back, jaw slack—until her next thrust forced a sound out of you that didn’t sound human.

“Ahnn—huhh—hahhh—D-Daddy—”

She didn’t slow. She didn’t let you breathe.  “That’s it,” she growled, lost now. “Let me in, baby. Let me have all of you—”

Her cock slammed in again. Then again. Every thrust was heavier now—deeper, like she wasn’t just fucking you, she was planting herself inside you. The drag of her cock pulled a string of slick sounds from your body—lewd and soaked and sacred.

Your legs trembled around her waist. Your arms locked around her shoulders like you could anchor yourself through the storm. “T-too big,” you gasped, voice thin and shaking. “So fucking big—mmmnnh—hurts, Daddy—feels s-so good—”

Agatha moaned again—“Fuck, fuck—”—low and biting, like she was barely holding it together. Her forehead pressed to yours, her breath pouring over your lips, every exhale unsteady. Her voice dropped to a growl. “Shhh… look at you—so good for me, baby, so fucking good—””

She rolled her hips again—slow, so deep—and your whole body jumped. Your cunt spasmed around her. Another gush of slick spilled between you, coating her cock, your thighs, the sheets. “Unhh—nhghhh—c-can’t—can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she breathed, panting now, voice twisted with awe and hunger. “You want this. You want me to fuck you until you can’t think—til you're crying, saying it’s too much—while your pussy just keeps sucking me in—begging me to stay—”

You moaned—long, cracked, desperate—as you clenched down without meaning to, your cunt fluttering like your body had made peace with breaking.

Agatha groaned—“Hhrrgh—shit, baby—you feel that?” Her voice cracked. Her hips jerked again, her cock twitching inside you. “You’re dripping—fucking shaking— and your body’s still begging—still asking Daddy for more—”

Her rhythm faltered—hips stuttering, breath catching—but she forced herself back in. Controlled. Grinding. Her thrusts weren’t wild anymore. They were starving.

Each one came with a moan scraped straight from her lungs: “Ngh—fhhk—hnnh—so deep—” “Mmmnn—tight—tight—fuck—”

The slap of her hips against yours filled the room. Louder. Faster. Filthier. Her balls hit you with every stroke—wet, heavy, punishing. Each smack made your thighs twitch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. Your cries came in waves—shattered, breathless, sobbing sounds. No words. No shape. Just the wreckage of want echoing off the walls.

“So hard…” you gasped, barely audible. “So deep—c-can’t—mmmnngh—so full—”

Agatha kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—open-mouthed and panting. She moaned against your skin, her voice raw. Her hips never stopped. She rutted into you like she was losing herself inside your body. “I know, baby. I know. You’re being so good—taking every inch”

The bed creaked beneath you in a steady rhythm—sharp, hollow thuds that matched the weight of her hips slamming into yours. Each thrust jolted the frame, the soft squeal of wood and motion becoming a relentless cadence. Her cock dragged through your core with lewd, aching precision—thick and soaked, every ridge and vein scraping along your walls like it had been made to fit you and only you. The wet sound of her slipping in and out filled the room, louder now, impossible to ignore—raw, slick, sacred. The weight of her balls slapped against you, adding to the slick echo of your bodies meeting. Slap. Slap. Slap.

You choked on a moan, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open. “Mmf—mmf—nnnh—”

The bed rocked harder, the headboard tapping the wall in time with every movement. Her skin stuck to yours. Her sweat beaded at the hollow of your throat. Your slick coated her thighs, ran down onto the sheets, made every stroke louder. The air was thick with it—sex and heat and magic and the kind of desperation only she ever pulled from you. The mattress heaved beneath you, the bed groaning under the force of her body. Slap. Her balls struck you with the next thrust—wet, firm, heavy. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your breath hitched. “Hnnn—hh—gghnn—” A sob burst from your throat, crumpling your voice in the middle of a gasp. “Uh—uh—uh—ahhh—f-fuck—” you whimpered, each gasp caught on the back of your tongue like you couldn’t quite keep up with her. “Daddy—” Above you, her breath broke into a moan—low, guttural, feral. “Nnnnnnnnnh—fuck—”

Her teeth grazed your neck as her hips slammed forward again, chasing the sound she just pulled from you. “You sound so good when I’m inside you,” she panted, voice hoarse, ruined. “You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded before you could speak, tears clinging to your lashes, jaw slack as your body rocked beneath her. The rhythm of her cock was constant and unholy, the obscene drag of her thickness pulling out just enough to make you cry for her, then slamming back in with a slick slap that echoed off the walls. “Khh—khhn—fuckfuck—” Your voice cracked, dragged raw with the rhythm.

The sound was so intimate it made you cry out, your body convulsing in helpless pleasure. You felt it—the swing and slap against your ass with every deep thrust, every grind that forced her cock as far as you could take. They were hot and tight, bouncing against your skin, again and again, swinging low enough to land perfectly, rhythmically, over and over, until your spine arched to meet each blow. The pressure, the weight—it made your thighs tremble. Your walls clenched around her, clutching with instinctive hunger. “Nnnh—nghh—fuck—Agatha—ahh—”

Agatha let out another moan—drawn from the depths of her chest, broken at the top. “—god, baby—” She bent low, her mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw, sucking in each of your sounds like breath.

Your voice cracked on her name, and something in her broke open. She groaned low, primal, her mouth pressed to your jaw as her hips rolled again. Slap. Your breath hitched. A choked moan escaped—half-formed, soaked in need. Slap. Again. Again. The sound of your slick, her cock, your moans—the rhythm was deafening now.

“Mmmph f-fuck—” you gasped, voice high and wrecked. “—it’s s-so loud—” you sobbed, voice cracking as the bed knocked against the wall, as the slap of her balls hit you again, again, again. “So loud, Daddy—””

Agatha froze for just a beat—like the words gripped her spine and dragged a moan straight from her chest. It rolled out of her low and shaking, not a word, not a command—just a raw, punched-out “Nnh—ah!”, scraped from somewhere primal. Her hips stuttered, cock buried deep, her body trembling from the force of it.

She loved it. The wet slap of her against you, the bed knocking the wall, your cries catching on every thrust—it did something to her. Her moan deepened into your neck, long and ruined, the sound vibrating straight through you. She didn’t speak right away—just groaned again, voice curling out of her like smoke, like surrender and power in the same breath.

The slick wet sound of your cunt wrapped around her cock echoed loud in the room now. Louder than it should’ve been. Louder than it had to be.

Agatha moaned into your skin, deep and drawn out, her hips stuttered for half a beat—not from weakness, but from the way you said it. From the way you meant it. Her grin was sharp, breathless, possessive—pressed against your jaw as she rocked deeper. “You hear that, baby?”  

She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Ahn—ahn—ahn—ahhh—fuck!”

“That’s your pussy,” she murmured, voice soaked in reverence. “That’s what you sound like when I’m inside you. When I’m fucking you right.”  She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Hnn—fuck—” Her voice dropped, low and ruined, right against your ear. “Listen to it.”

Another thrust. She eased in until her thick tip went slack, swelling in your depths, pressuring just enough before she rocked forward.  Slap. “That’s us. That’s my cock, my balls, —Daddy fucking you raw and open—fuck…..” she growled, voice thick with awe, her lips brushing your ear.  She snapped her hips harder, and the slap was louder this time, more deliberate.

You whimpered, your whole body tensing beneath her. It was so obscene. So perfect. That heavy, rhythmic smack against your skin—it drove you wild.  You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You nodded, whimpering, pussy fluttering as her cock dragged slow through you again, thick and pulsing. You sobbed beneath her, helpless and soaked. Her moan hit your ear, rough and ragged, her body trembling above yours. “I love it,” she said, breathless. “No one else gets to hear this. Just you. Just me.”

Every sound matched the sensation: her grinding deep, hitting your cervix with every pass, her balls smacking your skin, the slick, obscene squelch of your core soaked around her. The headboard rattled. The sheets shifted. The whole room sang with it.

“It’s so much,” you gasped, your voice shredded, every breath catching. “So loud—”

“I know it is,” she gasped, rutting forward, her hips finding that devastating rhythm again. “You’re taking it. Like you always do.”

Your cries weren’t words anymore. They were open-mouthed gasps, whines, shattered, aching moans you couldn’t hold in if you tried. “Ahnn—khh—hhhn—!”

Agatha kissed you hard, catching one of those sounds against her tongue, swallowing it like a gift. She twitched inside you as you clenched again.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Sounds so pretty—every fucking sound you make for daddy.”

You tried to speak—but your mouth only opened around air, around need. A whimper escaped instead, thick and trembling, catching on your tongue like it wasn’t sure if it belonged to pain or pleasure. You felt splintered under her—overwhelmed and pinned and dripping with want. You couldn’t shape a single word. Just noise. Just that sound, raw and bitten down, forced from your throat as she drove deeper.

“Open your mouth,” she whispered.

Your lips parted before your mind could catch up. Agatha moaned—a deep, wrecked sound scraped from somewhere primal—before leaning in and spitting into it. It hit your tongue hot and heavy, tasting like salt and sin and the sacred claim she never stopped making. You swallowed instantly. Reflex. Worship. Her breath caught as she watched you do it, her body twitching above yours like she could feel it in her spine.

“That’s my girl,” she breathed, voice shaking. “So fucking good—so sweet like this.”

And then her hips snapped forward.

Slap.

It echoed off the walls like punctuation—sharp, soaking, final.

“Say it,” she growled, voice barely tethered. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

You tried. Tried to speak through the wreckage of your breath, through the tears on your tongue and the moans stuck to your ribs. Your head tipped back into the pillow, mouth open, body trembling beneath her. Your throat gave first.

You sobbed. “You, Daddy. Always—fuck—always—”

Her moan followed instantly—“Nnhhh—fuck, that’s it—”—shuddering out of her like she couldn’t keep it in. Her chest pressed flush to yours, sweat-slick and searing, grinding impossibly deeper as she whispered into your skin.

“That’s right. All mine.” One hand slid under your thigh and lifted it higher, spreading you wide, forcing you open. The angle was brutal. Perfect. She surged again, driving into the softest, deepest part of your body. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to keep.”

Her next thrust was devastating—hard, slow, exacting. You screamed—wordless, holy. A wrecked, high sob tangled with a moan. Your core gushed around her again, drenching her, the sheets, everything. The sound was wet, shameless, sacred.

“Khh—ahhh—mmnfhh—Daddy—fuck—”

Agatha shuddered. Her voice splintered on a groan. “God—baby, you sound so fucking good—so wet—so tight—so fucking mine—”

The bed slammed into the wall now, over and over, in time with her thrusts. Her moans broke free between clenched teeth, and each one only drove her harder. Deeper.

Your cries poured from you like heat, each one higher than the last— “Ahh—mmhh—nnnh—please—please—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. More? Mercy? Her? All of it?

Her hand caught the back of your neck. Her thumb pressed under your jaw—not choking, not cruel—just enough to hold you in place. To feel the moans crawling out of your throat.

You clenched again—reflexive, involuntary—tightening around her your body was trying to keep her there, locked inside, sealed with heat and need. Agatha moaned, deep and guttural, the sound catching at the base of her throat before it cracked on the way out. Her hips stuttered—barely—but enough for you to feel her restraint fracture.

“Fffffuck—” It rasped through her teeth, rough and trembling, her breath dragging across your jaw like she couldn’t speak without breaking.

She pulled back—slow, every ridge and vein dragging through your slick, swollen walls—until your breath caught, and you whined for her, small and shaking: “Nnnh—D-Daddy—please—” —and then slammed back in, hips smacking wet against your ass, her balls landing with a heavy slap.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as your body seized beneath her. The sounds pouring from you weren’t words anymore—just cracked, desperate gasps from somewhere deep inside: “Ghhn—nnnk—fffh—ahhh—”

Agatha groaned—louder now, breathless, strained. She kissed you mid-sound, catching one of your cries against her mouth like it belonged to her.  Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite—like her rhythm had been carved to match yours. She dragged perfectly along your soaked walls, each grind punching a new sound out of you. Your body knew her. Reacted to her. Opened for her.

Her voice broke into your mouth like a spell. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck—you’re right there—” You gasped—nodding frantically, helpless. Too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled beneath her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your center, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Let me feel it,” she whispered, voice trembling with reverence. “Let Daddy feel you break.”

Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as you clamped around her shaft like you never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha groaned so deep it sounded like her soul cracked open. Her hips stuttered mid-thrust, unable to stay steady through the feel of you pulsing around her like that. “That’s it,” she gasped, voice shaking. “Just like that—cum for me—goddamn—you’re perfect—”

You sobbed beneath her, back arched, drenched in heat and sound and the rhythm of your own ruin—every part of you drawn tight and trembling as she fucked you through it, holding you to the edge of yourself like it was a prayer.

Her thrusts slowed, then stilled—hips hovering just above yours, trembling with the effort not to fall. Her cock pulsed inside you, deep and thick, twitching like it was lost without movement. The flush across her cheeks deepened, crawling down her throat like it had been dragged from the furnace of her chest. The fire in her eyes didn’t fade—but it flickered. Drawn inward. Banked behind clenched teeth and a jaw so tight you could see the restraint in every shaking muscle.

Her breath hitched—hard and sudden. Not a moan. Not even a gasp. A warning. One she couldn’t bear to give voice to.

And then she shook. Not from weakness. Not from fear. From restraint.

A full-body ripple of heat and hesitation rolled through her like a tide breaking against stone. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then she smiled—barely. Just enough to reveal the crack in her armor. That soft, secret kind of smile she only ever wore when she was on the edge of breaking. The kind that belonged to you alone.

“I don’t—I don’t have a condom,” she said, and the words came out wrecked. Frayed at the edges. Her voice trembled like it hurt to say, like it was a confession she didn’t want to give. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt you—”

But you knew that tone. You knew what came after it.

This was the part of the story you’d rewritten a thousand times—on breath, on trust, on soaked sheets and holy promises. The line between devotion and craving blurred so beautifully here, it left you both trembling. This was the game. The ritual. The ache you loved to live in.

She was your first. She was your only. And she was already shaking from how badly she wanted to stay buried inside you.

You didn’t answer.

You moaned—deep and cracked, a sound that came from the pit of your stomach—and let your legs fall open beneath her, wider than before. A silent dare. A sacred offering.

Agatha’s breath hitched again—this time so violently it punched through her chest. Her hands flew to your thighs, clinging like she needed the contact or she'd fall through you. “You—fuck—” she gasped, her voice breaking. Her head dropped to your shoulder, trembling, her breath ragged against your neck. “You’re not making this easy on Daddy…”

She lifted her head—barely. Her eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent, until they landed between your legs—at the place where her cock was still sheathed inside you, flushed and soaked and trembling. And something broke in her. You saw it.

“You look so fucking perfect like this,” she whispered. Reverent. Wrecked. “So full of me…”

You moaned again—low, guttural, full of possession. Your arms came up around her, locking behind her back like you could hold her in place with will alone. Your chests pressed tight together, sweat slick between you, the heat of her body pulsing like a second heartbeat inside you. The tremble in her thighs grew more frantic. Her breath stuttered into your hair.

“So good—so good—so—fucking—good—” she panted, forehead pressed to yours. Every inch of her was shaking. Every muscle burning with restraint. “I don’t wanna hurt you…”

But her body had already betrayed her.

Her hips shifted—just a twitch—but you felt it. The slow, aching grind of her cock rocked through you—deep, searching. Not a thrust. Not a decision. Instinct. Need. Too old and too deep to be masked. She gasped—sharp and startled—like the motion had shocked her. She shook her head. “No—fuck—” she whispered, almost to herself, like she was trying to anchor her soul to her skin.

She tried to pull back. Not in fear. Not in shame. In discipline. In love. Her hips lifted slowly, deliberately, every muscle in her fighting the pull of your body. Her cock dragged against your walls—thick, soaked, trembling—and the stretch of losing her made your whole body whimper. You felt your cunt clutch at her, fluttering, desperate, slick and aching. Your body didn’t want to let her go. Her thighs tensed. Her shoulders shook. Her breath fractured into your neck. She was slipping.

You felt it. Her cock twitched at your entrance. Her chest quaked with effort. Her mouth opened—maybe to apologize, maybe to say goodbye.

But you didn’t let her. You moved. Your hips surged upward, deliberate. Hungry. You caught her just as the head of her cock began to pull free. Your thighs clamped around her waist, anchoring her with something deeper than muscle.

You knew. You knew she needed this. You knew what she was asking without saying. You caught her. And she gasped—a sound so raw it cracked through the air like lightning. Her hands flew to the mattress, bracing herself. Trembling. Her whole body thrown into chaos by the feel of you tightening around her again.

“Baby—” she choked. But it was already too late. You were clinging to her, soaked and shaking, every inch of your body begging to be filled. Your arms wrapped around her back. Your legs held her in place.

And then—your voice. It rose like a vow between you, trembled in the stillness, and split the world open. “Stay,” you whispered, your lips brushing hers, your eyes locked to the soul of her. “Don’t pull out. Cum in me.”

Her breath hitched like a sob. Her hands braced hard against the mattress like she was trying not to collapse. Her whole body trembled above you, suspended between the ruin she wanted and the reverence she still thought she had to maintain. “Fuck—baby, I can’t—” she moaned, voice breaking apart in your ear. Her hips pressed forward again, helplessly. Her cock twitched deep inside you. “Daddy won’t be able to stop.”

Your voice cracked. “I said don’t.” Her hips twitched—once, then again—small, helpless movements that betrayed her restraint. She hovered over you, every muscle shaking, her cock still buried to the hilt inside your soaked, aching cunt. You could feel her pulse there—thick and frantic—each beat a warning, a plea, a promise she was no longer capable of keeping. She was holding herself back with trembling, white-knuckled effort. But the illusion of control was slipping.

“I wanna come so deep inside you,” she whispered, voice splintered at the edges, her lips brushing your cheek like a kiss she couldn’t quite commit to. “I want it to spill out when I’m done. I want you to feel it all night.”

Your answer wasn’t a word. It was a moan—low, wet, reverent—dragged from your throat like prayer. Your body arched to meet hers, your center clenching around her with instinctive, aching hunger. It felt like your entire body was answering for you.

You couldn’t speak at first. Couldn’t breathe. And then, breathless: “Y-yeah…”

Her breath hitched like the word wounded her—like it split something in her open.

“You want that, don’t you?” she rasped, grinding into you—barely. Just once. Just enough for her cock to drag thick and slow through your desperate heat. “You love it when I talk about it. When I tell you how bad daddy wants to cum inside her girl’s perfect pussy.”

Your whimper cracked through the air like a sob, high and broken and helpless. It echoed between your bodies, filled the room with something raw and sacred. Agatha shuddered. Her hands clenched against the mattress like she was trying to anchor herself.

“Fuck—when I say how bad I want to breed you—”

That shattered something inside you.

She was all instinct now. All ruin. And then—mid-thrust—you cried out: “Daaaaaadddyyyyy”

Your clamped around her with brutal force—slick, pulsing, desperate—and your moan tore loose like your body couldn’t contain it another second. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet. It came out high and aching, the kind of sound only she ever got from you. The kind that made her shake. Her own cry followed—lower, guttural, deep in her chest like it had been buried there and finally broke free. She rocked forward again, unable to stop herself, her body betraying her with every twitch.

“You want me to fill you so full it leaks down your thighs,” she choked, voice climbing, rhythm faltering. “Claim you from the inside out—mark you.”

Her balls slapped wetly against your ass with the next thrust—sharp, filthy, final. The sound echoed off the walls: smack, squelch, moan. The bed creaked. The headboard tapped. Your soaked body made everything louder.

“I want to stay inside you, baby,” she panted, forehead dropping to yours. “Come so deep you’ll feel it tomorrow. I need it—”

That was when the rhythm changed.

No more reverence. No more restraint. No more holding back.

Her hips slammed into you with rising desperation—wet, heavy, obscene. Slap, slap, slap. Her cock drove deep, the sound of her plunging into your soaked heat nothing short of sacrilegious. Every thrust rang through the room like a chant. Her moans broke free without filter now—low and guttural, cracked and pleading.

Her breath stuttered each time she bottomed out, your name tumbling from her lips like a litany—like she needed to say it or lose herself entirely. Her voice cracked.

“God—you feel so fucking good—so fucking tight—”

You couldn’t even think. You were sobbing with every thrust, breath catching, cunt fluttering helplessly around her cock. You were soaked. Slick poured down your thighs, your body begging for everything she had.

And she felt it.

She felt how you welcomed her—dragged her deeper, clung tighter, fluttering open with every thrust like your body had been waiting just for this. Just for her.

Her hands tightened around your hips, knuckles white, anchoring her to this moment like it was the only thing keeping her breathing. Her mouth found your throat—hot, desperate—moaning into your skin like she needed the taste of you to survive. Her hips rolled harder, faster, her cock grinding deep with every wet, shuddering thrust, the bed groaning beneath you both.

“Mmnnnnghh—D-Daddyyy—” The moan cracked from your throat like it had been torn loose from your chest, thick with heat, soaked in reverence. Your head fell back, your lips parted in a ruined O, and your cunt clenched down around her—tight, fluttering, dripping—as her cock dragged deep through your heat.

“F-fuck—s’too big—” you sobbed, voice catching as her hips rolled forward again, thick and unrelenting. “You’re so big—fuck—you're splitting me open—”

That shattered what little restraint she had left.

Her hips slammed forward with a groan, and her cock drove into you—deep. Thicker than you could bear. Harder than you could take. And still you took it.

Slap.

Her balls struck your ass, wet and firm.

Your soaked core sang with the sound of her sliding through you, obscene and perfect.

Smack. Slap. Wet. Slap.

The room echoed with it—your joined bodies loud and desperate, a symphony of slick, moans, and the stuttering bedframe beneath you. The headboard tapped the wall, sharp and rhythmic, as she fucked you into it without mercy.

You were sobbing now, openly, your moans cracked and high and helpless. “Mmmmppph—ahhh—ngghhh—so full—c-can’t—”

And still you clung to her. Still you begged. “make me take it—”

Agatha gasped, like your words pierced her straight through. Her hips rolled forward harder, pounding into you with a rhythm that bordered on reverent destruction. Her cock dragged against every nerve ending inside you—every ridge and vein catching on your walls, scraping you open, carving her into your body with every thrust.

“You’re takin’ it,” she growled, voice ragged with awe. “So fucking deep, baby—God—look at you—squeezin’ me like that—like your body wants me to stay inside forever—”

You moaned so loud it made her groan, your body shaking under hers. “Mmmmnnghh—ahhh—fuck—s-so deep, so fucking big—can feel it all—every inch—”

She was unraveling above you, moaning into your skin, her voice breathless and raw, hips slamming deep inside you. Your slick spilled over her, onto your thighs, onto the bed.

“Y-you love it,” you gasped, your voice shattered but sure. “You love how my pussy pulls you in—how it takes you—how it wants you—”

“Fuck—fuck—I love it, baby,” she cried, hips stuttering. “I love how you open for me—how you beg for it—how your body won’t let me go—”

And she was right. You couldn’t let go. Your walls fluttered, clenching down, milking her cock with every thrust, chasing every ridge like it was holy.

“Fuuuck—” you sobbed, voice breaking into a high, helpless cry. “Harder—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

The bed creaked beneath you, wild and unsteady, as her hips slammed into yours again—wet, sharp, sacred. The sound filled the room, slick and obscene, the rhythm of your bodies raw and unrelenting.

Her length dragged through you with brutal grace—thick and veined and so hot you could barely breathe through it. You felt the tilt of it, the way the thick underside vein caught on your soaked walls with every pull, every push—rubbing you open, making your thighs shake, making your core weep for her.

“Mmmnnnh—ahhh—fuck—right there, right fucking there—” you gasped, your moans slurring into sobs, your hands flying to her back, your nails clawing down in frantic arcs. “You feel so big—s-so big—your cock’s too big—fuck, fuck, please—”

“Good girl” Agatha groaned, voice wrecked, teeth gritted as she slammed into you again, cock throbbing inside you. “ so fucking good—”

“Don’t stop—please don’t stop—d-don’t stop,” you begged again, crying through your moans, your voice nothing but cracked sound and open-mouthed gasps.

“Shhh, I won’t,” she panted, her forehead dropping to yours, sweat dripping between your bodies. “I’ve got you—so fucking tight around me—gonna make me—fuck—”

You whimpered, sobbed, rocked up into her again and again, chasing every inch of her with your body. You could feel it—every vein, every ridge, every desperate throb as her cock dragged through your fluttering walls. That thick vein on the underside—that was what made your back arch, made you scream, made you sob out again, “Daddy—right there—ahhhhhh—”

Her rhythm snapped, her hips tilting just enough to catch that same spot over and over. You choked, your whole body clenching around her as the pressure spiraled again, unbearable and holy.

Agatha growled above you—low, breathless, wrecked. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her shoulders gleamed with sweat, and her jaw locked tight as she slammed forward again, cock dragging through your heat like a live wire.

“I know those sounds,” she panted, her voice a ragged whisper right against your mouth. “That little gasp—right there—that’s the one you make when you’re close, baby. That’s the one that drives me fucking insane—”

“‘M close,” you cried, tears brimming again, your thighs quaking.

She moaned—loud, raw, her voice breaking open in your ear as her hips snapped forward again, rough and deliberate. “Fuck—you feel so good—so fucking wet—I can feel you clenching—you’re right there, I know you are—just a little more—give it to me, baby, let me feel it—”

The sounds were obscene now—your soaked bodies meeting in a frantic, slapping rhythm, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall, your moans a rising symphony of want and unraveling. Her cock dragged deep with every stroke, her balls slapping wetly against your skin.

“Ahnnn—nnnghh—mmmphh—please—please—” You sobbed, clutching at her arms, at her back, your nails digging in as the pressure crested inside you like a tidal wave breaking.

Agatha kissed your mouth and didn’t stop moving. Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite. Her rhythm owned you, like her body knew exactly how to wring sound from yours with every thrust, every grind, every perfect drag of her cock along your soaked walls. Her voice broke into your mouth like a confession. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck, you’re right there—”

You gasped, nodding frantically, too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled around her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff��nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your core, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her cock. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Cum for me.”

That was all it took. Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as your cunt clamped around her cock like it never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha didn’t stop. Even as your body convulsed beneath her, even as your walls clamped tight around her cock and your thighs trembled like you were breaking apart, she kept moving—rocking through you with reverent, unrelenting strokes. Her breath caught on every thrust, her voice splintered with awe and desperation.

“That’s it—fuck, that’s it,” she panted, her rhythm fraying, her body grinding into yours like she was trying to leave a part of herself inside you. “You’re taking me so good, baby—look at you—fucking soaked for me…”

Your moans were ragged, helpless. Every inch of you was pulsing, oversensitive, radiant with aftershock. But you didn’t pull away. You pulled her in. Your arms moved across her slick skin, trembling, desperate. Your thighs quivered but refused to loosen. You held her like you were afraid the world might end if she left your body before you were ready—before she was ready.

And Agatha felt it.

Felt the way you clung to her cock, still fluttering, still wet, still begging even as it throbbed with the remnants of release. The way your body flexed in involuntary aftershocks—tight, wet pulls that milked her deeper, pulled her harder, made her gasp like it physically hurt to stay buried inside you and still not cum.

She whimpered at the feel of you—guttural, raw, her whole body stuttering like she’d forgotten how to hold herself together. “Oh my god—” she breathed, voice catching on a ragged moan as your walls fluttered again, sucking her back in with that perfect, maddening grip. “You’re still—fuck, you’re still clenching around me…”

Her hips drew back just enough for you both to feel it—that slick, obscene stretch, that almost-pull that made your spine arch and your mouth drop open in a soft, broken cry. Then she sank in again—slow, dragging, deliberate. Her shaft pushed through the mess she’d made of you, thick and trembling, gliding past every hypersensitive nerve like worship.

The sound of it was devastating—wet, sticky, sacred. A lewd kiss of bodies slick and shaking, heat folding into heat. Your hips twitched as she bottomed out again, and you sobbed—a soft, breathless whimper that turned her bones to ash.

“Ahhh—nnghh—m-mmmhhf—” The sounds tore out of you unbidden, your voice cracking as she rocked inside you with aching precision, her breath catching at your neck.

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing slick skin, then curled around your ribs like a promise. A grounding point. A quiet prayer not to fall apart then dragged slowly down your body, over the swell of your hip, the dip of your waist, until it slid between your thighs and gripped the inside of your knee.

And then she opened you.

Not with haste, not with force—but with reverence. Her fingers spread wide, guiding your leg open, wider, until your body trembled with the exposure. She tilted your hips with one slow pull, adjusting the angle like she was tuning a sacred instrument. And when she moved again—when her cock sank into you, deep and deliberate—you both gasped at once.

“F-fuck—” she choked out, her voice wrecked, her restraint fraying at the edges. The new angle let her slide in deeper—thicker, hotter, pressing right up against that swollen, aching place inside you that made your legs jerk and your mouth fall open in a helpless moan.

“Dadddyyy”

Your voice cracked, and she shuddered.

Her grip tightened, her body bowed over yours like she was praying with her whole form. Her hips rocked forward again, slow but devastating, and your thighs twitched wider under her hands—open, aching, desperate.

She dragged back. So slow it felt like cruelty. Deliberate. Precise. She slipped out inch by inch, gliding slick and thick from your cunt until just the head remained—pulsing, wet, swollen. It caught on the sensitive swell of your entrance, and your pussy fluttered instinctively around it, already aching, already begging .

Your moan tore loose—not pretty, not practiced, but primal. “Nhh-ahhh—fhhuhhckk—don’t—don’t—”

Your hips chased her before you could think, lifting from the bed in a frantic tilt, body arching toward her like gravity had shifted.

Agatha hissed—a feral, guttural sound that rattled in her chest. Her cock twitched hard between your legs, flushed and glistening, so slick with you it looked glazed. Her whole body shook like restraint was becoming impossible.

The air around you thickened—hot, drenched, heavy—as if even the room couldn’t bear the tension.

“Brave fucking girl,” she rasped, voice thinned with strain. “Taking me so deep—so fucking deep— and now you’re just… letting me pull out like this?” She leaned in closer, her breath against your mouth. “Fuck. Knowing I won’t last. Knowing it makes me fucking insane—”

She wasn’t wrong. Her grip faltered, breath staggered, like she was seconds from falling apart. Her hand fisted the curve of your hip, grounding herself. But it was your body that wrecked her. soaking her cock, shining her in the mess of your need, and clenching around nothing like you were trying to break yourself with how much you needed her back inside.

“Fhhuckk—” she groaned, barely able to breathe. “Look at you. All spread out for me… greedy little pussy begging to be filled—”

Her hips rolled forward—slow, steady, claiming. The thick head of her length slid through your slick folds, dragging across every soaked, swollen inch until it caught right at your entrance. She paused just long enough for your body to twitch—needing, fluttering—and then she pushed.

Hard. Deep. All at once.

Your body seized, a strangled cry catching in your throat as her cock slammed in to the hilt—thick, soaked, unrelenting. The breath left your lungs in a stuttering rush, and your walls clamped down on her so tight, so instinctively, it felt like a reflex as old as need.

“Hhhhnn—nnhhhGod—”

The stretch hit you like heat, like revelation. Blistering. Breath-stealing. Fucking perfect. Your legs wrapped around her waist before you even realized—desperate, trembling, refusing to let her go. She groaned at the feel of it, low and wrecked, her hips twitching inside you from the tightness. “That’s it,” she panted, her voice cracked and reverent. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Her next thrust came slow—a long, merciless drag pulling partway out, slick with your need, before sinking deep again, grinding up into your cunt like she was branding her shape into your walls.

You sobbed—sharp and soaked—your nails biting into her back. “Ahh—ahhhnn—f-fuckkk—Daddy—”

She moaned at the sound of her name on your tongue, her whole body shuddering. “Say it again,” she breathed against your mouth. “Fuck, say my name like that again while I ruin this sweet little pussy—”

Your response came as a broken whimper—high, desperate, wet—and she answered it with another thrust. Another brutal, gorgeous stroke that dragged through your core like lightning. The sound of her shaft sinking in—slow, soaked, reverent—filled the room like worship.

Her breath trembled as she rocked into you again, each grind deeper than the last, her rhythm steady but intense—each movement designed to undo you slowly, intimately, until all you could do was moan for her.

You whimpered, long and low, your hips arching, body trembling under the weight of her cock. “Mnnnh—nnhh—please—”

Her hips pulled back—just slightly, her cock dragging against your walls with a pressure that felt like it had teeth. And then she pushed forward again, slow and relentless, like the world had narrowed to the wet sound of her moving inside you.

You gasped—a soft, wrecked little sound that left your mouth open and trembling. Her cock ground into you with purpose, every ridge catching just enough to make your legs twitch beneath her, your back arch without permission.

“Fuck,” you choked, the word falling apart against her throat. Your lips brushed her skin, tasted sweat and salt and something like surrender. “It’s s-so—” but you couldn’t finish. Your breath caught. Your throat closed.

Because she was still moving.

Not fast—never fast. Just intense, deliberate, soaking you in friction so slow it felt like it burned. Each thrust was a promise and a threat, her cock dragging out, then sinking back in like she had all the time in the world to destroy you.

“Daddyyy—” Her name tore loose, wet and high and wrecked.

She moaned at the sound of it—deep, from her chest, like the syllables had lit her nerve endings on fire. Her mouth found your jaw, her lips brushing just below your ear as her hips rolled forward again—slow, wide, obscene. You felt her cock pulse inside you, thick and flushed and so deep you couldn’t tell where your body ended and hers began.

You whimpered again—softer this time, soaked and clinging—because it wasn’t even the pressure that undid you. It was the control. The fact that she hadn’t let herself go yet. That she was holding back—on purpose—just to see how much you could take.

She moved again.

A small thrust. Just the tip. A drag that barely stroked you, but still sent heat rippling up your spine. Then another. A deep, steady push that made your breath catch, her cock sinking into you slow and wet and endless. Your walls clenched, slick and fluttering around her, soaking her in the need she'd spent the whole night building. Another thrust followed—then another—a rhythm, slow but complete, deep enough that your back arched off the mattress, your mouth falling open.

"ffhhhh—fuck—Daddy—" you gasped, your hands clenching at the sheets.

And then she found it. That spot. You felt it when her cock dragged over it—a thick, swollen place deep inside that made your whole body jolt. You spasmed, fluttering around her as if to plead. Your thighs twitched. Your voice cracked on a moan that spilled out half-broken and high.

She felt it too. Her hips froze—just for a breath.

Then she moved again. A full thrust—slow, deep, deliberate. Her cock dragged right over that swollen, aching spot, and you seized beneath her like you'd been shocked. She watched it happen—watched your breath hitch, your mouth fall open, your thighs jerk around her waist.

Another thrust. Then another. Each one deep, steady, unhurried—just to feel you react. To feel how you spasmed around her, fluttering wildly, your moans breaking apart with every stroke. Your body arched helplessly, your hands scrambling for her arms, her shoulders, for anything to hold onto.

"That’s it," she murmured, voice thick with hunger. "—so fucking good when I fuck you just like this—" And then she paused. Her hips rolled forward, cock still buried deep.

She adjusted—tilted her angle just a little—just enough to align the swollen head of her cock against that spot with surgical precision. Her eyes never left your face.  A small, deliberate thrust. Just enough to let the swollen head of her cock nudge that same spot—deep, aching, devastating. The one that made your whole body seize like it had been struck by lightning.

Your spine arched. Your throat tore open. “Ahhh—hnnnnngh—fuuhhhk—” The sound cracked out of you like a sob, soaked and raw, half-swallowed against the damp heat of her shoulder. It didn’t even sound like your voice anymore—just broken need scraped into sound.

She did it again. Then again. Tiny thrusts. Measured. Cruel. Divine. Each one punched into that throbbing bundle of nerves buried inside you like she was branding her name into it. The angle was obscene—too precise, too perfect—and it made you clench in helpless, fluttering waves around her cock, soaked and swollen and desperate to keep her there.

You twitched. Your hips jerked. Your moan came high and strangled, shattered through your teeth like it was being dragged from your lungs by force.

Your body rocked in place, helpless under the weight of her control, the friction of her dragging slow, shallow, maddening strokes that felt like they were splitting you open by degrees. She wasn’t fucking you in thrusts—she was fucking you in fractions, in slow surgical pressure that didn’t allow for escape. Just sensation. Just fullness. Just the aching slide of her cock dragging across that place again—

—and again—

—and again.

You whimpered—wrecked, breathless—as the pressure curled tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling with every grind. Your chest heaved. Your mouth stayed open but nothing came out. Just panting. Gasping. Trembling heat. The edges of your vision blurred with tears. Your hands clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to ground you. Your hips moved. Just a little. An unconscious roll. A silent plea. You didn’t even realize you were doing it—seeking relief, seeking mercy, seeking more.

But Agatha was already there. She growled—deep and guttural, her voice catching fire in the space between you—and grabbed your hips with one hand. The grip was brutal. Final. “Stay open for me.” Her breath shook. Her voice was wrecked with the sound of restraint ripping at the seams. “Take it. Just like this.” You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her cock moved inside you in slow, measured drags—barely there, but devastating—like she had all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.

Your hips trembled in her grip, thighs twitching as you tried to stay still, tried not to writhe under her—because she wouldn’t let you. Her hands held your hips firm, thumbs digging in just enough to ground you, to remind you who you belonged to. You sobbed through clenched teeth, your fingers scrambling for purchase—her back, her arms, the sheets—anything to hold you down as she ruined you.

Her rhythm stayed slow. That deliberate grind of thick pressure against your most sensitive place made your toes curl, your back arch, your core clench like it couldn’t bear the emptiness between each stroke. The weight of it. The ruin. It was too much. And not enough.

“Daddyyyy—” you moaned, her name tumbling out wrecked and helpless.

She groaned at the sound of it. Deep. Unrestrained. Her hips never stopped. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence. “Say my name like that, baby. Let me hear who’s fucking you like this—who’s got you dripping and shaking—”

You gasped, eyes fluttering, the tears finally breaking loose. The intensity was overwhelming—but holy. Her cock ground into that spot again, and your whole body jerked. You couldn’t stop it—your hips rolled beneath her, your body moving without permission, chasing something, anything, everything. Her moan tore free—loud, wrecked, helpless. “Fuuuuck—”

She sped up. Not in distance. Not in depth. Just speed. Just those tiny, punishing thrusts. Again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock hit that same spot over and over until it felt like your soul was unraveling. You screamed for her without words, your moans peaking, catching, melting into hers.

“Mmpphh—ahhnn—A-Agatha—fuck—please—”

“That’s it, baby,” she gasped. “That’s my good girl.” She didn’t let up. Those shallow thrusts grew quicker, sharper—just a little more pull, just a little more force. Just enough to build power. Her hips rocked with ruthless control, her cock dragging back that fraction further before driving in again, each time landing squarely on that spot that had you twitching, sobbing, writhing beneath her like a live wire.

You were keening now—moaning raw and wordless, your breath stuttering out in high, desperate pitches. Each sound was a plea without shape, every vowel broken around the weight of her inside you. Your walls fluttered. Clenched. Gasped for her.

Agatha’s eyes were locked to you, wide and dark and awestruck—like she couldn’t believe the way you looked, wrecked and shaking, stretched around her, soaking her with every thrust. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched your body pulse, your cunt gripping her cock like it knew who it belonged to.

You pulled back. Not much. Just a shift. Your hips arched, spine bowing, breath caught in your throat as your body tried—futilely—to seize control. To find air. To keep from drowning in her. But the second your movement met hers, the second your cunt flexed and fluttered around her cock with that slick, aching need.  She felt it. Her grip, already tight on your hips, turned punishing. Her fingers dug in—possessive, anchoring you like she owned the gravity that held you down. “Don’t run,” she snarled, low and savage, her breath ghosting over your cheek. “You’ll take it—just like this—”

Then she fucked you. Hard. Ruthless, hungry thrusts that left nothing between you—no space, no pause, no forgiveness. Just slick, brutal friction. Just her cock pounding deep and thick and fast, burying itself inside you like she was trying to mark the end of you. The mattress jolted beneath each stroke. Your moans cracked apart, helpless and high, as she chased the sound of you breaking.

Her own moans hitched in rhythm with yours—guttural, choked, holy. She gasped your name like a prayer and a curse, her mouth falling open, her breath stuttering as her heat pistoned into you. Sweat slipped down her spine. Her chest rocked against yours.

And she didn’t stop. She drove into you—loud, soaked, merciless. Her cock slick with everything you’d already given her, now thrusting so deep your legs shook with every impact.

Your voice broke entirely, no longer words, just sound. Sharp, aching cries tangled with breathless whimpers as she fucked you through it—through the overwhelm, through the heat building low in your belly, through the raw, shattering edge of too much and not enough.

She groaned into your throat, ragged and desperate, her jaw clenching as she slammed forward again, and again, and again. “Fuck—fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight—you’re soaking me, baby, you’re—”

A moan ripped out of you before she could finish.

You sobbed against her shoulder, shaking under the weight of her body and the brutal rhythm of her cock. You spasmed around her, fluttering hard with every stroke, and still she kept going, chasing the slick, squeezing heat until your whole body seized up beneath her.

Her hips stuttered. Slowed. Still deep. Still buried to the hilt. Her thrusts shifted again—shorter. Sharper. Targeted. Right against that devastating spot, Right at the edge. She stayed deep, her hips rolling in those slow, ruinous thrusts—angled just enough to keep dragging over that spot again and again. Precise. Relentless. Her grip on your hips didn’t loosen, not even a little. She kept you pinned, trembling and slick, her rhythm steady enough to drive you mad.

You whimpered—soft at first, then louder, less coherent. A stream of helpless sound slipped from your lips with every motion. Moans, gasps, fragments of her name tangled with raw pleas you couldn’t form into sentences.

She kissed you. Not a whisper of a kiss—no, this was a claiming. Her mouth crushed against yours, open and messy, slick with sweat and moans. Her tongue moved with purpose, with need, with heat that stole the very breath from your lungs. She kissed you like she was trying to crawl inside you through your mouth, like the only way to survive was to be in you—flesh to flesh, soul to soul.

Her hips never faltered. That same brutal slowness. That same precision. Her cock moved with surgical intent, grinding into that spot again and again—so deep, so devastating. You clenched with every drag, every wet pass of her catching exactly where you needed it. The rhythm stayed maddeningly slow, each thrust pushing the pleasure further past the threshold of what should’ve been survivable. You moaned into her mouth, and she moaned back—low, wrecked, the sound of a woman losing herself. Her breath stuttered. Her hips rocked again, her cock thick and wet inside you, your slick coating every inch of her with obscene warmth.

She tilted her hips—just a breath, just enough—and everything changed. Her cock slid deeper, impossibly deep, the head angling upward until it caught perfectly, scraping over that swollen, desperate knot of nerves with surgical precision. You seized under her. Your whole body jolted, a cry half-caught in your throat as your eyes went wide.

And Agatha—Agatha felt it.

Her hips stayed locked to yours, her cock buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you—and then her breath shattered. She gasped into your mouth—sharp and sudden—like the new angle had struck something deep inside her. Like it had split her open. You felt it too. The way her cock drove even deeper now, angled just right, the thick underside catching along the swollen nerve-vein that pulsed like it belonged to her. It did. Everything did. Your body arched without asking—hips lifting, thighs trembling, nails digging into her shoulders with a force that barely scratched the ache blooming inside you.

“—fuuhhckkk—” she gasped, voice breaking on the inhale, as if she hadn’t expected you to feel that good. Like the new angle had touched something in her, too—something raw and holy and ruinous. Her head dropped, her chest pressed to yours, and her mouth found your lips again, crushing into you like it was the only thing tethering her to this earth.

She kissed you hard. Desperate. Tongue deep. Mouth open. Breath lost between you. And all the while, her hips never stopped moving.

That same precise rhythm. That same controlled torture. Slow, shallow thrusts that dragged the over your sweet spot with agonizing accuracy, over and over and over again, each one punching the air from your lungs like she was sculpting you into something she could never let go. Agatha moaned into your mouth—wrecked, high, trembling—and you felt it everywhere. It wasn’t just sound. It was a vibration, a tremor that started in her chest and spilled into you, flooding the heat where your bodies met. Her shaft dragged deep inside you with slow, devastating precision, and your whimper cracked open between her lips like an offering. Then she pulled away, lips brushing across your cheek, breath stuttering like she couldn’t believe what she was feeling. You barely had time to brace.

Her mouth dropped to your neck. And that was it. She broke. Her moan punched out of her chest like it had been trapped there raw and ragged, hot and hoarse, muffled against your skin like she was trying to bite it back and couldn’t. It didn’t sound human. It sounded wrecked. And still—her hips kept moving.

Slow. Focused. Punishing. Tiny thrusts that shouldn’t have had power but did—because they hit that spot. Your spot. The one only she could reach. And she hit it again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock dragged across that nerve like it was drawn there by instinct, and your back arched in response, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

Her moans were relentless now. Shaky, high-pitched, desperate. Her hips shifted just enough to pull back, to gain power, and she slammed into you once. Then twice. Then again. Each thrust was thick and brutal and blinding. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You could only feel. “F-fuck—fuck, baby—oh my God—” Agatha gasped, her voice cracking like she couldn’t bear how good you felt. Her grip on your hips tightened like iron, holding you steady while her cock hit that spot with every merciless stroke.

“You feel—Christ, you feel so fucking good—so tight—so wet—fuck.” Her words broke into moans, open and unfiltered. She sounded wrecked, like your cunt was pulling her apart from the inside out.

All you could do was sob under her, your moans coming in a frantic, wet string of syllables that barely made it out of your mouth. You tried to move—just a little, just to breathe—just to ease the pressure—but her hands slammed you right back down. Her hands gripped tighter, holding you down as her hips dragged another thrust through you, deeper this time, devastating.

“Stay,” she growled, voice ragged and raw.

Then she fucked you harder. One deep thrust. Then another. Then another—each one angled with perfect cruelty, hitting that electric place inside you that made your thighs twitch, your nails claw for her back, your mouth fall open in a gasping, soundless scream.

And then—she slowed again. Back to those small, ruinous thrusts. That lazy, agonizing rhythm that had your whole body convulsing. She moaned into your neck—long, loud, nearly broken. Her mouth was open against your skin, panting raggedly, her voice trembling like she was right on the edge of losing control. Each thrust felt sharper, deeper somehow, as if the new angle had split her wide open, too.

You didn’t know when the tears had started—only that your body was shaking, soaked and clenching, your voice long past words. Your mouth hung open, too breathless to moan, too full to beg, your head tipped back against the mattress like it was the only thing still holding you together. Everything below your ribs was pure sensation: wet friction, aching fullness, the relentless grind of Agatha’s cock dragging through your cunt like she owned it—because she did. She hadn’t even let herself move fast yet. That was the worst part. She was still slow. Still deliberate. Still holding back just enough to ruin you by inches.

Her body hovered over yours—forearms braced, muscles tight, sweat dripping from her collarbone onto your chest. Her eyes stayed on your face like she could read every flinch, every twitch, every sobbed breath that fell from your lips. She shifted her weight slightly, and her cock pressed deeper—thick, hot, soaked in everything your body kept giving her. And then she stilled.

The sudden lack of movement made your hips jerk without permission. Your cunt clenched again, fluttering helplessly around her. The need to be filled, to be fucked, was unbearable. And still—she waited.

“Say it,” she gasped, and her voice cracked on the words—wrecked, raw, barely tethered to control. Her grip on your waist tightened, possessive and bruising, like she could hold you in place with just her fingers and her will. “Say you want it—say you want Daddy to fucking breed you—”

You tried to speak, but your throat failed you, too full of breathless sobs and trembling tension. And that silence was all she needed.

A growl tore from her chest—a sound so low and feral it vibrated straight through your ribs—and her hips snapped forward. The slap of her heat plunging back into your core was brutal and wet and final, your whole body jolted from the force of it.

“Don’t make me pull it out of you,” she snarled, and her words hit your skin like a lash. Her cock ground in deep—long, slow, ruthless—dragging against every oversensitive inch inside you, catching on your swollen edges like she wanted to carve the shape of herself into your body from the inside out.

“You want me to cum in your perfect pussy?” she hissed, and her breath hit your mouth like fire, like fury. Her hips stayed locked, buried to the hilt, and the twitch of her cock inside you made your walls flutter again. You moaned—a broken, sobbed sound, high and shivering, your voice catching on the unbearable friction of her filling you. “Nnnh—A-ahhh—!”

She groaned at the sound, her lips curling into a cruel, reverent grin. “You want it so bad—you're shaking for it—so fucking say it.”

Another thrust—hard, sharp, deep—and it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your hands scrabbled for her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself against the storm building behind your ribs. “Open your mouth, pretty girl. Beg for it.”

You sobbed. You were past pride now—your body slick, your cunt aching, your thighs trembling from the tension she kept you locked inside. Her next thrust came slow and punishing, grinding every ridge of her cock against your slick walls, dragging her heat through the soaked, swollen mess between your legs. “I said beg. Fucking earn it,” she rasped, her voice splitting on the edges, straining against how close she was to breaking.

“F-fuhhh—Daaddyy—” The words broke on your breath, a guttural gasp that scraped its way from deep in your chest. Your hips jerked beneath her, legs trembling, cunt already clenching down around her cock like you were trying to drag the orgasm from her by force. You didn’t even realize you were grinding up into her until her hands locked tighter on your waist, holding you steady, making you take it.

Your body was soaked—dripping—slick sliding down your thighs, your cunt fluttering and flushed, too hot, too open, too needy. Every thrust made you arch—your back lifting from the bed, your moans torn out in broken, breathless gasps, each one louder than the last. The sound of her inside you was obscene—wet and thick and holy—the slap of skin, the suck of soaked friction, the quiet gasp that came every time your body clenched and pulled at her cock like it needed more.

Agatha’s breath hitched—sharp and shaking—a broken inhale like the pleasure had caught her mid-thrust and split her wide. Her hips bucked forward hard, slamming deep enough to flatten your spine to the mattress. Her groan cracked—rough, frantic, raw.

“Oh—fuck—baby, I’m close—so close,” she gasped, the words punched out of her. Her rhythm faltered, hips rocking now in rougher, needier strokes—her control hanging by a thread. And then her hand slid from your waist down—down—until it found your thigh.

She shoved it open—rough, sure, demanding—until your legs were spread so wide you could feel the stretch in your hips and the throb of your cunt fluttering open around her. Her palm pressed firm, keeping you there, your body trembling and exposed, laid bare for her to take.

“Open for me,” she groaned, voice cracking, thick with possession. “Let me in—take it—fuck, take all of it. You’re mine. You’re gonna take all of me—every inch—until I can’t pull out.”

Your moan cracked high and raw as your body gave way, the new angle hitting so deep your vision blurred. Her cock slid in to the hilt, thick and pulsing, stretching you wide with every slow, ruinous grind. The sound of it—of her fucking you open—was soaked, filthy, full of slick and breath and gasping. Your cunt sucked her in like you were starving for her. The room echoed with it.

She let out a moan—wrecked and guttural—as she rocked into you again, rougher now, desperate. “I’m gonna fill you up,” she groaned, biting the words into your throat. “Put a baby in you—fuck—stuff you so full they’ll know. Everyone will know. You’re mine—you’re fucking mine—” You sobbed, body spasming under her, your mouth falling open in disbelief. “Yes—Aggie—oh god, yes—please—fill me—”

A fresh rush of wetness coated her cock as she rutted into you. Your body was shaking, thighs trembling, nerves sparking at every contact point. She kissed you then—wet and open-mouthed—her tongue dragging across your cheek, your lips, your jaw.

“You take me so well—fuck—you’re perfect—” Her thrusts were messier now, deeper, sloppy with need. Her breath fell against your ear in shuddering waves. And you couldn’t stop it—the pleading, the hunger, the ache rising up your throat in sobbed, desperate moans. “Please—need to know I’m yours—make me yours—” you whimpered, voice cracking wide open. “Want it—wanna belong to you—please, baby, remind me—remind me who I belong to—”

Agatha’s head snapped down like she’d been summoned. Her mouth sealed over your pulse—hot, wet, desperate—and her groan into your skin was a sound ripped from the pit of her body. Her hips surged forward on instinct, cock driving in so deep your breath punched out of you, your moans dissolving into strangled, broken gasps. “Mine,” she growled into your neck, her teeth grazing just shy of another bite. “Say it. Say it again—”

“Yours—yours—oh my God, Agatha, I’m—”

Her thrusts hit ruinous—hard and shallow and perfectly angled. You were soaked, your cunt a mess of slick and stretch, fluttering around her like your body didn’t know how to stop wanting. Her cock slid through it like she was made for this, made for you, thick and unforgiving, dragging through every nerve-ending she’d ever lit on fire.

Agatha’s hand dragged up your thigh again—pushing, spreading—until your legs were open so wide it hurt, until she could grind deeper, slower, filthier. The sound of it—wet and loud and holy—filled the room. Her body slapped into yours again and again, skin sticking, breath caught, sweat slicking both of you down to your bones.

Her moans were wrecked now—short and guttural and constant, bursting from her throat with every slam of her hips. Her hand braced beside your head trembled, the other still clutching your thigh, pressing you wide, open, made to take every inch of her.

You cried out, unable to hold anything back. “You feel so good—so fucking hard—I can feel you in my stomach—don’t stop—don’t stop—” She gasped. Then again—louder, messier, mouth dragging along your jaw like she was chasing the taste of you. Her magic surged in pulses, crackling in the air, slipping between your fingers, coiling low in your spine like it knew.

“I’m not stopping,” she growled, each word slurred through moans and ragged breath. “You’re gonna take it—all of it—I’m gonna fill you up, baby, fuck you full till there’s nothing left but me. I want you full, round with me—I want them to see who you belong to.” You sobbed. Loud. Soaked. Arching into her like your body was pleading to be taken.

Your orgasm broke. Silent at first. A flash of heat and lightning ripping through your spine—your hips jerking, toes curling, breath seizing like you’d been struck from the inside out.Then came the sound—wet, obscene, sacred. A guttural cry torn from your throat as your cunt clenched tight around her cock and your body poured slick over her. Your magic surged with it—bright, violet, starbursting—casting light against the ceiling, illuminating the soaked sheets, curling through Agatha’s body like a brand. You felt her breath catch against your throat, her pulse jump beneath her skin where it pressed to yours.

Agatha’s lips kissed across your face—your cheek, your jaw, your temple—as if grounding herself in the reality of your body. Her tongue followed in a slow, trembling drag, licking the sweat from your skin like it was the holiest thing she'd ever tasted. The air shimmered—tinted violet and silver—threads of your magic clinging to her lips, to the curve of her neck, to the space between you like spider silk laced with starlight.

She didn’t speak—couldn’t. She only moaned—low, broken, reverent—as her tongue moved down to your neck, licking gently over the skin, her breath hot and shaking. Her hips slowed, not stopping but savoring, every grind of her cock dragging her deeper into your soaked cunt. The sound of it filled the air—squelching, filthy, beautiful. Yours.

Your breath hitched, caught between the rhythm of her thrusts and the heat crawling up your spine. The words slipped out raw, instinctive—low enough that only she could hear. “Baby,” you whispered, voice cracking on want, not weakness. “Remind me.”

Agatha froze—just a little. Just long enough for your hand to curl around her shoulder, your chest arching into her. And that’s when she saw it. The faint bruise beneath your collarbone—just left of center. A shadow from only hours ago—the press of a baton or a boot or a body that never should have touched you. It wasn’t fresh enough to bleed. But it was fresh enough to burn.

She inhaled sharply—like it hit her in the lungs. Her gaze locked there. Her jaw tightened. And then she kissed it. Softly. Once. Then again. Her lips shaking. Your body clenched around her again, fluttering with the weight of what you meant. Not just pleasure. Not just release. “Fill me,” you breathed, your hands curling around her shoulders, anchoring her. “So they know who I belong to.”

That did it. Agatha’s jaw slackened, just slightly— But her moan tore straight from her chest like it had been waiting to be born. Her hips jerked once, deep—reflexive. Her tongue dragged across your neck again before her mouth opened in a gasp that cracked into your skin like thunder

She collapsed into you—pressed belly to belly, chest to chest—skin flushed, breath tangled, soaked in want—like she needed more than friction. She needed contact. She needed you. Her body sank against yours in full surrender, and for a moment, she stopped holding back—stopped pretending she could be anywhere else. Like if she didn’t touch you, she’d come undone entirely.

One hand was already braced beside your head—steady, grounding, trembling under the weight of restraint. The other, still gripping your waist, loosened. Her fingers slid upward—shaking, reverent—as they skimmed the curve of your ribs, your side, your breast… until they reached your face. She cupped your cheek with a touch that felt more like worship than control, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like she needed to feel how ruined you were. Like she had to know it in her bones.

You turned into the touch with a gasp, lips parting around her thumb—and sucked. Slow. Needy. Mindless.The taste of her skin, the tremble in her breath, the way her hips faltered just slightly—it all fed the hunger curling hot and helpless in your gut. She moaned—low, wrecked—and pulled her thumb from your mouth with a slick drag. The loss made you whimper, chasing her without thinking, your mouth still open, your chest arching into her.

Your hand reached for hers—blind, aching, instinctive—and she caught it at once. Her fingers threaded between yours, firm and grounding, then she pushed your joined hand up above your head, bracing them there with steady pressure. Holding you down without force. Her hips surged, fast and wild, fucking into you with the sharp, soaked sound of flesh meeting flesh, louder now, endless, devotional. The weight of her body—all of her—was on you. Not crushing. Claiming. Her nipples dragged across yours with every thrust, hard and aching, the friction a lightning-hot drag of sensation that made her whimper against your mouth.

Her thrusts turned frantic—wild and deep, lost in the rhythm of her need. The bed rocked with every soaked collision of her hips against yours, the wet slap of your bodies filling the air with each devastating stroke. She wasn’t holding back anymore. She couldn’t. Her breath hitched with every thrust, torn from her in half-formed gasps and ragged, broken moans.

“Ahhh—nnhhh—hahh—baby” She sounded ruined. Ruined for you. Each one sounded like it shocked her, like she couldn’t hold them back anymore. She bucked wildly, her thighs trembling, your slick coating her skin with every desperate grind, and she was sliding through it—like lightning made flesh, called home to the storm you had become.

Her fingers unthreaded from yours and cupped your jaw like something sacred. Her thumb brushed your lip—slow, reverent—and then she pulled you into her, kissing you like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Mouths collided. Moans spilled. The taste of her breath, the tremble of her need—it filled you like a spell already cast. You could taste her desperation, feel it in the way she clung to you, like if she didn’t kiss you now, she’d fall apart completely. The kiss broke as she gasped against your mouth, voice shaking.

“My love,” she whispered, wrecked and reverent, her eyes glassy, wide, worshipful. “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

Her whole body arched into you—wild, trembling, possessed—and she shattered.. She slammed deep and then she shattered. The first pulse hit like lightning—hot, thick, claiming—flooding you with an overwhelming heat, and you felt every drop. Felt it rush into you like a spell, like a star being born inside you. The shock of it seized you—your spine bowed, your mouth fell open in a voiceless cry before it cracked loose on a sob of disbelief:

“Ohh—ahhh—Agatha—”

She moaned—loud, guttural, a wrecked whimper that cracked straight from her chest as her whole body locked down against yours.  Her hips jolted, trembling as she spilled into you with another pulse, each one thick and sacred, flooding you so fast and so full your body could only convulse around her, slick and radiant and open.

She was panting against your cheek now, whimpering with every twitch—“H-hhhnn—God—ohh—yes—”—her voice a spiral of disbelief and surrender. Her cock jerked helplessly inside you, sliding deeper as her body rocked with the rhythm of release. It was messy. It was unstoppable.

And it was holy. You could feel it in your bones, like magic. Like she had poured a piece of her soul into you and sealed it with heat. Like a sacred claim that threaded itself through your womb, your blood, your ribs. Like she was pouring a part of herself into you, and the universe was holding its breath. The world narrowed to the rush of her coming undone in you, for you, because of you.

Her forehead dropped to yours, sweat-slick and burning. Her breath tangled with yours. The moans didn’t stop—smaller now, sweeter, every sound peeled straight from her chest like she couldn’t hold anything back.

Even as the last pulse shuddered through her, Agatha didn’t stop moving. Small, soaked thrusts. Slow and instinctive. Like her body needed to feel it deeper. Like she had to work every drop further into you—into the place that belonged to her—and couldn’t stop until she had.

The motion wasn’t about climax anymore. It was about claiming. About connection. About sealing herself inside you in every way that mattered. You whimpered at the sensation—body still twitching, overstimulated and glowing, every nerve stretched thin with aftershock—but you didn’t pull away. You let her move. You let her stay.

And oh—God, the way she moaned.

Quiet now. Wrecked. Her voice broken open at the edges as her lips brushed your skin between panting breaths. Little sounds spilled from her as if her heart couldn’t hold them anymore. You felt her everywhere. Her sweat-slick chest flush against yours, her hardened nipples dragging gently over your skin with every tender thrust. Her breath hitched every time your clenched down, milked her deeper.  Agatha buried her face against your neck, inhaling you like you were air. Her body finally began to still—her hips slowing, her weight sinking into you as though gravity had finally caught her in full. Her voice, barely a whisper. Wrecked. Honest.

“I love you.” She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t pull back. She just held you—in her, around her, with her—and let the words breathe where they belonged: in the space between your joined hands, your joined bodies, your joined futures.

----------

Time had folded in on itself. The air still smelled like sweat and skin and magic, like something sacred had split open and wrapped around the two of you.

Agatha hadn’t moved far. Just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own, her hand still twined in yours above your head. You felt her pulse in her wrist. Still fast. Still real.

Your voice broke the silence—ragged and dry, but smiling. “…I should get arrested more often.”

Agatha’s laugh cracked out low, wrecked, and full of wonder. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, but she didn’t let go. You squeezed her hand. “And yours.”

Her lips brushed your cheek. “Always.”

And that was how it ended—your body still open around hers, her magic still glowing somewhere low and deep inside you, and the weight of her love holding you exactly where you’d always belonged. Even when the world was burning around you, Agatha was there to light the next match.

-----------

Now go ahead and tell Mommy what you think. I may need to ask for forgiveness for this shit.

[thesecondhandwoman]

FRACTURED STEEL

Sevika x f!reader

(Part One)

Synopsis: Without telling you, Sevika had led an attack, ordered by Silco, and resulted in the injuries/death of many people you and her had created bonds with. Ultimately, you confronted her about it, which resulted in a brutal, heartbreaking argument.

The relentless hum of the Undercity filled the dimly lit bar, a symphony of grinding machinery and muffled voices. Sevika sat hunched over her drink, her metal arm resting heavily on the counter. She looked like she belonged here, her broad shoulders casting long shadows under the flickering neon lights, her sharp eyes darting over the room to catch the slightest hint of trouble. But tonight, something weighed heavier than usual.

She took another swig of her drink, her gaze distant. The sharp burn of the liquor did little to dull the knot tightening in her chest. She had faced battles, betrayals, and the constant chaos of Silco’s regime, but none of it compared to the pain clawing at her now.

Because of you.

The door to the bar creaked open, and the noise inside momentarily died. Sevika’s grip on her glass tightened. She didn’t need to look up to know it was you. She could feel it—the unmistakable charge in the air when you were near.

Your boots echoed as you stepped inside, your soaked clothes clinging to your frame. The rain had done nothing to hide the fire in your eyes, though; they burned with an intensity that made Sevika’s heart lurch.

You stopped a few feet from her, your arms crossed tightly as if holding yourself together. “Sevika,” you said, your voice low and sharp, cutting through the haze of alcohol and smoke.

Sevika turned to face you, her expression neutral, but her eyes betrayed her. There was a flicker of guilt there, barely masked by her usual steeliness. “You shouldn’t be here,” she muttered, her voice gravelly.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not staying.”

The tension between you was palpable, a cord stretched so tight it could snap at any moment. Your gaze bore into hers, demanding something—an explanation, an apology, anything—but Sevika remained silent, her jaw clenched.

“You knew, didn’t you?” you said finally, your voice trembling. The anger in your tone couldn’t quite mask the hurt beneath it. “You knew what Silco was planning, and you didn’t say a damn word.”

Sevika didn’t flinch, but her grip on the counter tightened. She had been expecting this confrontation ever since the fallout from the last raid. It had been brutal, the kind of destruction that left nothing but ash and corpses in its wake. And you… you had been caught in the crossfire.

“You think it’s that simple?” she said, her voice low and dangerous.

“It is that simple!” you snapped, taking a step closer. “People died, Sevika. Good people. People who trusted you, who trusted me. And you just… let it happen?”

Sevika stood, towering over you, but you didn’t back down. If anything, you stepped closer, your voice rising as you continued. “You could’ve warned us. You could’ve told me. But you didn’t. Why?”

Her lips parted as if to answer, but no words came. The truth was, she didn’t know how to explain it. Loyalty to Silco had been ingrained in her, a survival mechanism as much as a belief. But with you, it was different. You weren’t just another piece in the machine. You were her anchor, her safe harbor in a world that never stopped spinning. And yet, she had failed you.

“I did what I had to do,” she said finally, her voice flat.

You stared at her, stunned. “What you had to do?” you echoed, your voice breaking. “You didn’t have to do anything, Sevika. You could’ve made a choice. But instead, you chose him.”

Sevika’s expression hardened, a shield against the guilt threatening to consume her. “You don’t understand what it’s like,” she said, her tone sharp. “The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve had to do just to survive—”

“And that justifies this?” you interrupted, your voice rising. “It justifies standing by while people like Benji and Mara—people we cared about—were slaughtered?”

She flinched at the mention of their names, but she quickly masked it with anger. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” she growled.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “No, you don’t. But I thought… I thought we meant something to each other.” Your voice softened, and for a moment, Sevika thought she could see the cracks in your armor. “I trusted you, Sevika. I loved you.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, and for the first time, she couldn’t meet your gaze. Her silence was deafening, and it spoke volumes.

You took a shaky breath, wiping at your eyes. “I guess that’s on me,” you said, your voice trembling. “For thinking you were someone I could count on. For thinking you were better than this.”

“Don’t,” Sevika said, her voice low and strained. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” you shot back, your voice raw. “Hold you accountable? Make you face the fact that you let people die because you were too much of a coward to stand up to Silco?”

Sevika’s fist slammed against the counter, the sound echoing through the bar. “You think I wanted this?” she snarled, her voice cracking. “You think I don’t hate myself for it? I didn’t have a choice, damn it!”

“There’s always a choice,” you said softly, the fire in your voice replaced by something colder. “You just didn’t choose me.”

Her chest ached as she watched you turn and walk toward the door. The sight of your retreating figure felt like a knife twisting in her gut, but she couldn’t bring herself to call out to you. What could she say that would make any of this better?

The door slammed shut behind you, and Sevika was left alone with the weight of her choices. She sank back onto her stool, her head in her hands. The bar around her seemed quieter now, the hum of the Undercity distant and hollow.

She reached for her drink, but her hand froze halfway. The thought of numbing herself to this pain felt wrong, like another betrayal. She didn’t deserve the comfort.

For the first time in years, Sevika felt powerless. The steel in her arm, the strength in her body—it all meant nothing if she couldn’t protect the one person who had made her feel human. And now, you were gone.

Note: Part two will be on the following post.

[wadewnstonwilson]

do you want to play a game?

summary: Wade Wilson (Deadpool) finds himself strapped to a sadistic torture chair in a room filled with gruesome contraptions, yet he remains gleefully sarcastic, much to the frustration of Jigsaw's ominous puppet.

word count: 1.6k

trigger warnings: violence, gore, torture, body horror

authors note: this was a headcanon idea someone posted a while back and asked to have a fic written about it, if it was you please let me know so I can properly tag you!

The room was dimly lit, a mixture of cold steel and rusted iron making up its gruesome decor. Wade Wilson, the infamous Deadpool, sat in the center of the room strapped to a chair, surrounded by a series of sadistic contraptions clearly meant to inspire terror. For most people, this would be the worst day of their lives. But Wade? Wade was thrilled.

“Well, hello, Mr. Saw!” Wade chirped with all the enthusiasm of a kid meeting their favorite mascot at Disneyland. His voice echoed through the dimly lit, blood-streaked room, cutting through the oppressive silence like a hot knife through butter. Strapped securely to a steel chair, Wade looked more like a man sitting in for a casual dental cleaning than someone caught in the clutches of a notorious serial killer.

The room smelled of rust and mildew, the air thick with the metallic tang of dried blood. Around him were a variety of deadly contraptions: gears, blades, and wires all meticulously arranged in a manner that suggested their designer had spent a bit too much time watching home renovation shows. Wade wasn’t scared. If anything, he was curious.

He squinted at the giant monitor flickering to life before him. The screen revealed the infamous Jigsaw puppet, its soulless eyes staring back at him with what Wade could only interpret as disapproval. “Okay, seriously,” Wade continued, completely ignoring the ominous vibe, “do you get these machines wholesale, or are they custom jobs? Because I gotta tell ya, the craftsmanship here? Chef’s kiss.”

The puppet’s expression remained unchanged, its head tilting slightly as if processing Wade’s commentary.

“I mean,” Wade went on, craning his neck as much as his restraints would allow, “are those hand-welded joints? No, really, this is top-tier work. I’ve seen Avengers tech, and honestly? Kinda mid compared to this. Do you have a Pinterest board for inspiration? Or do you just wing it?”

The puppet’s voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and menacing. “I want to play a game.”

“Oh! Oh!” Wade exclaimed, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement. “Twister? Monopoly? No wait, let me guess—Candyland! I love Candyland. Can I be the gumdrop guy? No one ever lets me be the gumdrop guy.”

The puppet’s eye twitched. Or, at least, Wade imagined it did. “Your constant need for validation and unrelenting irreverence have landed you here. If you do not escape this trap in time, your body will be—”

“—ripped apart, blood everywhere, yadda yadda, we get it. You really need a new schtick, Jiggy. I mean, what’s next, making me choose between tacos and chimichangas? Ha! Joke’s on you—I don’t choose. Ever.”

A metallic whir sounded as the trap sprung into action. Sharp blades inched closer to Wade’s arms, clearly designed to slice them off unless he solved the contraption before him.

“Neat,” Wade muttered, leaning as far as the straps allowed to get a closer look. “Do these things come in red?”

------

Logan Howlett prowled through the shadow-choked labyrinth of the abandoned city district, his boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, rotting wood, and despair—an oppressive cocktail that clung to his heightened senses like oil on water. Neon lights flickered weakly from the occasional shattered sign, casting brief, eerie glows across graffitied walls and broken windows. This place had been dead for years, left to fester in its decay.

It was the kind of place Wade Wilson would love.

That thought made Logan’s scowl deepen, his jaw tightening as his claws slid out of his knuckles with a soft snikt. The silver blades glinted faintly in the dim light, their familiar weight offering a grim reassurance. Wade hadn’t answered a single one of Logan’s calls in days. Normally, that would’ve been a welcome reprieve—Logan wasn’t exactly the type to miss Wade’s incessant jokes or ceaseless chatter. But this time, something was off. Wade didn’t just not show up. The guy was like a damn cockroach, always turning up where you least expected him, unkillable and annoying as hell. For him to go silent? That meant trouble.

“Where the hell are ya, Wilson?” Logan growled under his breath, his gravelly voice swallowed by the shadows around him.

He came to a halt, sniffing the air. His hyper-sensitive nose twitched as he sifted through the various odors polluting the area—garbage, oil, rat droppings, the faint tang of rusted metal. And then he caught it, faint but distinct: the unmistakable scent of blood. Not just any blood. Wade’s.

Logan’s teeth clenched as he closed his eyes and inhaled again, isolating the scent. It was there, mixed with sweat and... something else. Fear? No. Wade didn’t do fear. It was exhaustion. Pain. The kind of pain that would kill a lesser man ten times over.

His claws slid back into his hands as he moved, quick and silent, through the maze of alleys. The scent grew stronger, more focused, leading him deeper into the heart of the district. He passed crumbling buildings with boarded-up windows, their skeletal remains groaning in protest against the night wind. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a rat scurrying across his path—but he ignored it. His focus was razor-sharp now, his instincts taking over as he tracked the trail.

The scent led him to a narrow alley that terminated in a massive steel door. It was dented and rusted, the kind of industrial barrier that screamed bad news. A faint smear of blood marked the handle, barely visible in the dim light, but Logan’s eyes caught it immediately. He placed a hand on the door, pausing for a moment to listen. His sharp hearing picked up the hum of machinery inside, accompanied by faint, muffled voices. Or maybe just one voice.

“Wilson,” Logan muttered, his voice a low rumble. His claws unsheathed again, a primal response to the growing anger roiling in his gut. He pushed the door, and it gave slightly under his strength, creaking open just enough to let him slip inside.

The interior was worse than he expected. It was a labyrinth of machinery and steel, a factory of nightmares brought to life. Gears turned noisily, chains rattled, and the faint smell of burnt metal stung his nose. The walls were lined with grotesque contraptions, each one a testament to the sadistic mind that had designed them. But Logan barely registered the horror of the place. His focus was on one thing—the idiot who’d managed to get himself into this mess.

Wade’s scent was stronger now, the blood fresher. Logan followed it through the maze of corridors, his movements a combination of raw instinct and calculated precision. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to strike. He rounded a corner, his sharp hearing picking up something new—laughter. Muffled, but undeniably familiar. It was Wade’s laugh, laced with exhaustion and a little bit of hysteria.

“Son of a—” Logan bit off the curse as he quickened his pace.

The sound of his boots on the grated floor echoed faintly, but he didn’t care about stealth anymore. He could feel the beast inside him clawing at the edges of his control, the primal part of him that wanted to tear through whatever or whoever had put Wade in this situation. The scent was nearly overwhelming now, and as he rounded another corner, the sight before him stopped him cold.

There was Wade, suspended in the middle of the room by a series of chains and straps. His suit was torn to shreds, revealing patches of raw, bloodied skin that glistened under the harsh, flickering lights. A grotesque contraption of blades and gears hovered dangerously close to his body, clearly designed to inflict as much pain as possible without delivering a killing blow. Not that Wade would die, of course. That was the point, wasn’t it? Keep him alive. Make him suffer.

And yet, despite the carnage, Wade’s maskless face split into a wide, bloody grin the moment he saw Logan.

“Logie-bear!” Wade called out, his voice hoarse but still infuriatingly cheerful. He waved weakly, his hand slick with blood. “You found me! Took you long enough, you big, hairy softie.”

Logan’s growl was low and guttural, his claws snapping out with a metallic snikt as his gaze swept over the room. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, the feral side of him threatening to take over. He took one step closer, his amber eyes locked on Wade.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Logan snarled.

“And you’re a goddamn knight in shining adamantium,” Wade shot back, coughing slightly but still managing to sound insufferable. “Now, how about you get me down from here before I lose more blood? Not that I’m complaining—I mean, it’s great for weight loss, but—”

“Shut up, Wilson,” Logan snapped, but his claws were already slicing through the chains holding Wade. He caught the mercenary as he fell, holding him awkwardly but securely.

“Aw, you do care,” Wade muttered, resting his head against Logan’s shoulder.

Logan didn’t respond. He was too busy glaring at the room, silently daring anything—or anyone—to try stopping them. The beast inside him wasn’t done yet, but for now, it could wait. First, he needed to get Wade out of here. Then, he’d deal with the bastard responsible for this.

“Let’s go,” Logan growled, carrying Wade toward the exit.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Wade murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion but still managing to be as annoying as ever.

Logan sighed. “I should’ve left you in the chair.”

[nightcitylegends]

The Hunter

It was a calm night as Syra moved through the cold streets of Night City. Neon lights buzzing overhead. Suddenly an electric sound pulsed in sync with metal steps behind her. A searing streak of orange, mirrored in a darkened store window, finally snared her gaze. Her past had found her.

Lazarus had sent their hunter.

Syra readied herself, hand already wrapped around the hilt of a blade tucked at her belt. The hunter readied itself to attack, but before it could Syra swung her arm and, as the streetlight reflected from the blade, she threw it at the hunter.

The blade sliced the air with precision, but the hunter moved with an alien fluidity. Its spine contorted unnaturally, bending so far back its head nearly met the ground. The knife whistled past where its glowing eye should have been.

As the droid righted itself with an unnatural motion, Syra was already gone, a fleeting shadow sprinting into the distance. She didn't need to glance back; the rising whine of servos was all the confirmation she required.

Syra ducked into a narrow alley, breathing intensely, but controlled. The moment she vanished around the corner, the hunter caught up to her faster than expected. It’s glowing eye casting a warped light across the alleys rusted walls.

Syra looked over her shoulder, just in time to see the machine leap. It vaulted over a stack of crates, it’s limbs clinking and piston’s hissing mid-air, then kicked off the wall and launched itself towards her.

Syra skidded to a stop, kicking up dust before her. A wall of steel blocked her escape. A dead end...

She turned slowly, heartbeat steady despite the cornered odds. The hunter landed with a metallic bang, rising to full height as its robotic voice crackled to life: “Target located. Termination imminent.”

For a second, doubt flickered across Syra’s face, interrupted by the reality of the trap she’d led herself into. Then her head dipped slightly, piercing blue eyes lifting beneath shadow with razor focus.

She smiled, not out of fear, but because the hunter had followed exactly where she needed it to go. The stage was set… To be continued!

[monkeyssalad-blog]

052 Hillman Imp Deluxe (Mk.1) Panda Car (1964) AVK 934 B by Robert Knight Via Flickr: Hillman Imp (1963-76) Engine 875 cc S4 OC Production 440,032 Registration Number AVK 934 B (Tyne and Wear) HILLMAN ALBUM www.flickr.com/photos/45676495@N05/sets/72157623789458598... Developed under the project name Apex by the Rootes Group to take on the BMC Mini, though the Imp arrived 4 years later than the Mini. Powered by an all aluminium 875cc rear mounted engine . With versions badge engineered as Singer and Sunbeam. Rootes had been given a Government grant for a new assembly plant and a stake in a brand new Pressed Steel plant to be built in Linwood, Glasgow then an employment black spot. But production was beset with stoppages and costs incurred in producing the engine casting at Linwood then transporting them to Ryton, Coventry to be machined and assembled before transporting back to Linwood for to be put in the cars, a return journey of 600 miles. Despite these problems the Imp did prove popular, though not as much as the Mini and the extra cost made them barely profitable The Imp was an innovative car, and was the first mass-produced car with the engine block and cylinder head cast in aluminium. it used a space-saving rear-engine, rear-wheel-drive layout to allow as much luggage and passenger capacity as possible and a unique opening rear hatch to allow luggage to be put into the back seat rest. it was one of the earliest mass produced British cars to have an engine in the back and the first car to use a diaphragm spring clutch. The unorthodox small/light car was designed for the Rootes Group by Formula One driver Michael Parkes and Tim Fry. and gained a reputation as a successful rally car when Rosemary Smith won the Tulip Rally in 1965. This led the Rootes Group to produce a special rally conversion of the Imp under both the Hillman and Singer marques known as the Imp Rallye. The Imp was also successful in touring car racing when Bill McGovern won the British Saloon Car Championship in 1970, 1971 and 1972. The Imp continued in production following the Chrysler takeover of the Rootes Group in 1967 until 1976 selling just under half a million units in 13 years. PANDA CARS Not sure if this Hillman Imp was ever a Panda Car, but Imps were supplied to a number of Constabularies, during the roll out of Police Panda Car duties, with at one time over 300 Imps used in the role. The Panda car came about from August 1966 when the home office in an attempt to improve the use of man-power in Police Forces throughout the country, Enabling a Police Constable to cover a far wider area more effectively than was possible on foot or a bicycle. Manufacturers of small cars were asked a variety of models for evaluation, in the case of Rootes six Imps were submitted. Finished in Powder Blue they were painted in Panda car livery by the Service Workshop at Stoke, Coventry. The six cars were delivered to Newton Abbott Division of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. The experiment began on March 1st, 1967, with the cars in use 24 hours a day manned by three one man crews of Police Officers, with their beat including Dartmoor. The cars were equipped with form of shovels, police signs, and fire extinguishers and the Police Constable driver was equipped with a personal radio set, in order to maintain contact with HQ. The cars maintenance was constantly monitored, and by the end of the experiment in August 1967, the cars had covered a total of 120,000 miles, receiving a favourable report and were recommended for service. Devon and Cornwall subsequently purchased Imps as Panda Cars, as did Kent, Surrey, Northumberland, Durham, Somerset, Norfolk, York and many Scottish constabularies. Diolch am 93,278,063 o olygfeydd anhygoel, mae pob un yn cael ei werthfawrogi'n fawr. Thanks for 93,278,063 amazing views, every one is greatly appreciated. Shot 24.04.2022 at the Sandbach Festival of Transport 159-052

[aceblaze01]

In steel and time

Chapter 2

The sun crept across a lavender sky as the group continued their march across the lands. Shovel Knight stayed near the rear, heavy footsteps steady and deliberate, shovel blade resting on his hand. He didn’t mind hanging back he had taken to watching, he can tell despite the age all of them are pretty experience

Siffrin who usually the expert at making puns is very serious during the battle he leads everyone with dagger on his hand, Mirabella support them with defensive spells and healing spells but she is just as strong with her Rapier sword, Isabeau the easygoing and his fist was enough, Odile used spells even the researcher and the mage of the group then there is Bonnie who sometimes support them by healing or by attacking the enemy and he gets the final hit. The group is pretty tight packed. Shovel knight wanted to join as well but Siffrin had told him that it’s best if they grow stronger. So Shovel knight agreed to be the backup and stays with Bonnie protecting them.

A group of strange, mirror-like machines swarmed from the trees—bladed arms flashing in the light. Siffrin was already sprinting before the first clang echoed.

Siffrin: on your left Mirabella

Mirabella: already on it

Isabeau dove into the swarm with a laugh, fists lighting up with his craft

Isabeau: KABOOM

Odile used craft break to weaken it and while casting it attack her then Shovel knight shoots a fireball and gotten its attention which gave enough time for the others to help.

Odile: thanks

Shovel: (nods)

When the battle ended, they gathered in a clearing. A few of them were bruised, bloodied. Siffrin was nursing a burn on his arm. Mirabelle sat beside him, murmuring gentle words as she wrapped the wound in glowing thread. Odile noted damage patterns in her journal. Isabeau wiped blood from his nose and Bonnie offered snacks for everyone. Shovel knight doesn’t like putting someone in a dangerous situation but he knows it will help them grow. While everyone is munching on their snacks Isabeau looks at shovel knight.

Isabeau: so do you have any other gadgets with you like that fire wand

Shovel knight: (correct softly) relics , flare rod and yes I do and they are something I gotten on my journey.

They already saw the flare rod so he brings out the others.

First the dust knuckles which he demonstrate by breaking a small bolder and Isabeau tries it which seem to made him stronger.

Then there is the propeller dagger which is pretty much a dagger with a properly and it helps to cross distance. Siffrin tries it and notice how his speed increase

The phase lock was with Bonnie that shovel knight gave it to him for protection

Siffrin: that’s cheating honestly

Shovel knight: it doesn’t last long so timing is everything

The war horn was easy to understand what it does and lastly the mobile gear which they are using to travel for some distance because everyone is tired from walking

Isabeau: It’s like a moving couch

Bonnie: this is awesome

Mirabella: can it really go on spikes

Shovel knight: indeed so no worries I have used it a lot so I can assure you it’s safe

Odile: well I trust you even if I had my doubts

Siffrin looked at Shovel Knight, who stood at the front like a captain steering a ship

Siffrin: you know you kinda give off a dad energy?

Shovel knight: dad energy?

Mirabella: you know Stable. Protective. Carries the gear. Cooks over campfires. Gives speeches before fights

Isabeau: and has a bottomless pocket

Shovel knight: (thinks) I… suppose I have led others before. And I am older than you all, by some measure

Siffrin: (teasing tone) your ancient

Shovel knight: I am not ancient just seasoned

Bonnie: see complete dad answer

Odile: (smile) they aren’t wrong

Shovel knight: (amused sigh) Then I shall carry this dad energy with honor

The others laughed, their spirits lifted. The Mobile Gear rolled onward, carrying the tired, laughing group down the sunlit path toward the nearest town.

[ethereange]

"why are you here?"

"to see a friend."

back resting on the tree trunk, you eyed the man standing before you, a small pit of anger beginning to swirl in your gut. the august breeze swayed his dark locks, cast in the golden rays of the sun. under normal circumstances, you would've been happy to see him- charmed, even. he no longer looked the same. it was a bittersweet taste, to see him healthier, brighter, but for the wrong reasons.

"new hairstyle?" you remarked.

suguru chuckled, "i felt like it needed a change."

"i guess you felt that way about a lot of things." a sigh.

you flipped open your phone, dialing in a number, and it began to ring.

"there's no need to call anyone over, i was going to head to shoko after this," he spoke, leaning down to sit on the grass across from you.

after this, because he had come out of his way to meet you. as a friend.

a muffled voice called out from your device, "hello?"

"oh, satoru. he's here, but... he'll go to shoko, in shinjuku. she'll probably call you too."

"what, where ar-" you shut your phone, stowing it back in your pocket.

suguru rested his chin on his hand, casual, observing you. he's always liked doing this, just watching you as you do anything. it could get problematic, really.

"is there anything you want to say?" you asked. you knew if you took too long, satoru would come to you, and you didn't want to stick around for that. precisely why you and shoko were lookouts to hand him over to the strongest.

he hummed, smiling like it was an average summer day. "you've heard all i've done, then?"

you grimaced, "yes, unfortunately. i..." you trailed off. clearing your throat, you repeated your earlier question, "why are you here?"

"you know, i thought you would be more mad. just a little," he dodged your query, again.

you scoffed. "were you hoping for something here? from your friend?" you tried to steel your face as you crossed your arms, but the sound of rhythmic shuffling from the grass under your tapping foot said it all to him.

he could read you like an open book. it didn't matter what would happen, what would change, because he would always be able to tell with you.

"well, i'd be lying if i said i wasn't," he admitted. "i hoped that you hadn't heard anything yet, but i knew that was unlikely."

"what, so you could preach to me your ideals?"

"maybe. but i knew that it would be a stretch for you to believe in anything. especially you."

you narrowed your eyes. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"you know what it means. you're so... you. you're human," he explained.

and you're not? you wanted to say. but he kept going.

"i know you threw yourself into mission after mission after we.. failed. you left, satoru became the strongest, and i found my own path," he continued, "but i know that there is nothing you can say to turn me away from it, just as much as i can do nothing to take you with me."

the chirping of a couple of birds, the crunch of street gravel as cars passed over, the rustle of branches in the wind filled the gap of silence as you sat in the shade, him in the sun.

"suguru, you are human."

his gaze locked with yours. the same, sharpest eyes that held the softest smile you've ever known.

"i know you are undoubtedly human because i've seen it. when you knew satoru held his infinity for days on end in okinawa. when you carry a lighter for shoko even though you don't smoke. when you-" swallowing thickly at the sensation of tears pricking the corners of your eyes, "when you would buy haibara a drink from the vending machine after his mission."

he closed his eyes for a moment, a second too long.

"and all those moments, and so much more. you know, i really lo-" you paused, "i really liked those times, with you."

and he smiled, again. the same stupid smile that could melt away your tears, the same one that could start them all over again.

and you couldn't hear the city ambience anymore. just the sound of the beating of two hearts that longed to be together, but are forced to remain on their own. never parting because they never got close enough to join in the first place.

" ..in another life, i would really just like to be human again, with you."

[mysticstarlightduck]

Seven Deadly Sins

Thanks for the tag, @the-golden-comet (here)!

I'll go with the cast of Supernova Initiative and What Lurks In The Hollow for this one!

Rules: which of your OCs would you assign to which of the seven deadly sins and why?

GREED

Jasper Astrophell (Supernova Initiative)

Jasper's the son of an intergalactic billionaire arms dealer, and is someone who not only was raised with the world on a silver platter but who was very much sheltered from their galaxy's true realities. He loved going to parties, buying the finest flying cars and spaceships, going on dates, etc - standard "rich spoiled playboy" stuff. But he also takes after his father's sense of business and is a brilliant inventor, being also incredibly intelligent when it comes to making brand deals and is pretty much a space opera version of the Wolf of Wall Street whenever he gets involved in the company's dealings.

Savvanah Hahn (What Lurks In The Hollow)

Savvy embodies the sin of "greed" in a non-monetary sense - she's not really interested in money and honestly hates people who waste it. She embodies greed because she is a very intense person who wants to have control over the spheres of her life she can control - because she feels that, if she loses that control, bad things could happen to her and those she loves. She is also very serious when it comes to "her stuff" be it her turf, her & her boyfriend's favorite arcade machine, or her seat at a concert, and is not at all afraid to get into brawls to "keep her territory" in a very troublemaker teen way.

WRATH

Vesper Foxx (Supernova Initiative)

Vesper's life ever since the day she lost everything as a child, was dictated by rage. Rage at the destruction of her homeland by foreigner invaders, rage at having to hopelessly watch her brother be tortured to death, rage at escaping and being too young to have her revenge just yet at the time. She left her younger sister and cousin behind to pursue revenge because no matter how much she tried and tried and tried to move on, that primal anger born of trauma would never leave her. She would never have peace unless her brother's killers suffered the same fate as he had. No matter how many lives she reaped on her wrathful path to achieve it. Full alien girl John Wick.

Liam Steele (What Lurks In The Hollow)

A troubled youth, Liam has a reputation for being an incredibly defiant, almost antisocial, teenager who gets into fights for the most trivial things. He's seen as a bully by kids who do not know him well and as a nuisance by any authority figures around him. But that's not what he really is - he's not a bully, he only gets into fights with people who provoke him or who try to hurt others (a.k.a. he beats up the ACTUAL bullies), and just has a short patience because no one other than Savvy ever tried to understand him, so he never bothered letting down his guard. Since he thought being vulnerable would only get him hurt, he embraced the "tough teen who listens to rock and spends the day at the arcade or skulking around town" facade to be left in peace.

GLUTTONY

Jack Tithus (Supernova Initiative)

Jack dictates his life in the pursuit of having more than what he had when he and his siblings were just street urchins on their crime-ridden birth moon. Even though so much time has passed and he's now a rich and renowned intergalactic thief, the wound of all the shame and toil they went through still haunts him. He wants all the fun, food, clothes, and adventures because deep down, he wants to prove to himself that he's more than what everyone once called a "filthy street rat." He's obsessive about being free to do whatever he wants and his incessant pursuit for more, and more, and MORE, is what drove him to continue the path of a thief in the first place - he's hungry for the opportunities he never had in the past, restless to never stop indulging himself in freedom and always keep having more and more adventures, because he fears that if he does stop, he'll prove his enemies right.

Christine Nespor (What Lurks In The Hollow)

A former wanderer who found solace in the solitude of the small town of Vinethorn Grove, Christine is a creative soul who, stifled by the toxic expectations of her shitty family, left her life behind to indulge her soul in who she really wants to be. She is hungry for adventure, for the freedom to express herself and feed her soul in beautiful sights, to see nature, see unique places, and generally indulge herself in being alive. To her, life is a wonderful buffet, and those who know how to make the most of it, are the happiest! She knows how to find the silver lining in any situation, even if others cannot.

LUST:

Kye Thalax (Supernova Initiative)

I considered putting him in the "Wrath" category, but then I realized that Kye - despite wanting bloody revenge for the death of his father and the pain they suffered in the past - is far too calculated and cold to be considered wrathful. He is bitter, but his emotions rarely get the better of him. Kye is known to take a deceitful and cunning approach to taking down his enemies, sometimes even resorting to seduction to destroy them. He uses those people's vices against them - if someone he wants to kill drinks too much, he poisons their drink; if they gamble, he poisons their cards; if they just want to have sex, he seduces them and poisons them in the safety of their chambers; if the person is obsessed with killing, he poisons the hilt of their weapons so the one who dies is the killer and not the would-be-victims.

Mrs. Draycott (What Lurks In The Hollow)

OKAY SO THE ONLY ANTAGONIST ON THIS LIST LET'S GO lmao.. Mrs. Draycott is a middle-aged woman, somewhere in her very late forties or early fifties, who is considered a very "upstanding citizen" in the small town of Vinethorn Grove. She's an active member of the local community and often uses her reputation to get what she wants. Mrs. Draycott (her name is Adelaide btw) is the embodiment of a Karen and takes a creepy liking to Dylan Millihan after he and his sister Amy move into town. A "lonely" widow drawn to his youthful (23M) looks and who all too soon becomes very stalkerish towards him- often paying them unwanted visits saying she "just wanted to drop by", or stopping by Dylan's jobs, or just generally following them around town, hoping he "becomes smitten with her too". At first, the siblings just tried to politely ignore her, but as she became more insistent and annoying, Dylan eventually snaps at her at a community event and tells her to leave him alone. Feeling spurned, Mrs. Draycott then showed her full aggressive personality and became a true Karen, trying to make the siblings' lives a living hell and turning the already wary townsfolk against them.

PRIDE:

Artemis Zreeth (Supernova Initiative)

Artemis is a very prideful and cocky young man. One of his fatal flaws is that he is often too stubborn to realize he is in the wrong and wants to do things his own way even if they eventually go wrong. A lot of why he clashes with Kye when they have to work together is that Artemis refused to consider Kye genuinely wanted to make amends and redeem their friendship.

Dylan Millihan (What Lurks In The Hollow)

Dylan has a strong personality and generally pushes people away rather than be friendly. He's also someone who isn't very approachable and generally wants to do his own thing, live his life and hates people who try to pry into his personal business. He is very bitter about the fact he had to give up his budding medical career - he was halfway through medical college when their toxic grandmother died leaving behind only MASSIVE GAMBLING DEBTS and regret - and some percentage of that resentment comes from the fact he hates the fact he was never able to fulfill his potential and got stuck as someone who in his point of view was only "half-good" - his self-esteem is kind of shitty, if you can't tell lol, and he hides it behind a layer of a harsh pride.

ENVY

Aleks Keldora (Supernova Initiative)

Not necessarily envy but Aleks suffers from severe social anxiety and thinks he's "never going to be good enough" so he's "better off pretending to be somebody" else like a social chameleon.

Erin Niemand (What Lurks In The Hollow)

Erin's a loner who holds some considerable resentment towards kids who are able to be popular - which she isn't able to do - and deep down also feels "lesser" than the kids who have full families, since her mother abandoned the family - which made Erin develop some serious trust and self-esteem issues.

SLOTH

Meridian Shardd (Supernova Initiative)

Not on purpose - but they can be overwhelmed by being given too many tasks and may panic and not do anything instead, or will be halfway through a task and get distracted by something else and ditch the task to do that something else instead.

Indigo "Indie" Lauriel (What Lurks In The Hollow)

She's a laidback hipster girl who rarely takes things seriously and has some serious procrastinating issues, and can be generally pretty lazy.

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid @thecomfywriter

@thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @amaiguri

@differentnighttale, @leahnardo-da-veggie

@cherrychiplip

[freetheshit-outofyou]

The Paris Gun

The Krupp arms-making dynasty was founded in Essen upon the fortune amassed by Arndt Krupp, who settled in that city in 1587. His son Anton expanded the family’s endeavors into making firearms during the Thirty Years’ War of 1618-1648, and the family progressively expanded its operations over the ensuing decades. In 1811, Friedrich Krupp (1787-1826) established a steel casting facility, and, although he successfully began casting steel in 1816, he expended considerable funds in the process. His son, Alfried (1812- 1887), continued his father’s work and eventually re-established the family fortune. By its nature steel was very difficult to cast, and internal faults were often impossible to detect through existing testing procedures. Defective cast steel pieces were also much more dangerous to crews than iron cannons, as the softer iron tended to split or burst with less energy than the harder steel, which more often ruptured with deadly violence. The Krupp firm’s success in casting steel was considered one of the major metallurgical achievements of its day.

Beginning in 1844, Alfried Krupp began experimenting in machining guns from solid cast steel blanks and in 1847 produced his first steel cannon. That same year he presented a steel gun to the King of Prussia, Frederick Wilhelm IV (1795-1861)-an act of entrepreneurial generosity that later won an order for 300 field guns. He went on to display a 6-pounder muzzleloading gun at the Great Exhibition of 1851 and began experiments in developing breechloading weapons. In 1856, Krupp introduced a 90mm field gun fitted with a transverse sliding breechblock that fit through a corresponding slot in the rear of the barrel.

Germany subsequently made the transition to rifled breechloaders during the 1860s, a move that gave it a distinct artillery advantage during the 1870-1871 Franco-Prussian War. Shortly after the war it adopted 78.5mm guns for its horse artillery and 88mm pieces for field use. The logistical difficulties associated with supplying two sizes of ammunition in the field and recent advances in metallurgy and gun design then led to the Model 73/88 system, which used the 88mm caliber for both horse artillery and field use and the later Model 73/91 system, utilizing nickel steel barrels. The Model 73/91 was finally superseded by Germany’s answer to the French 75-the Model 96 or Feldkanone 96 neur Art.

The development of specialized antiaircraft artillery also intensified during the war. The first documented use of antiaircraft artillery occurred as early as the siege of Paris during the Franco-Prussian War in 1870. At Paris, the Prussian commander von Moltke ordered weapons from Krupp in order to shoot down balloons in which the French were trying to sail over the Prussian lines. Krupp eventually delivered a number of single-shot, caliber 1-inch rifles that were mounted on pedestals bolted to the beds of two-horse wagons; they theoretically could follow the balloons on the ground while maintaining a steady firing rate. The Krupp pieces were relatively ineffective, yet at least one French balloon was apparently downed by their fire.

The rapid proliferation of powered military aircraft at the turn of the century, however, spurred an equally dedicated effort to neutralize the threat of air attacks. During the 1909 Frankfurt International Exhibition, Krupp unveiled three antiaircraft guns in a bid to monopolize the emerging market. These included a caliber 65mm 9-pounder and a 75mm 12-pounder. Krupp claimed that the largest, a pedestal-mounted 105mm gun intended for shipboard use, achieved a maximum ceiling of 37,730 feet. The caliber 65mm gun had an 18,700-foot range, could elevate 75 degrees, and its carriage had unique hinged axles that allowed the wheels to be pivoted to a position perpendicular to their traveling position. With the trail spade acting as its axis, this arrangement enabled the crew to traverse the piece 360 degrees to track enemy aircraft. With a claimed maximum ceiling of 21,326 feet, the caliber 75mm gun was mounted on a truck bed, thus giving it a high degree of mobility. Not to be outdone, Erhardt, Krupp’s closest domestic competitor, also exhibited a 50mm quick-firing antiaircraft gun mounted in an armored car’s turret.

The period also witnessed considerable experimentation in antiaircraft shells and fuses. Krupp introduced a high-explosive shell for its 3-pounder equipped with a “smoke-trail” fuse, an early tracer round that both aided the crews in sighting and was an effective incendiary against the hydrogen-filled airships of the period.

During World War I the Germans continued to experiment in antiaircraft weaponry, beginning in 1914 with the 77mm Ballonen-AK. The Ballonen-AK was then, in turn, followed in 1915 by the 77mm Luftkanone, a basic 77mm field cannon barrel mounted on a rotating scaffolding. The more effective Krupp 88mm FlaK entered service in 1918 and eventually became the inspiration for the famous World War II German “Eighty-Eight.”

Popularly named after Alfred Krupp’s daughter, the 41.3-ton, 420mm “Big Bertha” had a horizontal sliding block and fired a 1,719-pound shell up to 10,253 yards. Big Bertha required five tractors to transport its components, and it had to be assembled on site. In conjunction with a number of Austrian Skoda 305mm howitzers, the L/14 was first used with devastating effect against Liege in August 1914; it saw other action on both the Western and Eastern fronts. Owing to its relatively short range and vulnerability to Allied fire, Big Bertha was obsolete by 1917. Another heavy piece, the 211mm Mörser was adopted in 1916. It weighed 14,727 pounds and fired a 250-pound shell up to 12,139 yards.

Designed by Krupp engineers and adopted in 1918, the Paris Gun used the basic 380mm Max railroad gun barrel fitted with a barrel liner and lengthened 20 feet. The 210mm Paris Gun weighed 1,653,470 pounds and mounted a 2,550-inch barrel with a horizontal sliding block. It fired a 264-pound shell up to 82 miles. Crewed by naval personnel, the Paris Gun was so powerful that it fired its shells into the stratosphere, where the thinner atmosphere exerted less resistance, allowing such long ranges. The stress on the bore, however, wore the barrel significantly, and each succeeding projectile had to have progressively larger driving bands and heavier powder charges to compensate for the increasing windage. Although hugely inefficient in the final analysis, the Paris Gun’s greatest value lay in its use as a propaganda tool rather than an artillery piece. Source

[danco110]

“This is…”

“Revoltin!”

The human and Phyrexian outlaws’ respective voices each came from the other’s mouth. Their bodies were undergoing a similar mismatch, as the man began sprouting armored plates for skin, and the machine felt its metal soften and pale. Meanwhile, the warlock standing behind them stifled her laughter as she continued to cast her spell.

“This is too rich!” snickered the well-dressed debutante. “What’s the matter, Brand? Is the grass not greener on the other side for you two?”

“Definitely not, Miss Raven!” spat the Phyrexian, using the voice of its human friend. “I forgot what it’s like to have…skin. Ugh. Agh, and it…itches? Who invented this stuff?”

“And you, Jack? How does the new steel feel?”

“Like I weigh a thousand pounds,” grumbled the human, whose humanity was fading fast. “At least if I’d asked Brand to…compleat, you said?”

“Yeah…”

“Sounds like I wouldn’ta minded the extra load. Speakin of which, I hope we’re gettin a discount on your magic, seein as how we’re such dissatisfied customers!”

Raven smirked and shook her head. “You said you wanted disguises. Not a word was spoken on feel or comfort.”

“Oh, c’mon, doc. Don’t you got another spell or somethin, just to make it feel natural?”

“I said no! Not unless you wanna look like me!”

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh. Well. It just…” Raven trailed off. But both outlaws were already staring intently at her. She sighed, and continued, “I only know this swap spell, and a second one to make folks look like me. And…I’m still workin out the kinks on this one. Case in point: the feel.”

“You’re tellin me-”

“-We’re a TEST CASE?”

The warlock flinched at the accusation. “I’ll drop the fee entirely! How about that!”

Immediately the outlaws’ dispositions inverted. Brand cheerfully strode forward and shook Raven’s hand before she could react. “Thanks a million! And we’ll let you know if anythin else feels off!”

“…Right,” Raven muttered, quietly relieved.

[I know they probably ain’t, but again, those metallic Hellspurs look a lot like Furnace Phyrexians!]

[spicyy-fox]

King of thorns and steel - chapter two

(CONTINUATION)

🔗If you missed it, read Chapter 1 here:

🧊 Pairing: King!Bucky Barnes x Demon!Reader 👑 Genre: Dark Fantasy, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn 🔥 Warnings: violence, power dynamics, implied trauma, slow burn, language, enemies to lovers tension 📜 Summary: The royal court is thick with tension, will you survive? Or will you be eaten alive by the wolves?

💬 Notes: This chapter is more action and tension heavy, and definitely not the end of the story, there will be many chapters to come.

🫀 Rating: Teen for now — may become Mature later on.

Moonlight flickered in through the stained-glass windows, casting faint fragments of color across polished obsidian floors. Golden chandeliers flickered with spellfire. The court slowly simmered in, every one of their steps echoing like a challenge.

One by one the high seats were filled:

The fae envoy, Sam Wilson of the Verdant Glade strode in with practiced grace, his coat trailing behind him like the midnight mist. His altered circlet glinted- a mark of his rank, ancient and earned, by spilled demon blood and hard work. He takes the seat on Buckys left, calm and collected.

The High elf commander Steve Rogers of the Everlight Citadel came in beside him, his silver ceremonial armor glinting in he low light, untouched by the time. His voice could rouse nations, but tonight, he said nothing as he took the seat on the right of the King.

The Arachnid siren, Natasha Romanoff of the webbed deep, sat already poised with legs crossed and lips curled into an all knowing smirk. Her gaze swept the court like a blade - quiet, deliberate, lethal. You felt the weight of her amusement, she knew your secret, played along, just to see how long you could keep it up.

The woodland elf marksman, Clint of the hollow bough, leaned against the carved bark throne, fingers restless and knuckles scarred from battle. He looked calm, ready to loose an arrow from his quiver the moment prey blinked wrong, and you, you were almost like said prey at the moment you misstepped.

The human sorcerer, Stephen Strange of the sanctum, arrived exactly on time, as always. Cloaked in crimson robes and wards stitched into his cuffs. He gave you a glance like you were a puzzle already solved, that he was not ready to reveal.

The arcanotek Forger Lord, tony stark of the forged flame, his body a hymn to iron and intellect, clicked softly as he moved, part man, part machine, part myth. Eyes aglow. Mind never resting, his kind never rested. He didn't even look at you - but you could feel him measuring you up. His curiosity driven by the want for more power.

The weaver of the veil, Wanda of the threads eternal, did not walk as much as she just arrived besides Strange. Her robes shimmered with stars not yet born, her hands ever-moving, ever-spinning the unseen veil of fate. Time bent around her as if it owed her everything. She was one of the most powerful here, the weaver of fates, the keeper of the veil and the one who determines the changes of time itself.

The stormborn, Thor of the endless Tempest, a celestial, your kinds natural born enemy, strode in like thunder had thought him how to walk. Rain misted from his cloak as if the storm followed him inside. His voice was a roar even in silence, he looked only at Bucky - their bond forged on battlefields that stained the skies red.

And at the head of them all, on the dark ebony carved throne was seated King Bucky Barnes of Ardenshade. Crown dark as if carved out of Blackstone and bone resting on his long hair. His gaze didn't lift as the court assembled. His attention only set on the reports before him and you, at least for the moment.

The courtroom was silencing down as the usual discussions began, the issues of each being discussed thoroughly. Your focus was drifting away as you barely paid attention by now, your mind occupied with your own plans. The discussions warried but almost nothing was important enough for you to pay attention.

Just as you were zoning out the sound of a bowstring snapped with a deadly hiss, the wood groaning under the fierce tension like a beast ready to strike from an unknown direction. Time seemed to slow down as the arrow was loosed - a piercing whistle sliced through the heavy air, a lethal whisper cutting straight towards its mar- King Bucky. You acted before even reacting, time slowed - sharp and slow all at once - your instincts slicing through the haze. You barely whispered the ancient chant, a language long forgotten, only spoken by demons, under your breath, fingertips tingling as a shimmer of forbidden shadow magic curled around your wrists, eyes flickering pure black just for a moment.

Without even turning, you traced an invisible thread of power towards the arrow, the air humming slightly with tension. A shadow materializes as a dark veil like figure, splitting the arrow mid-flight with a sharp crack, sending splinters of wood and shattered magic raining harmlessly onto the big mahogany table in the middle of the room. The room went silent the splinters falling down being the only sound that was hearable.

Eyes in the room snapped towards you - Sam's gaze narrowing sharply. His fae senses caught the faint echo of your forbidden magic, the mark it left in the weave. And you could almost feel the weight of suspicion settle like stone in the pit of your stomach.

A ripple of chaos tore through the court the moment the arrow shattered and hit the table. Gasps erupted as well as mumbles. One of the nobles jumped to accuse while drawing his blade

"She used demon magic!" he barked

Magic shimmered faintly in the air, like the echo of a bell that refused to stop ringing. Sam's gaze was locked o you now, sharp and cold, as if trying to pel the truth from your bones with nothing but suspicion.

And yet-

In the midst of all that-

Natasha sat perfectly still.

Legs crossed, one hand drumming on the armrest of her throne-like seat, other holding a glass of dark red wine, a faint smile playing on her lips like she is watching a climax of a perfectly good play.

"interesting," she murmured "I was beginning to think this would be boring"

Her eyes flicked between you and Bucky, curious, calculating.

And entirely too amused.

The energy in the room coiled like a snake, ready to strike. Steel hissed from sheaths, magic shimmered under fingertips.

And then-

"Enough."

One word. Cold. Final.

It echoed across the marble walls like thunder rolling in from a distant storm.

Every voice, every motion, stilled. Even the magic in the air seemed to recoil.

Bucky stood, slow and deliberate. The air shifted with him, heavy with authority.

"Stand. Down."

His voice wasn't raised - but it didn't need to be. It held the weight of battles won, blood spilled, and a crown earned by silence and steel.

"This court is adjourned."

The guards faltered stepping back. Blades lowered. Sam's suspicion remained, but even he knew better than to defy a direct order here. Bucky's gaze swept the court, resting a moment longer on you - just long enough to leave your heart thudding in your chest. Then he turned, hand trailing on the arm of the throne, the crimson of his cloak trailing behind him as he leaves the hall in absolute silence. Not before gesturing you to follow him out.

[io-iota]

Descension

"Merciful one."

A silver-red demon spoke flatly.

A pink-tinged smile spread from beneath a heavy cloak. "Of course. You found what you were looking for?"

The demon dumped a body into her lap. Limp, naked, overwhelmed by luminescent red lesions. "You will fix this."

"Is that you think?" the merciful one asked, implacable smile ever-broadening.

"No," the demon responded.

"I will spare you my words then, if you will not appreciate them. Perhaps I should ask, what do you want?"

The demon points a charpened carbide claw to the sickly body. "Him."

The merciful one pauses, gently sipping a cup of tea. Her peaceful demeanor, stark-white cloak contrast the ruins they inhabit, out-of-place.

"Would you like to talk for a moment? Your companion will not hear, fret not."

The demon perches itself on the debris, blueish moonlight dancing over silver muscles as the warm tones of a campfire cast deep shadows across its figure.

"I doubt it is his safety you are concerned about. So tell me about yourself, would you?"

"Merciful one," said the demon, as though contemplating the name.

"Yes?"

"Why do I call you this."

"Why does anyone? I must have a name, mustn't I?"

"I do not know you by this name."

The merciful one nods, taking another sip of her tea.

"I am Voka."

So the demon introduces itself.

A silver demon of steel and sinew, built by the babylonians to purge the punishing disease. Red heteromer crystals underly the gaps between synthetic muscle fiber. An angel corrupted is a devil, but what then is a demon — where does it go when it falls.

A survivor of the world goverment's war of unification, last to see peace before the outbreak. The world government retreats to space, yet it cannot abandon its shackles on earth. It must have a grounds to dump its worst excesses, a fertile ground for the ceaseless churn of flesh it demands to wage its war. To be brought aboard as nothing more than a test subject, military asset.

Its mind was no longer whole. Outside influences grabbed at it, tainted it, controlled it. The demon came to excise a devil.

The merciful one continued to smile, then, knowing

."Would you return to babylonia?"

"Perhaps."

"Are things now unsatisfactory, then?"

Voka paused, "No."

"The ascension network rejects you, does it not?"

The demon nods.

"Allow me to ask again," she set down her tea, still full, "have you found what you were looking for?"

"No."

The merciful one frowned for a moment. A puppet with its strings cut might fall under the weakness of its joints and the coercion of gravity. A demon has no strings, to be held still by tension and inertial force. A fallen demon must be more puppet than machine, since the demon collapsed then, heteromer seeping through every limb.

[clonemommy]

Vehora III - Phase 1

Summary: Hawks Talon Legion will fulfill the first phase of the mission.

Word Count: 3.080

Characters: Jedi Helena, Commander Shade, Commander Hawk, Soldiers of Hawks Talon Legion

Author's Note: Part 1 out of 4, probably. :)

-----

The Invictus hangar hummed quietly beneath the gunships’ primed engines. The air smelled of machine oil, metal, and tension—one of those scents that could only be felt before the first departure of an operation. Between the steel scaffolding, troopers of the Hawks Talon Legion moved with unwavering discipline, checking harnesses, HUDs, and magazines in silence, instilling confidence in their abilities.

No one spoke. No one needed to.

Commander Hawk stood beside his LAAT/I, helmet under his arm, as if he were already deployed. His expression was unreadable, as always, but his eyes rested on the mission display at the side panel—every position, every coordinate had long been memorized. Still, he rechecked them.

A shadow stepped up beside him—not quietly, but with purpose.

Helena.

“The anti-air must fall before they even see our squadron,” she said. Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but it carried the full weight this mission demanded, the weight of the entire operation resting on their success.

“If they see you, we’ve already lost.”

Hawk nodded. “Then they won’t see us.”

“Your men know what they’re doing,” Helena continued, her eyes on the troopers boarding the transports. “But they’re looking at you.”

Before Hawk could respond, heavy footsteps echoed behind them.

Shade.

Silent as a shadow, he came to a halt, eyes passing over the gunships, Hawk, and Helena. His gaze was cold, controlled, not hostile—just deep.

“If you fail, the entire corps loses the sky. So don’t fail,” he said flatly.

Hawk looked at him—unprovoked, unimpressed. Just calm.

“Understood, sir.”

A signal tone blinked at the hangar gate. Time.

Hawk put on his helmet. The visor was sealed with a soft hiss.

“Talon—on board. Launch in twenty seconds.”

And without another word, he stepped inside.

-

The atmosphere above Vehora III was one unending storm. Lightning streaked through the dense cloud layers, casting harsh light across the outer hulls of the LAAT/I gunships as they moved silently through the turbulence. Beneath them stretched a black carpet of jungle, motionless and still, yet it seemed alive—as if it were breathing. Commander Hawk stood in the open side bay of his lead craft, hands gripping the magnetic railing, his gaze locked through the visor onto the overgrown mountain ridges ahead.

“This is Hawk to bridge,” he said calmly over the comm. “Talon squadrons en route to target coordinates. Visibility limited. Vegetation dense. Suspect natural camouflage of enemy positions.”

A brief burst of static. Then Helena replied, her voice clear and composed. “Confirmed. Suspected defence cluster at elevation Sierra Three. Confirm visual markers as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” Hawk answered shortly. “Beginning reconnaissance. Units switching to whisper mode.”

For a moment, only the electronic crackling of interference was audible. Then Helena added something—quieter this time—a voice not commanding but familiar:

“And Hawk… you’ll get them through. I know that.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just a short, silent nod. Then he switched channels—to internal. Only his squad leaders would hear him.

“Talon One through Four—status.”

The voices came instantly, one after another, disciplined.

“Squad ready. Visibility low, systems stable.”

 “No visual contact with the ground. Holding to zero-noise protocol.”

 “Scans show increased heat signatures east of target coordinates. Possible droid movement—will confirm after touchdown.”

 “Flight path slightly adjusted. Ready to cover the southern flank.”

Hawk listened silently, then spoke again—calm, firm, razor-sharp.

“The objective remains to eliminate the AA without detection. No firefights, no traces. Mark and disappear. We are not here until it’s already too late.”

He paused briefly before delivering the final line—to all of them, yet almost like a vow to himself:

“No losses. Not in Phase One.”

-

Squad One

The jungle swallowed them almost immediately. Barely had they left the gunship when the roar of the engines vanished, replaced by the soft rustling of leaves and the quiet snapping of damp branches beneath boots. It was dark—not like night, but like being under a roof of dense foliage, barely letting any light through.

Five soldiers moved silently through the undergrowth. One led the way, and the others followed in staggered formation—keep your distance, don’t bunch up.

They knew there was a flak emplacement hidden somewhere ahead. Their maps showed the approximate location but not how it was concealed. Everything on this planet seemed to work against their tech: scanners flickered, and visual gear distorted.

“Up ahead,” one of them murmured, briefly pausing. Through his visor, he could make out an unusual structure between ferns and roots—not a tree or rock—a faint heat source.

The squad leader raised his hand. Everyone froze.

The emplacement was well hidden. Two droids stood in front of it—standard B1 units. They barely moved. It wasn’t much—but it was too much for a loud attack.

“We split up,” the leader said quietly. “Two flank around, place the marker. No noise. No attention.”

Two soldiers carefully slipped to the side, pushing through vines and damp hanging branches. One of them knelt behind a slanted tree trunk and aimed a small device at the emplacement—a marker that sent out an invisible signal.

The device blinked green. Target acquired.

But then they heard it.

A snap. Quiet, sharp—as if someone had stepped on a dry twig.

Everyone froze. Nothing moved. Not even birds sang anymore. The jungle had gone suddenly silent—too silent.

The marker was still placed. The second soldier attached a small charge to a nearby power cable, and then they silently retreated.

Ten seconds later, a muffled thump, almost like a cough beneath the ground. No fireball, no blast—just smoke, some pressure, and then silence. The emplacement was destroyed.

No alarms. No reinforcements. No counterattack. Just the same oppressive quiet as before.

They had succeeded. And yet—something had changed.

Something was watching them.

-

Squad Two

Not far away, barely ten minutes on foot through the labyrinth of brush and mist, a second squad moved cautiously through the undergrowth. They, too, were five—each crouched, each silent. The leaves clung wet to their violet armour, everything dripped, and the fog between the trees thickened—as if the forest was trying to swallow them whole.

“We’re close,” one of them said. “Scanner’s jumping again—signal’s weak, but it’s there.”

The squad leader came to a halt. Ahead of them lay a steep slope covered in thick moss. Something metallic jutted out from between the roots—not larger than an arm, but not a plant.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Partially embedded in the hillside. Camouflage is solid. No guards in sight.”

He paused momentarily, then activated the comm unit on his wrist.

“Talon Two to command. Visual confirmation of target. There is no ground access. Requesting airstrike.”

A few seconds passed. Then the comm crackled:

Hawk: “Approved. Set laser designator. Twenty seconds to impact.”

The squad leader nodded. One of the men set up a small tripod, barely as tall as an arm. A red laser beam silently locked onto the emplacement—no visible light, only detectable through their equipment.

They crouched low behind the slope.

Then it came: a short whine in the air, almost too fast to consciously perceive—and then a sudden flash from above. The explosion was pinpoint-accurate. The slope trembled, birds scattered, but it remained a single, clean impact. No echo. No alarm.

Nothing remained of the gun when the smoke cleared—only scorched earth and a few charred roots.

“Target destroyed. No casualties. Changing route to next position,” the squad leader reported.

But before they moved on, one of them noticed something. He turned to look back once more. Between the trees, far in the distance, something seemed to move. Just slightly.

Something big.

But when he looked again—there was nothing.

-

Squad Three

The third squad had advanced from the southern landing zone, following the path of a dried-up riverbed. It was the easiest route, which usually wasn’t a good sign—easy paths often meant traps.

“Target point should be just ahead,” said the frontmost soldier, tapping the display on his wrist. “But I’m not seeing anything.”

The others halted. In front of them rose a wall of overgrown vines, part stone, part gnarled roots—nothing metallic, nothing conspicuous. But the data was precise.

“Something’s not right,” one of them murmured. “The emplacement should be directly behind this ridge.”

“Or inside it,” the squad leader said quietly.

They took cover, carefully climbing onto a small ledge and scanning the green sea beyond. And there it was: embedded in the rock face, barely visible—a flak emplacement, camouflaged with a net of moss, branches, and hanging leaves. Only the sensor array jutted out like a dark eye into the sky.

“No movement,” someone noted. “But it’s alive. Active.”

The squad leader paused. A demolition charge was risky—it was too close to the roots and unclear whether the netting would trigger something. They had to get closer.

They approached slowly, one by one. No droids. No sound. But just before they reached range for the marker, one of the men stepped on something soft.

A snap. Then, a faint hiss.

Everyone froze.

The ground beneath the camouflaged device began to move—ever so slightly. And a moment later, it became clear: this wasn’t a mine. It was something plant-like.

Leaves unfolded. Thin, almost translucent tendrils pushed through the undergrowth. A plant—or something like it—had reacted to pressure.

“Back off. Slowly. No sudden movements,” the squad leader ordered immediately.

They retreated, step by step, as the “flower” slowly folded back into itself.

“The gun is secured—not by droids. By the jungle itself,” someone murmured.

They pulled back ten meters and repositioned the marker—this time from a greater distance. It was a risk, but the target lock engaged. The squad leader activated the strike—the airstrike would follow in seconds.

When the impact came, it was loud. Too loud. The ridge shook. And as the smoke rose, the rearmost soldier turned again—certain he’d seen something in the corner of his eye.

Wasn’t there…?

No. Just shadows.

Probably.

-

Squad Four

The final squad—Talon Four—held the deepest, most isolated position. Their objective lay to the north, atop one of the highest elevations in the jungle region. An old lookout point, long since overgrown. It’s the perfect place for a heavy anti-air emplacement, a testament to their isolation in this vast, unforgiving jungle.

“This is Talon Four. We’re approaching the target. Visibility is near zero, and moisture is high. Scanners are… odd.” The squad leader’s voice came through the comms, slightly distorted. Hawk heard it in his helmet, leaning over the side panel in the cockpit. Despite the oddity, the squad’s determination was unwavering.

“What do you mean ‘odd’?” he asked.

“The signature… jumps. One moment, we see it, and then it’s gone again. I’ve never seen anything like this. Like a… living cloaking field.”

Hawk frowned. Beside him, the last transmitted coordinates flickered on the hologram.

“Proceed. No risks. If the position is active, mark it. If not—no games. Understood?”

“Understood, Commander. Keeping comms open.”

Seconds passed. A minute. Then two. Only faint static.

Then suddenly:

“…Commander, we’ve got… something. Not droids. An animal. It’s just… standing there…”

A snap.

A scratch.

A deep, dragging sound.

Then the connection cut. Just like that.

—

Hawk froze.

“Talon Four—confirm. Repeat. Talon Four, do you copy?”

Silence.

He switched to the bridge channel. “This is Hawk. I’ve lost contact with a squad. Last ping: Northern plateau. Sounds before cut-off—not droid patterns.”

Helena’s voice responded first. Calm but alert.

“We’ve picked up the same silence in the north. No life signs—no enemies either. It’s like… nothing is there. Too quiet.”

A moment later, Shade.

“They’re dead. Or will be.”

Hawk didn’t react. The last coordinates reflected in his helmet. Then he reached for the side strap and tightened his weapon.

“I’m going in.”

“Negative,” came Shade’s voice. “You have your mission.”

“They’re part of the mission.” Hawk was already stepping off the transport as a new team assembled behind him. “I’ll take three men. No noise. No detours.”

Helena chimed in—not to protest, but to guide him.

“I’ll mark your route with minimal disruption. Keep comms open—as long as they hold.”

—

The jungle was thicker than before. The air hung still. No birds. No insects. Not even the dripping sound of trees. Hawk moved steadily, every step calculated. The men behind him said nothing.

After a few hundred meters, they found traces: torn vegetation, a dropped flashlight, and… scratch marks. They were deep, long, and circular. They were not mechanical, not natural.

The jungle was empty. Too empty.

“There’s something here,” one of them muttered. Hawk raised his hand. Everyone halted.

A sound. Dull. Behind them.

And then again: silence.

This time, it wasn’t neutral quiet. It was the kind of silence that tells you you’re no longer alone.

Something was here.

The jungle was mute. Every movement felt wrong, every noise too loud. Hawk and his small squad moved carefully through the root-covered terrain that felt more like a grave than a living forest.

Then: movement.

Between thick ferns lay a body. Armor damaged, helmet askew, breathing shallow.

Hawk knelt beside the trooper. “You’re alive.”

The clone blinked. His visor was cracked, and his gaze was distant and unfocused. He trembled. His hands clenched as if trying to hold onto something already gone.

“What happened?” Hawk asked, keeping his voice steady.

The trooper shook his head slightly. “I… I don’t know. We saw the target. The station… it was there. Then… we weren’t alone anymore. Something was there.”

“What?”

“I… I don’t know. It was fast. Dark. Something took them. The others… they… they were just gone.”

His voice broke. “I shot. I screamed. No one answered.”

Hawk placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. Then, he activated his comm.

“This is Hawk. One survivor was found. In shock, unable to move. I need immediate extraction, low-profile—no aerial visibility.”

Helena responded immediately.

“Transport en route. Three minutes. Hold your position.”

Hawk turned to his men. “We keep going. There may be more.”

They left the wounded in cover; one soldier stayed behind. The rest followed the trail of blood—it was unmistakable. Dark red, fresh. Drops became puddles.

The trail led through tangled vines, past torn plants and severed lianas. And then—they found it.

The station.

Intact.

Untouched.

Too untouched.

It wasn’t defended. Not a single droid. No more camouflage. As if it were waiting.

“This is a trap,” one whispered.

Hawk raised his hand and saw it at the edge of the clearing. Something moved.

Black. Far too large. Silent.

Then another. And a third.

They stood at the edge of the light. Their shapes blurred with the trees.

Teeth glinted.

“Back. Slowly,” Hawk ordered, calm. “Don’t run. Don’t rush.”

But then… came the growl. Deep. Across all frequencies at once.

They had barely retreated ten meters when the shadows began to move.

“Back,” Hawk repeated. Quieter this time. His men moved slowly backwards, between tree trunks, over mossy roots—no sudden movements. No noise. Just the pounding of adrenaline in their veins.

Then his comm flickered.

Helena.

“Hawk, get out. Now. There are three unknown signatures in your area. Large. Fast. Not mechanical.”

Hawk responded immediately. “Visual contact confirmed. We’re retreating.”

“Transport en route. It’s under two minutes. Hold position south of the station—”

Hawk looked to his men. A nod. Then, they moved faster. Not a run—but with purpose. Two secured the rear; the others moved through the trees, kept low, and breathed shallowly.

The beasts didn’t follow.

Not really.

One of them—the largest—stepped to the clearing’s edge. Half-hidden in roots and darkness. Its gleaming eyes locked directly onto Hawk.

He paused for a moment. Not out of fear. But for what came after?

The creature didn’t move. No attack. No sound. Just a look.

A look that said:

I could. But not now.

Then it was gone.

The forest was silent again when the evacuated shuttle descended through the canopy. No shots fired. No explosions. No heroics. And yet—something had changed.

Hawk climbed aboard last.

“One target remains active. The station wasn’t destroyed.”

Helena didn’t answer right away. Then only:

“It never was the target.”

Hawk sat wordlessly on the bench. And as the shuttle rose and Vehora III sank beneath them, he knew—the war had only just begun.

No sooner had the shuttle touched down on the Invictus’s landing platform than Hawk was on the move. Dirt and blood clung to his armour, and half the HUD readouts were still flickering. He pulled off his helmet and took a long breath.

Helena approached. She meant to speak—calm, direct. But then came Shade.

He was already there, in the middle of the hangar—arms behind his back, motionless as always.

“You failed,” he said. No anger. No tone. Just judgment.

Hawk stopped and looked him in the eye. No protest. No explanation.

“The last target still stands. I want it destroyed—immediately. No discussion.”

Helena stepped forward. “Shade, he just—”

“You do not speak for my officers.”

Silence. Brief. Sharp.

Hawk nodded. “Understood.”

He turned. No questions. No complaints.

“Two men. No backup required.”

Helena followed a few steps, her voice low. “Do you want to do this alone?”

Hawk paused.

“He wants it ended. So do I.”

Then he went. Back into the jungle. To the station. To the place where the beasts had stood and let him go.

And this time, he didn’t know if they would again.

The shuttle descended silently through the canopy.

Hawk stood at the open hatch, rifle loose at his shoulder, eyes locked on the clearing he’d left only minutes before. Beside him, two men—quiet, focused. There are no words between them. None needed.

“Three-minute operation,” Hawk said, barely audible. “No contact. No games.”

The shuttle hovered directly above the old position. There was no movement, no sound, and nothing had changed, making it unsettling.

“Set the marker,” Hawk ordered. One of the men jumped down, rolled into cover, and set up the targeting device. The other covered him. Hawk was the last to step out, weapon raised.

The marker blinked.

Green. Acquired.

Hawk scanned the clearing—no eyes. No teeth. No shadows.

“Confirm airstrike.”

A high-pitched whine came from above—nearly silent. Seconds later, a precise, searing blast struck. The station collapsed, stone shattering.

A sound ripped through the jungle. Not a roar—more like the echo of a fury that wasn’t released.

The three stood there for a moment.

“Target destroyed,” Hawk said. Then, quieter: “No sightings. Phase One of the mission completed.”

The beasts did not appear. They only watched.

The shuttle returned. They boarded—and no one spoke on the way back.

[cuzikan]

The Anatomy of the 427 SOHC – Ford’s Answer to the HEMI that was banned from NASCAR and went drag racing.

What is the most feared engine ever to come out of Ford? A very subjective question – but the Boss 302, 427 Tunnel Port, Boss 429 come to mind. All these are candidates, but a lot of people would say that distinction belongs to the 427 SOHC. Mostly referred to as a 427 “Cammer” or “Sock”.

1964 was the year that Richard Petty won the Daytona 500 with the new Dodge 426 Hemi. Ford was running the 427 Hi-Riser that year and won the majority of NASCAR races. The writing was on the wall and the boys at Ford had to come up with an answer to the new Hemi. Within 90 days, Ford took what it learned from the 255ci Dual Overhead Cam Indy motor and applied it to the bulletproof 427ci FE motor. The displacements started at 332ci and grew to 428ci. The baddest of the bad of these were the 427’s and the King of the 427’s is the 427 SOHC!

The shortblock for the “cammer” was basically all 427 hi-riser. Ford wanted to keep the cost down by using as many off-the-shelf parts as it could. The crank was the 427 forged steel version that was cross-drilled at both the mains and rods. This crank with the steel hi-riser connecting rods and special “hemi-head” pistons was the ticket needed to live at 7500 rpms. Increased oil pressure and updated water pump helped to keep all fluids flowing no matter what the conditions were.

The main thing that drew your eyes to this motor was the massive valve covers, which were made from magnesium. One look and you knew that this was no ordinary engine. The heads were cast iron and wide. With a machined combustion chamber putting the compression ratio at 12.0:1. The intake ports were a “tunnel port” design that fed 2.25″ intake valves and through 1.90″ exhaust valves, gases exited out D shaped exhaust ports. Hollow stem intake valves were used and the exhaust valve stem were sodium filled to help control the heat that is generated at 7500 rpms.

The first public mention of the Cammer V8 appeared in the Daytona Beach Morning Journalon Feb. 23, 1964. Beaten up at Daytona all month by the new 426 Hemi engines from the Dodge/Plymouth camp, Ford officials asked NASCAR to approve an overhead-cam V8 the company had in the works. But as the Journal reports here, NASCAR boss Bill France turned thumbs down on Ford’s proposed engine. France regarded overhead cams and such to be European exotica, a poor fit with his down-home vision for Grand National stock car racing.

Even though France barred the SOHC V8 from NASCAR competition, Ford proceeded to develop the engine anyway, hoping to change Big Bill’s mind. In May of 1964, a ’64 Galaxie hardtop with a Cammer V8 installed was parked behind Gasoline Alley at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, where the assembled press corps could get a good look at it.

On October 19, 1964, NASCAR moved to ban all “special racing engines,” in its words, eliminating both the Cammer Ford and the Chrysler 426 Hemi from Grand National competition for 1965. Chrysler responded by temporarily withdrawing from NASCAR, while Ford continued on with its conventional 427 pushrod engine in NASCAR and took the SOHC engine to the drag strips.

Despite heavy lobbying from Ford, in December of 1965 NASCAR again banned the Cammer for 1966, with USAC piling on (Spartanburg Herald-Journal, December 18, 1965 above). However, in April of 1966 NASCAR finally relented. Sort of. Okay, not really. The Cammer was now allowed, technically, but only in the full-size Galaxie model, limited to one small four-barrel carb, and with an absurd, crippling weight handicap: nearly 4400 lbs, 430 lbs more than the Dodge and Plymouth hemis. At that point Ford said no thanks and dedicated the Cammer to drag racing. The engine never turned a lap in NASCAR competition.

Ford made the Cammer widely available in the drag world, providing engine deals to nitro racers Tom Hoover, Pete Robinson, Connie Kallita, and a host of others. Among the most successful Cammer-equipped drag cars were the 1966-67 Comet flip-top funny cars (Don Nicholson, Eddie Schartman, et. al.) and Mickey Thompson’s dominating ’69 Mustang team starring Danny Ongais and Pat Foster.

[sebstanaddict]

Too Good To Be True

Sebastian Stan x Reader Story

Summary: A romantic comedy story where Sebastian Stan falls in love with reader but she is not who he thinks she is.

After one of her dreams came true, which was meeting Sebastian Stan, reader thought life would finally get better for her. Unfortunately it didn't and she was forced to take a job all aspiring actresses usually took early in their careers, which was becoming a waitress/barista. One day her idol came to her work place and turned her world upside-down, literally. Will she finally get the luck she so desperately needed in her life or will bad luck continue to haunt her?

Pairings : Sebastian Stan x Female!Reader

Chapters : 3/20 (Might add more)

Chapter list >

Warning : none

Word count : 6.4k words

This story is inspired loosely by Sebastian's love life so it will have characters from his real life but I will not name their real names. I will only use Sebastian's real name in the story.

---

Chapter 3 - Conga

Go Get 'Em Tiger Cafe, LA, California - 1 month later

—

The milk steamer let out a hissing sound as soft foam started to form in the housemade almond milk inside the stainless steel cup. Being able to make a cup of latte or cappuccino using an expensive coffee machine was something Y/n never thought she could do. She guessed human brains really have a large untapped capacity for learning anything. Still, she moved out of Silicon Valley not expecting to learn to be a barista or a waitress, she wanted to learn acting, which she did, and there was nothing else she would love to learn more than acting. But the fact that she had started to run out of money and that she hadn't scored a role on anything yet, not even a commercial, she had no choice but to do the aspiring actress slash waitress job.

After her very first audition in front of Sebastian ended up with her being injured, she was forced to stay in her apartment for two weeks until her ankle was healed, so she missed out on four auditions she was supposed to do within those two weeks. She ended up doing some auditions over zoom and she also recorded videos of herself and sent them out to agencies and production houses. Of course, those types of auditions couldn't beat an in person audition where the casting directors could see her directly, so she assumed one of the reasons why she hadn't gotten any roles yet was because of that. Or maybe she just wasn't that good. Sometimes that thought crossed her mind. But Eve, her aspiring actress roommate, who had more experience in the acting world than she was, told her that she was good and kept encouraging her to do auditions. Her acting teacher Miss Davidson also told her that she was good and kept encouraging her to continue. She ended up enrolling in a part time acting class at the conservatory to improve her acting skills more while also having the waitress slash barista job on the side.

Despite being side tracked in her efforts to succeed as an actress, she was still somewhat grateful that she could get a job at the Go Get 'Em Tiger cafe. Eve was also working there and she helped her get the job. The cafe was located in Los Feliz and it was supposed to be quite a popular spot for Hollywood celebrities to hang out. However, in the two weeks that she had started working there she had only met one celebrity, Chris Pine, who was alone and spent almost half the day there just reading a book. She had more than hoped that Sebastian would one day come into the cafe but that day had not come yet.

Speaking of Sebastian, after a week of not hearing anything from him, she was convinced that the reason he was so nice to her was because he had hit her head with a frisbee. There was no chance he was interested in her at all and even though she knew it from the beginning, deep down she couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. She remembered the way he looked at her at the conservatory's infirmary and in his car. She felt like there was something more there. But of course there wasn't. She was just hallucinating. He probably looked at everyone the way he looked at her. She had tried to convince herself.

Despite knowing she didn't have any chance with him she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever meet him again. The results of the audition had been announced about a week before. The role of the main character's sister went to her classmate Lily, while both the roles of the main character's girlfriend and friend didn't go to anyone from the conservatory. It seemed no one was good enough for both roles so Sebastian and the other producers most likely opened auditions to other people. This made it harder for her to meet him again and it had made her sad. Even though she only met him briefly she felt the impact was quite deep. Yes, after meeting him in person she could say that she was more in love with him than ever. How could she not? Especially after how he had treated her. But of course it was not good to dwell on it too long. It was useless. She had zero chance with him so she should focus her mind on other things and she could proudly say that she was successful in that.

She had only been working at the cafe for two weeks but she was a fast learner that the manager had trusted her to graduate from just being a waitress to being a barista. She was quite proud of that until that day that is.

She poured the foamy almond and macadamia milk into a cup where a small amount of espresso was already in. She moved the stainless steel cup containing the milk slowly to form the signature leaf like design on top of the cappuccino. The end result was pretty and she was really happy with it. She placed the cup of cappuccino onto a tray where she had prepared some sachets of sugar and Stevia as well as a teaspoon and rang the bell. Soon Eve came over.

"Table 7, Eve." She said, gesturing her head towards a table by the window where a man was sitting.

"Okay, thanks Y/n. You're getting really good at the foam design." Eve commented and smiled at her after glancing at the cappuccino.

"Oh thanks. I tried my best." She smiled back.

She had just finished cleaning up after making the cappuccino when the one person she had hoped to meet again in the past month walked in. It was Sebastian!

He looked exactly, if not even more good looking than the last time she saw him. He still had long hair pulled back into a ponytail but he had slightly thicker stubble. He wore a navy sweater, which was peculiar to wear in LA at this time of the year, but of course he still looked good wearing it. She couldn't help but continue to stare at him. He looked around for a bit and then walked straight towards her. But just before he could really see her, her embarrassment got the best of her. Somehow she didn't want him to know that she ended up being a barista slash waitress instead of a successful actress. So she quickly ducked and squatted behind the counter, pretending to clean the cupboard in front of her with a rag that was in her hand.

"Excuse me." His voice traveled down into her ears and she could feel warmth crawling from her neck up to her cheek.

She pretended not to notice and hoped another employee could deal with him instead but she was the only barista scheduled to work at that hour and Eve was cleaning up tables on the patio outside while the cafe's manager was busy in the kitchen supervising a new cook. No one else could cover for her.

"Hello. I'd like to order please." Sebastian called out again and she took a deep breath. Okay, alright, you can do this. She encouraged herself and slowly but surely started to stand up.

"Oh hello. What can I get for you, sir?" She smiled nervously, trying to put on a professional face. For all she knew he probably didn't remember her. It had been a month after all since he last saw her.

Sebastian stared at her with his gorgeous blue eyes and soon recognition appeared in them.

"Oh hey, it's Y/n, right?" He asked, smiling wide at her.

"Hi Sebastian." She smiled back, feeling both, elated and embarrassed that he still remembered her.

"How are you? How's your ankle?" He asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Her heart felt warm at his question. Not only did he remember her, he also remembered her injury. But of course, after what happened, it was normal that he would remember.

"Oh, it's healed. I just sometimes feel weird walking on it. But it's mostly fine. Thanks for asking." She replied and he nodded in response.

"That's good. Happy to hear that." He smiled.

"Yeah. Thanks." She smiled back.

"I didn't know you worked here. Last time I was here, which was about three weeks ago, I didn't see you." He stated.

"Umm.. yeah. I just started about two weeks ago." She replied, blushing again as the embarrassment she felt earlier came back.

"Oh, I see." He nodded.

"I.. uh.. have bills to pay so I didn't have a choice." She blurted out. She didn't know why she said it and she felt really stupid for saying it. Having a high paying job for most of her life, admitting that she needed a job was actually quite embarrassing for her. It seemed her nervousness got the best of her.

"Oh yeah, I get that. Everyone in the business had to do this at some point in their careers. I did too." He winked and she could feel butterflies in her stomach and she was sure her face had reddened again.

"What job did you do at the beginning?" She finally asked after she had recovered from his wink.

"I was a waiter, also a store attendant at some point. But my first job was at a cinema, taking stubs of tickets from moviegoers. Stuff like that." He chuckled.

"Oh, the cinema huh? I bet you had a blast being able to watch movies a lot." She commented.

"Oh yeah I did. That was the only good thing about the job." He said.

They laughed and she couldn't help but notice that he did the nose scrunch. It was something cute that he did sometimes when he laughed and she couldn't believe she could witness it directly.

Just then a family of four entered the cafe. A dad, a mom and their daughter and son. They walked straight towards the counter.

"Anyway, sorry, what can I get you, Sebastian?" She asked, her eyes glancing behind him where the family had stood.

"Oh yeah. Sorry." Sebastian turned his face towards his back for a quick second and saw the family then he turned back to face her.

"I'll just have the iced almond macadamia latte and I'll also have the avocado toast." He said.

"Alright, that would be eighteen dollars and fifty cents, sir." She said after entering his orders into the cafe's system.

"Sir.. I feel so old." He chuckled as he pulled out his wallet.

"Sorry, I didn't mean.." she said but she was cut off.

"It's okay, Y/n..I was joking." He winked and she blushed again.

"Here, keep the change." He said as he gave her ten one hundred dollar bills.

Her jaw dropped as she received the thousand dollars from him. She knew that he was a generous tipper but a thousand dollars was just too much!

"Sebastian.. I.. I can't accept this." She said as she tried to give the money back to him but he put his hands behind him and wouldn't accept the money back.

"Just take it Y/n. I insist. Now let's not make these people wait for too long." He said as he beckoned his head back towards the family that were standing behind him.

"I.. okay. Th.. thank you so much, Sebastian." She stammered as she put the money into the till and typed the amount and tip that he gave into the system, her hand shaking a little.

"Hey, the change is just for you. So.. don't put them into the system." He reminded her.

"Oh.. right. Thanks." She said as she picked most of the money back and put them into her pocket. If her manager was there he would have scolded her or even take the money away from her but he wasn't and she was really grateful for that.

She deleted the actual amount that he had given to her from the system and entered the amount of the order instead. Then she printed out the receipt.

"Here's your receipt and please kindly wait. We will bring your orders to your table once they're ready." She said while giving him the receipt.

"Okay, thanks. I'll be on the patio." He said and she nodded.

He smiled at her one last time and finally turned around and left her. She felt weak in her knees as he left but she shouldn't be like this. There were other customers that needed her attention! She scolded herself.

"Good morning, sir, ma'am. What can I get for you today?" She smiled as the dad and mom of the family approached her.

"Good morning. We'll have two bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches please, then a GGET BLT and a Protein Brekkie." The mom replied.

She quickly put in their orders with her heart pounding hard in her chest. She rarely accepted large orders, Eve usually did the order taking so she was scared she would get them wrong.

"Okay, what drinks would you like to have today, sir, ma'am?" She asked after making sure the food orders had been entered correctly.

"I'll just have an iced latte, please." The dad replied.

"Make that two and two orange juice for our kids. But please make sure not to use nut milk for my husband's latte because he's allergic to nuts." The mom said.

"Yeah, I always forgot to say that. I'm allergic to nuts." The dad said.

"Noted, sir, ma'am." She said as she continued to enter their orders into the system.

"So, that would be seventy one dollars, sir, ma'am." She said as the total of their orders appeared on the cafe's computer screen.

The mom paid and they finally left her to sit outside on the patio, leaving her to finally work on making all of their orders.

She dealt with the orange juice first as they were the easiest to prepare while also waiting for the coffee machine to heat up.  Then she prepared the iced lattes next. A regular iced latte and the one Sebastian ordered, the iced almond macadamia latte, basically had the same recipe. The only difference was with the milk that was used. A regular latte used regular cow's milk while the iced almond macadamia one used housemade almond and macadamia milk.

She remembered the dad was allergic to nuts so she made sure not to use the wrong milk for him. After a while all the drinks were done and she rang the bell to call Eve.

"Table 10 and 15, Eve." She said as Eve approached her.

"Y/n.. is that Sebastian Stan on table 15?" Eve asked with her eyes wide as she looked outside towards the patio where Sebastian was sitting.

"Yup." She nodded.

"Oh wow. Did he remember you?" Eve continued to ask.

"Believe it or not he did remember me." She smiled, her eyes glazed a little as she remembered the way recognition entered his eyes when he first saw her earlier.

"That's so cool." Eve exclaimed in awe.

"Well, I guess he would remember me seeing how I embarrassed myself and he basically had to carry me multiple times." She chuckled.

"Yeah, you're so lucky. By the way, do you want to bring his order yourself?" Eve asked.

"Umm.. I still have some cleaning up to do. Maybe it's best that you do it. Don't want to keep him waiting too long." She replied.

"Okay." Eve nodded and she finally left to bring the orders to Sebastian and the family.

She was again just finished cleaning up after making the last order when she heard a female voice scream out.

"Help! Somebody call 911!" The mom from the family screamed.

The mom was standing over her husband who seemed to be choking. She immediately got out of the counter and went over to them. Her heart dropped to her stomach as she watched the dad whose entire mouth had swollen. His face looked pale. It was clear he was having anaphylactic shock and had trouble breathing.

She immediately pulled out her cellphone and called 911. As soon as she was done the cafe's manager and Eve went to stand by her, trying to calm the mom and help the dad in any way they could.

"He's having an allergic reaction! I told you he was allergic to nuts!" The mom shouted at her.

"What?! Did you give this man nuts?" The cafe's manager turned to her, his voice raised.

"No! I.. I made sure I put regular milk in his order and not almond milk." She defended herself.

Her eyes glanced at the latte glasses on the table and then she turned to look at Sebastian's glass on his table, and realized their orders must have been switched. She didn't give anything on the glasses to differentiate between the lattes and Eve didn't know which ones were which. She didn't tell her. In all of her excitement and nervousness of meeting Sebastian again, she had forgotten to tell her. Her heart sank deep into her stomach as she realized that she was in big trouble.

—

"You're fired!" The cafe's manager spat at her about an hour later.

Thankfully the emergency responders came not long after she realized her mistake and they were able to inject the man with adrenaline, helping him in reversing the effects of the allergy thus allowing him to breathe normally again. They still brought the man to the nearest hospital to observe him and made sure a second anaphylactic attack didn't happen.

The man's wife was absolutely furious at her and even threatened to sue them. She calmed down eventually after the cafe's manager refunded her and told her that they would deal with any medical expenses for the man's recovery.

She was standing in the cafe's manager's office, looking down at her feet in fear and shame as the manager continued to scold her and berated her. Eve stood next to her, looking down at her feet as well.

"I.. I'm really sorry Mr.Smith. It was an honest mistake." She stammered.

"Honest mistake?! More like stupid mistake! The man could've died and you could've been charged with murder!" He shouted and she winced at that.

He was right. The man could've died. She was completely horrified at the thought.

"Me firing you is tame compared to what could've happened to you. You know I could've demanded you to pay to cover that man's medical expenses. But I know you don't have the money. So I won't ask you for that. But I won't pay you a dime." He continued to say with venom in his voice.

She could only nod as she listened to him. Her punishment was fitting. She accepted that.

"Now Eve, I'm not going to fire you. You've been with us a long time so I'm letting you go with a warning." Mr.Smith said as he turned to look at Eve.

"Thank you Mr.Smith." Eve nodded and glanced at her for a split second, as if silently saying to her how sorry she was at the turn of events.

"Now go! Both of you!" Mr.Smith said as he waved his hand and dismissed them.

She nodded, turned around and followed Eve out of Mr.Smith's office. Her mind was still reeling after what just happened.

"I'm really sorry, Y/n." Eve said.

"It was my fault, Eve, that's okay." She sighed.

"I'll ask my friends in case they know if another cafe or restaurant is hiring." Eve offered.

"Yeah, thanks Eve. I'll look for a job myself too." She said as they arrived at the small room which housed the employee lockers as well as some benches where the employees could sit and rest.

"I have to go back out. You'll be okay, right?" Eve asked, placing her hand on the side of her left arm.

"Yeah. I'm just going to go back home after I change." She said.

"Okay. See you later, Y/n." Eve reached out and gave her a brief hug then left her alone.

As she changed out of her uniform the severity of the situation dawned in her. She was unemployed, yet again! What was it with this year? She thought in disbelief. She was fired twice that year, something she never thought she would experience. Yes, she realized that for all these years she mostly had experienced bad luck and unfair conditions. But something big like this never happened to her twice in the same year. Why was she such a loser?! She complained internally as she slammed the door of her locker hard, but instead of closing, the door fell down onto her, the hinges were destroyed with rust. She cursed as she struggled to put the door back onto its place but couldn't so she just left it leaning on the locker.

Go home. That was all she could think about as she finally went out of the employee room and slung her bag around her shoulder. Her emotions about the whole situation had started to come to the surface and she felt like she was about to cry. She didn't want to cry in front of the other employees and customers. So she quickly went out of the cafe, forgetting completely about Sebastian who apparently was still there, sitting at the patio.

She wasn't sure what to do as she walked closer towards where his table was. As it happened his table was near the exit of the cafe so she couldn't really avoid him. He was looking down while reading a book so she hoped she could just slip past him. But her hope was squashed as she got closer to him and Sebastian looked up at her.

"Y/n? What happened?" Sebastian asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. She didn't want to stop but she didn't want to be rude either so she stopped.

"I.. I don't know if you saw what happened but.. I got fired." She said slowly.

"Oh no. I did see what happened." He said, staring at her in concern.

"Yeah, I.. I mixed up your order with that man who got an anaphylactic shock. He's allergic to nuts and I gave him your latte." She explained.

"Oh, that explains why I couldn't taste the almond and macadamia in the latte." He commented.

"Yeah.. I.. I'm sorry about that. I can ask the other barista to make the correct latte for you if you want." She offered.

"Oh no, thanks. That won't be necessary. I already finished more than half of it anyway." He said, smiling.

"Okay. Well, I have to go. See you later, Sebastian." She waved a little at him and quickly turned to leave him. She was on the verge of crying and she didn't want him to see it. But Sebastian didn't seem to get it because he quickly stood up and followed her.

"Y/n! Wait!" Sebastian shouted at her but she pretended not to hear him and she decided to run. She crossed the street and headed towards a parking lot where she had parked her car.

"Y/n! Stop!" She could hear Sebastian shouting after her so she immediately ran to her car and ducked behind it, hoping Sebastian didn't see her. She squatted on the ground, her heart beating fast in her chest as she waited to see if Sebastian had seen her. Moments later she could hear the sound of footsteps. A pair of white sneakers showed up in front of her and she knew he had caught up with her.

"Y/n?" He called out gently. She looked up to see him staring at her with confusion on his face.

"Y/n.. why are you hiding from me?" He asked in amusement.

"I.. I'm sorry. I just.. " she sighed. She couldn't tell him that she was about to cry. But seeing him looking down at her with genuine concern on his face broke the dam in her heart that had stopped her from crying ever since the incident happened. Tears started to fall from her eyes and she finally cried. She tried hard to stop because she was embarrassed but she couldn't. Once she started she couldn't stop. She cried hard, grieving over her bad luck in employment that year. Swirls of fear and uncertainty circled around in her chest. She never felt so powerless in her life. She didn't have a job! How was she supposed to live now?! She didn't want to end up homeless. She continued to sob.

Sebastian walked closer to her and knelt in front of her. He opened his arms wide and pulled her into his embrace, startling her. She froze as she ended up sitting on the ground while Sebastian's arms circled around her body tight.

"There.. there.. it's okay Y/n. Everything is gonna be okay." He soothed her while his hand caressed her back gently.

Home. She suddenly felt like she was home in his arms. She stopped crying and took a deep breath. Inhaling deeply the intoxicating smell of his cologne mixed with what she guessed was his signature scent. The warm feeling of his arms around her, the softness of his sweater and especially his comforting signature scent successfully calmed her down. She sniffled and Sebastian slowly let her go.

He raised his hand up to her face and wiped the tears falling down on her cheeks gently with his fingers. Her heart galloped fast in her chest as she felt his warm fingers on her cheeks and she blushed.

"I.. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cry in front of you." She stammered.

"It's okay Y/n. Don't worry about it." He looked down at her and gave her a warm smile, making butterflies flutter around in her stomach.

For a moment they just looked at each other and she could feel it again, how he looked deep into her soul and she felt her heart skip a beat.

"Are you feeling better?" He finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Yeah..thank you Sebastian." She smiled and took a deep breath.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked gently as he let her go completely and sat crossed leg on the ground in front of her.

“I.. Well, I was just grieving over my unemployment. This was the second time I got fired this year and I just worry so much about my future. I.. I don’t want to end up being homeless, you know.” She sighed.

“I see. This was the second time you got fired?” He asked curiously.

“Yeah it was.” She replied. She ended up telling him about her previous job at Silicon Valley, how she waited three months but couldn’t get a job and how she decided to go to LA to pursue an acting career. Of course she omitted the fact that he was the reason why she decided to pursue an acting career. She didn’t want him to know that she was his fan. She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable because of it.

“Wow, I admire you for wanting to step out of your comfort zone. Not everyone has the balls to do that.” He commented. He seemed genuinely impressed at her story and that made her confidence level raise.

“Thank you, Sebastian. I really appreciate you saying that.” She smiled and he smiled back.

"You’re welcome, Y/n. By the way, I have something serious to talk to you about, but maybe we should go somewhere more comfortable. It’s getting kind of hot out here." He suggested as he stood up and extended his hand towards her.

"Oh okay." She said, startled as she held his hand and stood up.

"Let's just go to my car and I can put the AC on." He said, beckoning for her to follow him towards his car, which was coincidentally parked next to hers.

She just nodded as she followed him to his car, wondering what it was that he wanted to talk to her about.

Moments later they sat side by side in his car. He put the AC on full blast and she could feel warm air blasted out from the fan. Slowly the air turned cool and gave her some relief from the sweltering California heat. Her heart beat fast in her chest as she waited on what he was going to say to her. She couldn't help but fantasize that he was going to confess that he had fallen in love with her, like what happens in romcoms. But her logical side argued that there was no way it would happen. She was simply not his type. Heck, she was nobody's type. Her single status for the past thirty years proved that.

"Y/n.. first of all, I hope you don't think of me as some kind of creep for saying this to you." He said and she immediately shook her head.

"Nothing you say would make me think that." She said.

"Not even if I told you I'm a cannibal?" He laughed and she laughed as well.

"Okay, maybe that. Wait.. it's not that, is it?" Her eyebrows raised.

He laughed so hard that tears started to form in the corners of his eyes.

"It's not that, Y/n." He finally said after he stopped laughing and regained his composure.

"Oh. Phew!" She said in relief, making him laugh again.

"Anyway. What I wanted to tell you is. I want you.. to work for me." He slowly said.

"What?!" She exclaimed out loud, flabbergasted.

"Yeah. Filming for Pumping Black is happening soon and I need some PAs, personal assistants, you know. To help on set and.. well.. maybe off the set as well." He said, his eyes looked to the right as he seemed to be thinking.

She couldn't believe her ears! Sebastian f*****g Stan was offering her a job?! Out of everything that could happen in her life this one definitely never crossed her mind. Well, she would of course prefer to work with him as an actress, like a co-star of his, but being his personal assistant sounded awesome too! She could be with him 24/7! Okay, maybe not exactly 24/7 but close to that. It was like every Sebastian's fan's dream job! She couldn't believe her luck!

"Are you serious?" She asked, wide eyed.

"Yes, I'm serious Y/n. But if you don't want to work for me then it's okay. I know I'm practically a stranger to you and this might be weird for you. So I understand completely if you don't want to take up on my offer." He explained quickly.

"Oh.. yeah, well, it does seem weird, I can't deny that." She said, playing hard to get a little and he smiled knowingly.

"But.." he trailed, teasing her.

"But.. of course I would work for you Sebastian! Being your PA beats being a waitress or barista any day!" She exclaimed excitedly.

"Happy to hear that." He chuckled.

"So, when do I start?" She asked.

"Well, I love your enthusiasm but aren't you gonna ask about your salary? You should never forget asking about that in a job interview." He reminded her and she laughed.

"This doesn't feel like a job interview. But yeah, you're right. How much are you going to pay me, mister?" She asked and he laughed.

"Twice the amount Go Get 'Em Tiger paid you." He said.

"Oh! That's great! If I told you they paid me 50 grand a month would you pay me 100 grand a month?" She teased.

"I don't believe they paid you that much, Y/n." He protested and she laughed.

"Yeah, they didn't, unfortunately." She chuckled and he chuckled as well.

"Well, I assume they paid you in the range of two to three grand a month." He said.

"Yeah, you're right." She nodded.

"Okay, in that case I'm offering you four grand a month. And that's for working from 9 in the morning to 5 in the afternoon. You'll be compensated more if you work outside of official working hours. I usually pay twenty dollars per hour for work outside of working hours." He explained.

"Okay, that sounds good, Sebastian." She smiled. "How long will you need me for?"

"Well, filming will last for about three months. Two months at a studio here and a month in France. So I'll need you for at least three months. But I do have other projects coming after that where I may need your help again..I guess we'll see." He replied.

"That sounds amazing. I've never been to France before." She said in awe.

"Oh yeah? Well, it's a beautiful country, you'll love it there." He commented.

"I'm sure I will! So, when do I start?" She asked eagerly.

"Well, filming for Pumping Black is going to start in about a week. So I'd say you should start immediately. However, I still need to run this by the other producers and Maya too. I'm sure they'll be okay with it and I just need to ask them for formality's sake, you know. Because I already have three PAs working for me at the moment."

"Oh. Are you sure you still need me?" She asked, doubt started to form in her heart.

"Of course Y/n! The more the merrier! And even if you don't end up working for me personally we still need PAs for the other actors." He explained.

"Okay. That sounds good." She nodded.

"Yeah. Speaking of actors. I'm sure you know we ended up not giving the girlfriend and friend role to anyone from your conservatory." He said.

"Oh, yeah. I knew about that. We must be really bad huh?" She chuckled.

"Well, no actually, that's the thing. Out of everyone who auditioned for the role of Celeste, you were actually on the first rank, Y/n." He sighed.

"What?! Are you serious, Sebastian?" She asked, her jaw dropped.

"Yeah. But, well.. I regret to say that the other producers decided to get someone more known and famous as Celeste, if you get what I mean. Someone who could help sell the movie to the general audience. So, I'm sorry. You should have gotten the role, Y/n." He said in regret.

"Oh my God! Really?!" She exclaimed out loud, her hand covered her mouth in disbelief.

"Yeah. But I'm sure you'll get a better role in the future. You have great talent, you just need to keep practicing and take as many auditions as you can." He suggested.

"Sebastian.. you have no idea how much this means to me! I mean.. I know I didn't get the role. But to be the first rank on the audition! That is awesome!" She said in delight.

He smiled and stared at her softly, making her heart skip a beat. Once again she felt like he was seeing her deep into her soul. His beautiful eyes gazed at her warmly and she felt her heart was going to burst out of her chest.

"It is awesome, Y/n. But you know what's more awesome?" He asked with a glint in his eyes.

"What?" She asked curiously.

"This!" He said as he turned the radio on and a Gloria Estefan song started to play from the speaker.

She laughed as she recognized the song. It was the up-beat song Conga. Sebastian started to move his shoulders in tune with the music while she just watched him and laughed.

"Come on Y/n! Move your shoulder. Move your body a little." He encouraged her and she didn’t have a choice but to obey her new boss.

They ended up singing and dancing to the song, turning her bad day into an unbelievable day.

"Is this going to be the norm working for you?" She laughed as the song finally ended and Sebastian finally stopped dancing.

"Oh yeah it is!" He exclaimed excitedly and she laughed.

"Being able to spontaneously sing and dance when prompted is one of the job requirements." He teased.

"Oh okay. And how did I do?" She asked, smiling.

"You passed with flying colors, Y/n." He replied and winked, making her blush yet again.

"Anyway, I have to go to the studio. I have an appointment in an hour with Maya and the other producers." He said.

"Oh yeah, okay. I should just…go then." She said as she placed her hand on the door handle of the car.

"No wait, I can drive you home first if you want." He said, reaching out to touch her hand, making her heart skip a beat. She could feel that she was blushing again. He retracted his hand slowly and smiled warmly at her.

"Umm.. you don't need to do that Sebastian. My car is literally next to yours." She smiled as she pointed to her car with her thumb.

"Oh! Okay then! Good. By the way, can I have your number?" He asked and her heart galloped fast in her chest. Sebastian f*****g Stan asked for her number! What were the odds of that happening?! She screamed internally.

"So I can let you know when you can start and where the set is and all that." Sebastian continued when she didn't respond.

"Oh, right!" She said, feeling utterly embarrassed. Of course he wanted her number for work related purposes. How could she be so stupid.

She gave her number to him and he saved it in his phone. He then called her number and asked her to save it. She couldn't believe she had Sebastian's number! Lara must be freaking out if she told her about it.

"Alright. I'll contact you as soon as possible, Y/n." Sebastian smiled as he put his cellphone back in his pocket.

"Looking forward to that, Sebastian. And.. thank you so much for giving me a job." She said as she reached out and squeezed his hand, making him smile.

"You're welcome Y/n. Take care." He winked and she blushed.

"You too, Sebastian." She replied.

"Thanks Y/n." He replied, smiling wide at her.

She opened his car door and stood by his car. She waved as Sebastian saluted her and finally drove away, leaving her feeling weak all over.

Yup. Luck was definitely on her side this time. She was sure about it. But the universe had something up its sleeves that she wasn't aware of. It might seem like she was lucky for the time being but unfortunate events would soon be coming her way again, as they always have throughout her life.

Chapter 4 >

Taglist

@dhoruwolfie

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Yale Environment 360:

Can metals that naturally occur in seawater be mined, and can they be mined sustainably? A company in Oakland, California, says yes. And not only is it extracting magnesium from ocean water — and from waste brine generated by industry — it is doing it in a carbon-neutral way. Magrathea Metals has produced small amounts of magnesium in pilot projects, and with financial support from the U.S. Defense Department, it is building a larger-scale facility to produce hundreds of tons of the metal over two to four years. By 2028, it says it plans to be operating a facility that will annually produce more than 10,000 tons.

Magnesium is far lighter and stronger than steel, and it’s critical to the aircraft, automobile, steel, and defense industries, which is why the government has bankrolled the venture. Right now, China produces about 85 percent of the world’s magnesium in a dirty, carbon-intensive process. Finding a way to produce magnesium domestically using renewable energy, then, is not only an economic and environmental issue, it’s a strategic one. “With a flick of a finger, China could shut down steelmaking in the U.S. by ending the export of magnesium,” said Alex Grant, Magrathea’s CEO and an expert in the field of decarbonizing the production of metals.

“China uses a lot of coal and a lot of labor,” Grant continued. “We don’t use any coal and [use] a much lower quantity of labor.” The method is low cost in part because the company can use wind and solar energy during off-peak hours, when it is cheapest. As a result, Grant estimates their metal will cost about half that of traditional producers working with ore.

Magrathea — named after a planet in the hit novel The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy — buys waste brines, often from desalination plants, and allows the water to evaporate, leaving behind magnesium chloride salts. Next, it passes an electrical current through the salts to separate them from the molten magnesium, which is then cast into ingots or machine components.

While humans have long coaxed minerals and chemicals from seawater — sea salt has been extracted from ocean water for millennia — researchers around the world are now broadening their scope as the demand for lithium, cobalt, and other metals used in battery technology has ramped up. Companies are scrambling to find new deposits in unlikely places, both to avoid orebody mining and to reduce pollution. The next frontier for critical minerals and chemicals appears to be salty water, or brine.

Brines come from a number of sources: much new research focuses on the potential for extracting metals from briny wastes generated by industry, including coal-fired power plants that discharge waste into tailings ponds; wastewater pumped out of oil and gas wells — called produced water; wastewater from hard-rock mining; and desalination plants.

Large-scale brine mining could have negative environmental impacts — some waste will need to be disposed of, for example. But because no large-scale operations currently exist, potential impacts are unknown. Still, the process is expected to have numerous positive effects, chief among them that it will produce valuable metals without the massive land disturbance and creation of acid-mine drainage and other pollution associated with hard-rock mining.

According to the Brine Miners, a research center at Oregon State University, there are roughly 18,000 desalination plants, globally, taking in 23 trillion gallons of ocean water a year and either forcing it through semipermeable membranes — in a process called reverse osmosis — or using other methods to separate water molecules from impurities. Every day, the plants produce more than 37 billion gallons of brine — enough to fill 50,000 Olympic-size swimming pools. That solution contains large amounts of copper, zinc, magnesium, and other valuable metals.