#Ink and Coating handling in US

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

The Tides of Chaos

Pairing: Pirate! Choi Seungcheol x Princess! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | Enemies to Lovers | Opposites Attract | Forbidden Romance | Based on the movie 'Sinbad: The Legend of the Seven Seas'

Wordcount: 23.0K

Playlist: 'i always kinda knew you'd be the death of me' - Artemas | 'Swim' - Chase Atlantic | 'Sirens' - Nylo | 'do you really want to hurt me?' - Nessa Barrett | 'Taste' - Ari Abdul

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. and M. receiving) - Fingering - Nipple play - Slight body worship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Soft Dom! Seungcheol - Use of petnames - Praise kink - Slight choking

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

The Chimera cuts through the water like a dagger, her mahogany hull gleaming beneath the fading sun, sails taut with the Eastern wind. Just beyond the curve of the horizon, the city of Syracuse glimmers—a golden crown on the edge of the world, encircled by high cliff walls, bustling piers, and a towering lighthouse whose peak pulses faintly with a strange, ethereal glow.

Seungcheol leans against the railing of the upper deck, arms crossed over his broad chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The salt wind tousles his dark hair as his gaze settles on the lighthouse in the distance, its beacon like a slow heartbeat in the night. Behind him, the ship creaks and hums with life—his crew, his brothers, scurrying about with the chaotic energy of those who have lived too long on the edge of the law.

“You’re staring at it like it’s a woman,” Mingyu drawls behind him, arms folded as he climbs the short stairs to the quarterdeck. His long coat flaps behind him, half open over a sweat-stained shirt, hands already working a coin between his fingers. Seungcheol smirks but doesn’t look away. “That light’s worth more than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve clearly never met the wrong kind.” Soonyoung’s voice chimes in as he lifts himself up from below deck with a musket in one hand and a half-peeled orange in the other. “I knew a girl in Cádiz who nearly robbed me blind. Took my boots and my dignity.”

“Didn’t you say she married you first?” Wonwoo murmurs, barely glancing up from the map he’s unrolling on a barrel by the mast. His long fingers smooth the parchment with the reverence of a monk handling scripture. “Details,” Soonyoung mutters, plopping down beside him and tearing into his orange with more aggression than necessary. “Are we really doing this?” Chan’s voice cuts through the banter. He’s perched on a crate, still a little wide-eyed, grease smudges on his cheek from fiddling with the rigging, a wrench still tucked into his belt—the youngest of the crew, but no less capable. Seungcheol finally turns. “Aye,” he says. “We are.”

He strides down the steps, boots heavy on the deck. The crew naturally circles around—the Chimera’s heart pulsing with anticipation. Seungcheol plants himself in front of the map, stabbing a finger at the intricate image drawn in careful ink. “This is what we're after. The Book of Peace. It’s not just treasure. It’s practically holy. It was created before recorded time, by the first kings to seal an accord between the cities. Some believe it holds the very soul of harmony. That book is peace... and peace has a price.”

“That sounds like a curse waiting to happen,” Mingyu says. He glances at Seungcheol with a lazy grin. “How exactly do you steal a symbol of universal peace without pissing off every crowned head on the continent?”

“Easy,” Seungcheol replies without missing a beat. “We do it fast.” The others chuckle, but it’s Soonyoung who leans forward, his eyes glinting with excitement. “You’ve got a plan, then? Tell me it involves explosions. Please tell me it involves explosions.”

“Not this time,” Seungcheol replies. “We can’t afford chaos. We need timing. Precision. Grace.”

“So… not our speciality,” Chan pipes up, “Got it.” The crew laughs, and even Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle. Then he turns, his tone shifting. “The Book of Peace,” he begins, drawing a curved dagger from his belt and using it to trace lines in the map Wonwoo laid out, “is being moved from the Lighthouse of Syracuse to the Castle of Twelve. That’s our window. Security will be split—half guarding the docks, the other protecting the Kings. It’s the only time that the relic won’t be behind divine iron and twenty feet of stone.”

Minghao, who has been silent up in the crow’s nest, swings down with effortless grace and lands beside him. He’s quiet by nature, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, his tunic stitched with foreign symbols no one else can read.“We can’t storm the procession,” Minghao says softly. “They’ll expect trouble from outside the walls.” Seungcheol grins, full of teeth and madness. “Who said anything about storming?”

He flicks open a hidden compartment beneath the map barrel and pulls out a stack of folded garments—rich silks, polished buttons, embroidered vests. “We go in.” A beat of silence. Then—

“You want us to waltz into a Kings’ gala dressed like noblemen?” Mingyu laughs. “Not like noblemen,” Seungcheol says, rolling his eyes. “Like honoured guests. The guest list includes ambassadors from the outlying islands. And thanks to a certain barmaid in Messina who owed me a favour…” He produces a sealed envelope, the red wax glinting in the lantern light. “We’ve got their names.”

“And how, exactly,” Wonwoo says dryly, “are we supposed to impersonate nobility without anyone noticing our lack of... I don’t know… manners, refinement, the general ability to not stab someone over a spilt drink?”

“Speak for yourself,” Soonyoung snorts. “I’m extremely refined.” Chan groans. “You eat soup with a fork.” Seungcheol lifts a hand. “Enough. We’ll split roles. Mingyu and I go in first and distract the royal guards at the reception point. Minghao sneaks around back to unlock the secondary gate. Soonyoung guards the exit with Chan. Wonwoo will track the book’s movement from above using his maps and signal system. The moment they break from the lighthouse…”

He slams his fist on the map. “…we take it.”

“And then—Fiji.” Mingyu stretches his arms above his head and exhales like he’s already there. “White sands, sun for days. And no more jobs.”

“And umbrella drinks,” Soonyoung sighs. “Pineapple ones. With little swords.”

“I just want to sleep on a bed that isn’t swaying,” Chan groans, stretching his back. “Or full of rats.” The crew falls quiet at that. The waves slap against the hull like a ticking clock.

Then, Seungcheol leans in, breaking the silence. “Let’s steal a goddamn relic, then.”

Seungcheol adjusts the collar of his brocade jacket, resisting the urge to pull at the itchy fabric. It’s too fine, too clean, too stiff. He’s used to salt-worn shirts, wind-swept pants, and freedom. This? This feels like a noose in expensive thread. Beside him, Mingyu looks just as uncomfortable in his dark green doublet, but damn if he doesn’t wear it well. His hair’s swept back, a little neater than usual, and a ceremonial sword hangs at his hip—purely decorative, though it makes him look every inch the prince he isn’t. They move through the palace gates seamlessly, their falsified credentials passing without question. The guards don’t look twice—too distracted by the dozens of nobles arriving in droves, chatter echoing through the marble halls like waves against stone.

Inside, it’s another world.

The ballroom is lit with crystalline chandeliers that hang like captured stars. Gold trim glitters along the walls, every edge carved with symbols of the Twelve Cities. Platters overflow with delicacies—pomegranate-glazed roast fowl, lavender cakes, spiced lamb skewers, and enough wine to drown an army. Nobles and royals in gem-coloured fabrics swirl across the floor to the hum of lyres and flutes. Seungcheol walks slower than he should, taking it all in. “You seeing this?” Mingyu mutters beside him, voice low as they stroll past a statue of a god holding scales and a sceptre. “I see it,” Seungcheol replies, voice harder than expected.

It’s obscene.

The kind of wealth he’s never touched. The kind that could feed five villages for a year, but instead sits here, polished and powdered and perfectly indifferent. His jaw tightens. He grew up scraping fish guts from barrels. He knows the taste of hunger and the thirst for water. And now he’s in a palace where gold lines the plates and no one has calluses on their hands. Seungcheol inhales, the scent of roses and patchouli almost choking. “Wealth like this could feed every dockside orphan from here to Argos,” he mutters. “You getting sentimental on me, Captain?” Mingyu asks, his voice teasing but quiet, careful. Seungcheol shakes his head. “Just remembering what it’s like to be hungry.” He forces a smirk, scanning the room.

“Eyes on the guards,” he says. “We don’t have much time.” They move casually, pausing at tables, offering nods to passing nobles, and exchanging a few pleasant lies. Seungcheol counts—twelve guards inside the ballroom. Four more at the main door. Two by the arch leading back to the gallery where the Book will be displayed. Another pair flanking the massive marble stairs.

Twenty. And those are just the visible ones. Mingyu taps the rim of his goblet, a silent signal. He’s seen the same. Seungcheol’s eyes flicker to the high windows, where he knows Wonwoo is perched somewhere above, watching with hawk-like precision, drawing every detail into that steel trap of a mind. Farther behind the palace, Minghao slips along the garden’s edge like a ghost, searching for the latch to the side gate. And Soonyoung? He waits in the alley, blade hidden, eyes alert. Chan watches from the exit path with his nervous heart in his throat. It’s all going smoothly.

Until—

“Seungcheol?”

The voice stops him mid-step. No. It can’t be. He turns. And for the first time in ten years, he comes face-to-face with a ghost from a better time.

Joshua.

His childhood best friend. His brother in all but blood. And the reason he once believed in goodness. Dressed in ceremonial blue and gold, sword at his hip, medallion at his chest—he looks every bit the crown prince Seungcheol knew he would become. Joshua’s face lights up. “Gods, it is you.” Seungcheol stares for a second too long, then quickly pulls on a grin. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Joshua laughs, stepping in and wrapping him in a firm, brief hug. Seungcheol hesitates—just for a moment—before clapping his old friend on the back. “Head of the royal guard now?” Seungcheol asks as they pull apart. “Didn’t think you’d still be chasing rules.”

“Someone has to keep Syracuse from crumbling,” Joshua replies with a chuckle. “And you? Still chasing trouble?”

“Chasing myths,” Seungcheol says with a smirk. “Heard the Book was real. Had to see it with my own eyes.”

Joshua perks up with pride. “You’re in luck. Tonight, it passes through the city before it returns to the vault. And I’ve been entrusted with its protection.”

Seungcheol’s stomach twists. Of all the people. He doesn’t let it show. “I feel safer already.” Mingyu appears at his side, ever punctual, ever perceptive. His eyes flicker from Joshua to Seungcheol in quiet curiosity. “Joshua, this is Mingyu,” Seungcheol says quickly, voice light. “Old friend. One of the few people who still puts up with me.” Joshua laughs. “He must be either brave or stupid.”

“Definitely stupid,” Seungcheol replies with a smirk. Joshua looks like he’s about to make another joke, when suddenly, his eyes light up. “You have to meet someone,” he says, excitement bursting across his features. “She’s here tonight. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”

You turn at the sound of Joshua’s voice.

You already know you’ll have to be gracious. You’ve done this before—smiled for visiting nobles, curtsied for fussy kings, exchanged pleasantries with fat, red-faced merchants smelling of cloves and greed. The mask is familiar. Comfortable. Tonight you wear it again.

Your gown is seafoam blue, embroidered with silver thread along the bodice and sleeves, fitted perfectly by your handmaidens hours before. Your hair is swept back in elegant waves, fastened with pearls and a diadem from your late mother’s collection. You look every inch the Princess of Mdina—polished, serene, composed.

But your eyes betray you. Because as you turn fully, you see him.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, effortlessly handsome in the most unruly way—he doesn’t look like a nobleman. His coat is fine, yes, tailored and dark, but it fits him like it resents him. His sleeves are too tight around his biceps. His hair, though combed, has clearly fought back. His jaw is cut from something unrelenting, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—dark and assessing, settle on you like you’re a storm he saw coming and ran toward anyway.

Joshua’s voice is warm as he goes to stand beside you. “This is Seungcheol. My childhood best friend.” Your spine straightens just a little more. The pirate, you think, though, of course, he isn’t introduced that way. No one would dare. Not in this room.

Still, you’ve heard the stories. Joshua told you over candlelight, in those rare moments between duties. A boy from the slums of the lower districts. A dreamer, a fighter. Wild. Loyal. Fearless. And foolish. You tilt your chin, expression practised and polite. “So you’re the infamous one.”

He grins slowly, like your words are a flirtation instead of a challenge. “Infamous? I was under the impression Joshua painted me as heroic.”

“He did,” you say. “But heroes don’t usually get chased by guards on rooftops.” He laughs—full-bodied and warm. “That’s when I was young. I’ve grown into a respectable man.” You arch a brow. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” His smile doesn’t waver, but you see the flicker in his eyes.

A spark you recognise because you’ve had it yourself before—on the rare nights you snuck out through the servants’ corridors and climbed the cliffs alone. When you looked at the stars and wondered what the rest of the world tastes like. Intrigue, curiosity, recklessness. He looks like all of those things combined. And you hate him for it.

“Seungcheol,” Joshua says with a grin, “this is—”

“The Princess of Mdina,” Seungcheol finishes for him, his eyes never leaving yours. “you must be the one who stole Joshua’s heart.” You hold his gaze. “It wasn’t a difficult theft. He left the gates open.” Joshua chuckles beside you, his hand resting lightly on your back. Seungcheol’s smile tightens at the corners. “Well, I suppose every treasure finds its keeper eventually.” You raise a brow. “I didn’t realise pirates cared for court gossip.” He chuckles. “I didn’t realise princesses believed everything they were told.”

“You don’t seem as particularly impressive in person as in the stories,” you say. His voice is lower now. “Don’t worry, Princess. I don’t find you all that impressive either.” Joshua barks a laugh between you, oblivious to the tension blooming like storm clouds. He pulls you closer to his side.

“Gods, I forgot how quick you both are with your words,” he says, clearly entertained. “I might regret this already.” You smile at Joshua and let your hand rest lightly on his arm. He leans in and kisses your cheek, and you respond with practised affection.

Seungcheol feels something shift in his chest at the sight of Joshua so at peace. Guilt that tastes like bile on his tongue. He can’t do it. He can’t steal the Book.

He covers the turmoil with a smile and steps back. “It’s good to see you, Joshua. Really.”

“And you, old friend,” Joshua says sincerely. “It’s been too long.”

Suddenly, the horns sound across the ballroom, breaking the moment. “The Book is on the move.”

The room shifts. The mood tightens. Guards begin to take position along the corridors, and the music slows to a ceremonial cadence. Seungcheol turns, walking away without another word. Mingyu hesitates for a beat, watching the expression darken behind his captain’s eyes, then follows.

You watch him go.

The celebration carries on behind them like a fading dream—laughter echoes, glasses clink, music fades into a low hum. Outside the grand ballroom, the city of Syracuse holds its breath. The crowd has shifted, no longer drunk on wine but on wonder.

Seungcheol and Mingyu step into the open air, blending into the velvet-clad nobles and wide-eyed onlookers gathered along the procession route. The night is still, save for the rhythmic march of guards escorting the artefact.

A floating platform glides along the ancient path from the lighthouse to the palace, suspended by hidden mechanisms and lit from within. The Book sits in its centre—radiant and pulsing, casting light like liquid silver across the cobbled streets and alabaster towers.

It is beautiful. Too beautiful.

Seungcheol watches it come closer, not moving. His jaw is set, arms loosely crossed, and his expression unreadable. Mingyu doesn’t take his eyes off him. “You’re quiet,” he says. Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away.

He watches the Book. Watches how people react to it, how they fall into silence, how they reach out as if basking in divinity itself. Then, quietly: “Just thinking.” Mingyu studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “We’re not doing this, are we?” It’s not a question. It’s a truth spoken simply. Seungcheol lets out a long breath, his eyes never leaving the procession.

“No.”

Mingyu doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to. He’s known Seungcheol long enough to read him like a compass—when his needle shifts, you follow the pull. He claps Seungcheol on the back with a dry smile. “I’ll get the others. We’ll be at the Chimera by the time you make peace with whatever existential crisis you’re having.” Seungcheol huffs a laugh despite himself. “Thanks, Gyu.” Mingyu turns, disappearing into the crowd.

Seungcheol walks away, through alleys bathed in soft torchlight. Through winding streets that once knew his bare feet as a boy. The energy of the city presses in around him—gasping citizens pointing at the glow of the Book, songs half-sung from balconies, little children perched on crates to glimpse history. And yet, he feels utterly apart from it all.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe nowhere. Maybe home—if he still had such a thing. The cobblestones glisten faintly under the magic light. Somewhere distant, the platform continues to float, its precious cargo slowly making its way to the palace vault.

That’s when he hears it. A voice, low and smooth, curling like smoke around the silence. “You look troubled, Captain.”

He stops.

A woman stands in the alley ahead of him, just beyond the reach of the lanternlight. Her gown is dark, glinting only faintly, like ink catching fire. Her hair spills down her back, long and black and impossibly still despite the breeze. But it’s her eyes—unblinking and shimmering silver—that set every nerve in Seungcheol on edge.

He immediately straightens. “Who are you?” he asks, cold but calm. The woman takes a slow step forward, lips curling into something that’s almost a smile. “I’m someone who sees more than most.” Seungcheol narrows his gaze. “That’s not a name.”

“Call me Cordia.”

The name rings no bells. Still, there is something about her—it’s as though the shadows themselves lean in to listen when she speaks. She circles him now, like a vulture, and he turns to keep her in his periphery. “It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” she muses, tilting her head toward the distant glow of the Book. “Such a curious little artefact. Sacred, yes. But mostly forgotten. The Kings worship it, lock it in a tower, drag it around like a trophy—but do they use it?”

Seungcheol says nothing.

“Of course they don’t,” she goes on, “because to use it would mean sharing. And power, real power, is never shared freely.”

“What’s your point?”

She stops in front of him and tilts her head. “My point, darling Seungcheol, is that there are men—rare men—who remember what it’s like to have nothing. Who understand what it means to claw their way from the gutter. Men who might look at that Book and think: why not me?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you think you know.”“Oh, but you do.” Her smile turns razor-sharp. “I know about the Chimera. I know about your map. Your crew. The side gate. The window between guard rotations. I know about your plan.”

His blood turns cold. She steps closer, eyes gleaming. “And I know... you abandoned it.” He stands his ground, steel in his voice now. “Some things aren’t worth the risk.” Cordia’s mouth curls, displeased. “Shame. I thought you were different.”

She starts to walk again, circling. “I thought, perhaps, the tides had sent me a man with a little spine. A little hunger. But no, just another good boy with a guilty conscience and a lost heart.” Seungcheol’s temper flares. “Say what you came to say. Then leave.” She stops behind him. He can feel her breath on his neck.

“I only came to say this, Captain…” Her voice drops. “You may not want the Book anymore. But someone else does. And now? There’s no stopping what’s begun.”

He whirls around—But the alley is empty.

He exhales, shaking his head—And then suddenly, the light vanishes, plunging the city into darkness. An unnatural shadow floods the streets—cloaking the buildings, extinguishing the torches, silencing the celebration with fear. Screams echo faintly in the distance. Metal clatters. Hooves strike stone.

Seungcheol stands frozen, heart hammering.

And then he hears it—boots. Fast, heavy, purposeful. Down the hill they come—torches flaring now, drawn swords gleaming, the Royal Guard flooding through the street.“There! That’s him!” one of them shouts. “The thief—get him!”

“What?” Seungcheol growls, but it’s too late. They’re on him. He runs. He vaults over a barrel and ducks into a corridor—but there are too many. They circle him, corner him against a wall, blades drawn.

He draws his sword, breathing hard, furious and confused. “I didn’t touch it!” They don’t care. Steel clashes. Seungcheol fights hard—but it’s four against one. Then six. Then eight. A strike to the ribs. His sword knocked from his hand. A kick to his knee. He stumbles towards the ground.

As the guards pin his arms behind his back and shackle his hands, Seungcheol spits blood and glares up at the guard in front of him. “What the hell is going on?” he growls.

“You’re under arrest,” the guard snarls. “By order of the King of Syracuse. For the theft of the Book of Peace.”

Inside the war room, panic simmers beneath the opulence. A great round table rests at the centre, its surface carved with the seal of the Twelve Cities. Candles burn low, flickering against the emerald drapery and golden tapestries, their light now feeble, as if even fire itself is uncertain.

The Kings sit in their ornate chairs, a storm of arguments building with each breath.

“It’s unthinkable—how could the Book simply vanish from under our noses?!”

“Was it magic? Sabotage? We had twenty men on the procession!”

“This will break the Accord if word gets out—our cities will riot—”

The voices blur, colliding into each other like waves in a tempest. Joshua stands near the edge of the table, fists clenched behind his back, doing everything in his power not to explode.

You sit beside him, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your face carefully composed. You’ve done this before—watched politics unfold like plays, each man posturing louder than the last. But never like this. Never with someone you knew on trial. And never with someone you have come to care about standing in the crossfire.

Joshua opens his mouth to speak—again—but the King of Syracuse slams his ringed fist against the marble, making everyone go silent. “Don’t defend him, Joshua. Not him. Not that piece of dockside scum you dared to drag into our home.”

Joshua flinches ever so slightly.

The King—his father—is red in the face, spit gathering at the corner of his mouth as he begins to pace around the table like a lion whose pride has been insulted.

“From the moment I laid eyes on that gutter-born child, I knew he’d be trouble. Following you like a stray dog through the streets. Filling your head with rebellion, dragging you into fights, sneaking you out of the palace—scandalising you. I should have banished him from Syracuse then and there. But no. You begged me to spare him.”

Joshua’s jaw tightens, but he stays quiet.

“And now you see what he’s done. Ten years he vanishes, and suddenly he returns not with apology or shame, but with deceit. He hides behind fine clothes and false names. He slips into our palace, mocks our hospitality, and steals the holiest artefact this continent has ever known.”

Across the table, one of the older kings from the Southern Isles clears his throat, trying to interject with a calmer voice. “Perhaps we should focus on recovering the Book—”

“The Book is gone!” the King of Syracuse roars. “And you want to waste time on a scavenger hunt? Our alliance means nothing now that the artefact is lost. That light protected us all—and now the skies are dark, and we are vulnerable. This is war. This is sabotage. And we must punish those who betray our trust.”

You steal a glance at Joshua. He’s barely breathing. The tension in his shoulders has locked him in place. The King slams his hand on the table again. “He is guilty. If that criminal does not return the Book himself, then he will be executed by the terms of the Accord. As will any who shelter him.”

Joshua finally speaks, quiet but firm. “He didn’t take it.”

The King turns on him, sneering. “You’re still deluded. Still loyal to some childhood fantasy. But this isn’t a boyhood story, son. This is treason. And if he doesn’t bring the Book back, he will die for it.”

Joshua takes a step forward. “Then let me speak to him.”

“What?”

“Let me speak to him,” Joshua repeats, louder. “I’ll find out what happened. I’ll get the truth. And if he has it—if there’s any chance he can return it—I’ll make sure he does.”

The chamber is deathly silent. Then the King narrows his eyes, his voice dripping with disdain. “And what if he doesn’t? What if you’re wrong? What if he vanishes again, like he did ten years ago?”

Joshua doesn’t hesitate. He stares his father down, unwavering. “Then you can execute me in his place.” Your breath catches.

The room erupts in chaos—shouts from multiple kings, cries of outrage, murmurs of disbelief. You don’t hear them. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Joshua, the man who always carried duty like a second skin, just signed his life away in defence of someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade. Someone the rest of the realm would see hanged without blinking. You can’t make sense of it.

The King leans back, stunned by his son’s rebellion. The air shifts. You see it in Joshua’s face—he’s made peace with it. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the chamber, pushing open the heavy oak doors and vanishing into the stone corridors beyond.

You rise instantly. “Princess—” one of the older kings starts. But you don’t hear him either. Your legs are already moving, your silk skirts flittering over the stone as you rush out of the room and into the shadows that chase Joshua’s retreat.

He’s halfway down the torchlit hall when you catch up. “Joshua, wait—” He doesn’t stop. You jog to match his stride, reaching out to catch his arm. “Please. Just talk to me.” He stops at the end of the corridor, finally turning.

His face is tired. Not physically. But in the soul-deep way, that only comes from being forced to choose between love and loyalty. “You don’t understand,” he says softly. You stare at him. “Then help me. Help me understand why you’re ready to die for a man who’s been nothing but a ghost in your life for the past ten years.”

His mouth parts slightly. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Because he saved my life once, too. When we were boys. When no one else did.” You blink. “That was a long time ago.”

“And I still owe him for it.” Your lips press together, heart twisting painfully. You want to argue. You want to shout that this is foolish, that he’s risking everything—not just his life, but yours too. If he dies, you are nothing.

Not just by custom. But by contract. No husband. No alliance. No worth. Your father will disown you. You’ll be sent back to Mdina in disgrace. You will be a daughter who failed to become a queen, a woman with no crown and no value. Joshua is not just your fiancé. He is your freedom in a different form.

But you also see it. The conviction. The man he’s become. The same loyalty that made you believe in him in the first place.

The very reason you agreed to marry him at all.

Your voice is quieter now. “Then what happens if you’re wrong?” Joshua looks at you with eyes that seem older than they should be. “Then I die for someone I once called a brother. And I die knowing I didn’t abandon him when the world already had.”

You stand there, frozen, as he turns again and disappears down the corridor, heading for the prison wing buried beneath the palace. You can’t let him go through with it. You can’t let him risk your future, and his. Not without doing something.

So you make a decision.

The walls are damp. Cold seeps through the cracks in the stone, curling into Seungcheol’s skin. The cell is small—just large enough for him to stretch out his legs and feel the edges of his confinement. The air smells of iron, mildew, and rot, like time itself has decayed in here, and no one bothered to notice.

A single candle flickers near the far wall, its stubby wax body melting slowly into the cracked floor. Its light barely touches the edges of the darkness, casting long, restless shadows on the walls. But Seungcheol doesn’t move. He sits slumped against the back wall, legs drawn up and arms resting over his knees, the thick iron shackles around his wrists still biting into the raw skin beneath.

His lip is split. There’s a bruise blossoming along his jaw. His ribs ache when he breathes too deeply. But the pain isn’t what bothers him. What bothers him is the silence. The silence and the impossible question he can’t stop asking himself:

How did it come to this?

He closes his eyes, letting the weight of everything press in. He hadn’t even done it. He hadn’t lifted a finger toward that damn Book, hadn’t stolen it, hadn’t broken a single lock or cast a single shadow in the direction of the artefact. He’d walked away. For once, he’d walked away. And still, the world managed to throw him in a cell for a crime he didn’t commit.

A dry, humourless breath escapes him. He lifts his gaze toward the barred window, narrow and high up the wall, no bigger than a ship’s porthole. Through it, far in the distance, across the quiet water of the harbour—there she is.

The Chimera. Docked and still.

Even from here, he can make out the curve of her hull, the low-slung sails folded neatly, the faintest flicker of a lantern swinging on the quarterdeck. His boys hadn’t abandoned him. If the Chimera still waited, it meant Mingyu, Wonwoo, Minghao, Soonyoung, and Chan were out there. Planning. Watching. Trusting him. And—more importantly—it meant none of them had done it either. That truth is the only thing keeping his chest from caving in.

The sound of distant boots echoes in the hallway, but he ignores it. Another guard, maybe. Another jeer. A muttered insult. They’ve been taunting him all night, calling him “the thief of peace,” laughing about what the gallows will feel like. He doesn’t rise to it.

Then—

The candle sputters violently. Its flame dances, then vanishes, snuffed out by an unnatural gust of wind that seems to creep under the door and swirl around him. The darkness swallows the room whole. His head snaps up. And there—where there was once only shadow—stands her.

Cordia.

The same dark gown. The same honey-slick voice. Her eyes gleam faintly in the black. Seungcheol’s mouth twists. “Of fucking course.” Cordia smirks, unaffected by his bitterness. “You always did have excellent timing, Captain.” He doesn’t move, but the muscles in his shoulders coil like a drawn bow. “It was you.”

“You catch on quick,” she purrs, circling him with leisurely steps. He stares up at her, fury churning under his skin. “You set me up.”

“I encouraged fate.”

“You framed me!” he growls, pushing himself upright despite the shackles and pain. “Why?” Cordia lets out a laugh that is far too amused, far too pleased. “Because this is what I do, Seungcheol.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

She walks along the edges of the cell, trailing her fingertips along the wall like she’s admiring art. Seungcheol watches her every movement, every tilt of her head, trying to find something human behind that smirk. But there’s nothing.

“You play the martyr well,” she says suddenly. “But let’s not pretend you were some innocent lamb. You were going to steal it. You were going to take the Book and sell it to the highest bidder.” Seungcheol falls silent. Because she’s not wrong. Cordia raises a brow. “No rebuttal, Captain?”

“Plans change.” His voice is low.

She laughs again. “No. You changed.” Her tone is mocking now. “Is that what this is? A pirate with a heart? Spare me.”Seungcheol clenches his jaw. “You got what you wanted. Why are you here?” Cordia stops pacing. She steps toward him, close now. Closer than he likes. “Because, darling,” she whispers, “the game has only just begun.” His brow furrows.

“What?”

“You can fix this. You can clear your name. Redeem that soft little soul you’re pretending not to have.” He laughs dryly. “From this hellhole I'm currently in? Yeah, right.” She slips a dagger from somewhere beneath her bodice and holds it lightly, like a lover. Then, in one smooth movement, she presses the tip to her chest and draws a cross over where her heart would be.

“Cross my heart,” she says with mock solemnity. “I’m not lying.”

Seungcheol stares at her, unimpressed. “And you expect me to believe anything that comes out of that mouth of yours?” Cordia tuts. “You’re not very trusting for someone about to die.” He growls. “Then say it. What’s the deal?”

She leans in, her smile curling like smoke. “Ten days. That’s what you have—ten days to retrieve the Book and return it to Syracuse. You’ll travel to the edge of the world. You’ll face challenges along the way—but a sailor of your talents should manage.” He narrows his eyes. “And what’s the catch?” Cordia pauses.

Her tone drops into something colder. Harder. “If you fail—if you don’t return in time, or if you fail to return the Book—Prince Joshua dies in your place.”

The silence in the cell deepens and becomes almost physical. Seungcheol stares at her, stunned. “What?”

“He vouched for you,” she says, almost gleeful. “He stood before the kings. Put his life on the line. Said he’d die if you didn’t come through.” Seungcheol’s chest tightens painfully. “That idiot...” Cordia shrugs. “It’s touching, really. But the clock’s ticking.”

He looks down at his shackles and his bruised wrists. Then back at her. “Why does any of this matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” she says breezily. “But a deal’s a deal. And now, it’s yours. If you want it.” Footsteps sound not far away. Steady. Familiar. Cordia turns toward the shadows, lips curling into a wicked grin. “Sounds like your prince is coming.”

“Wait—” Seungcheol steps forward.

She laughs one last time. “Make the right choice, Seungcheol.”

And then, just like before, she vanishes—disappearing into the darkness like she was never there.

The Chimera rocks gently in the harbour; her sails still furled but alive with anticipation. The sea, always humming, feels quieter tonight—like it’s waiting.

On deck, boots pound against worn planks as Seungcheol climbs aboard, battered, bruised, and brooding. The moonlight spills over his shoulders, highlighting the blood on his shirt, the dirt on his skin, and the fire still burning behind his eyes.

The moment his feet hit the main deck, his crew swarms him.

“What the hell happened?” Soonyoung is the first to pounce, eyes wide. “We heard the commotion from the alley—then guards running everywhere—then you vanished!”

Minghao leans against the mast, arms folded, but his voice is sharp. “You didn’t follow the plan. We were ready, and then, nothing.”

“Who stole the Book?” Wonwoo asks, stepping down from the rigging. His map still clutched in one hand. “If it wasn’t us, then who beat us to it?”

“How the hell did you get caught?” Chan blurts, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice.

“And more importantly—” Mingyu cuts through them all, arms crossed, jaw tense, “how did you escape?”

Seungcheol raises a hand, his voice calm but with an edge of finality. “Enough.”

Silence falls like a wave. Seungcheol scans each of their faces—their loyalty, their questions, their expectations. He’s not ready to speak. Not on everything. Not yet. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “It’s not our problem.” Murmurs stir again, but his following words silence them entirely.

“Mingyu,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Set sail for Fiji.” Seungcheol begins walking toward his quarters without a glance back. “It’s about time we retired.”

The door to his private quarters creaks open, the warm scent of cedar and sea salt welcoming him back to the only space that still feels like his. He exhales, slow and sharp, his shoulders slumping with the weight of everything he hasn’t said as he closes the door.

Cold steel presses to his throat from behind. His entire body stills.

“Move, and I’ll open your neck from ear to ear.”

He exhales through his nose, more annoyed than surprised. “What is it with women trying to kill me tonight?” he mutters. You shove him back a step, enough for him to turn without disarming you, though the dagger remains raised between you.

He looks you over, unimpressed. “Hello, Princess.”

“You’re going to find the Book of Peace,” you say, voice low and hard, “and you’re going to return it. Now.” He blinks. And then he laughs. A humourless, deep, exhausted laugh that makes you want to punch him. “I’m not doing anything, sweetheart,” he says. “It’s not my problem.”

“Not your—?!” you snap, stepping forward. “Joshua took your place! He stood before the kings, before his father, and gave his life to buy you time!” The change in him is instant. His jaw tightens. His posture straightens. But his anger matches yours.

“I didn’t ask him to do that!”

“But he did, Seungcheol. He did. He stood up for you, and if you walk away now, he’ll die for it.”

You’re shouting. You didn’t mean to. But you can’t help it. The words claw their way out of your chest. “And if the Book is not returned, the Accord falls apart. Chaos will follow. Syracuse will burn. What then? Do you sail off into the sun with your crew and let your city fall to pieces behind you?

He glares up at you. “My city? The same city that threw me to the streets as a child? A city that branded me trash and turned its back the first time I stumbled? I owe Syracuse nothing. I owe the kings nothing. They were ready to string me up the second the lights went out.”

“Then prove them wrong!” you scream.

“Why?!” His voice booms now, rising with his frustration. “So I can play the hero while they spit on my name anyway? You want me to die for honour? For duty? Those words are worth nothing to people like me!”

Your chest is heaving, and your voice cuts sharper now. “Because some of us don’t have the luxury of running away!” His head snaps toward you.

“I grew up hearing stories of men like you—pirates who stood against kings, who fought with honour, who chose courage over cowardice. And now I meet you, and all I see is a man who wants to quit. Who hides behind excuses instead of doing the right thing.”

He scowls. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, I do.” You glare at him, stepping toe-to-toe now, chest burning. “I saw it the moment I met you. That cocky grin? That swagger? It’s all smoke. You’re not a hero. You’re a coward. A selfish man who hides behind charm so no one sees the empty core.”

He says nothing. You spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you look over your shoulder, disgusted.

“I wonder what your crew would think of you if they knew the truth.”

And that—that—snaps something in him.

In a blur, he crosses the room and slams his hand against the wall, blocking your path. You whirl around, dagger raised, but he doesn’t flinch. “You talk about sacrifice like you know it,” he says lowly. “But you’re not doing this for Joshua. You’re doing this to save yourself. Your position. Your title. Because if he dies, you lose everything.”

Your breath hitches.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You’re just like me, Princess. Two sides of the same damn coin.”

“No,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Because at least I’m doing something about it.” He steps closer to you, cornering you, his breath hot against your cheek as his eyes lock on yours.

“And if I agree,” he murmurs, “if I bring back the Book and save your darling little fiancé... what do I get in return?”

You don’t break eye contact as you reach slowly into your pouch and withdraw the small bag tied to your hip. You loosen the knot and let the contents fall into his palm.

Red diamonds. Dozens of them.

He stares at them for a long moment. Then his lips curl. A grin spreads across his face—feral, cocky, and very much alive. “Well, Princess,” he murmurs, “you should’ve just said you were hiring a pirate.”

He spins and bursts out of the cabin like a storm unchained. You follow him, stunned, as he bounds up to the deck and shouts over the wind. “Change of plans!” he bellows.

The crew—all half-lounging, half-arguing—whip around in confusion. “We’re going after the Book.”

Soonyoung’s mouth drops open. “Wait, what?” Mingyu steps forward. “Where is it?” Seungcheol grins.“ At world’s end.”

Chaos ensues.

“Are you serious?”

“How the hell do we get there?”

“Why are we listening to you again?”

Soonyoung finally shouts over the din, pointing behind Seungcheol. “Uh—Captain? Who’s the lady?”

Seungcheol turns back, and all eyes follow his gaze as they land on you—still standing a little stiff in the centre of the deck, the dagger now sheathed under your cloak. “This, is our newest passenger.”

Then his eyes glint with something darker. Something amusing and very inconvenient.

“She’ll be joining us on the voyage.”

You’ve only spent two days at sea, but it feels like a different life entirely.

Gone are the corseted dresses and laced bodices, the polished silver combs and pearl-dusted shoes. You wear loose breeches now—weathered, a little too long, rolled at the ankles—and a white shirt you stole from a chest in the hold, sleeves tied up above your elbows. Your hair whips freely in the salt air, unbound for the first time in years.

There’s grime beneath your fingernails. Rope burns on your palms. A sun-kissed glow settling into your skin.

You’ve never felt so alive.

The ship rocks beneath your feet, wild and rhythmic, the sails groaning with each gust. The wind is a constant companion—slapping, roaring, tangling your hair. And while you’re still finding your footing (literally and figuratively), the crew has embraced you far more quickly than you expected.

Soonyoung, the loudest of them, has resorted to clinging to you like an overeager puppy. He insists on calling you ‘My Lady’ in the most dramatic, theatrical tone possible, and makes a great show of saluting you every time you pass him on deck.

Chan, the youngest, practically beams every time you ask him a question about knots or sails. He follows Soonyoung’s lead in treating you like royalty—but with a kind of awe that makes you smile instead of bristle.

Minghao and Wonwoo are more reserved, both of them often keeping to themselves or murmuring quietly in the shadow of the sails. But they nod when you speak, sometimes offering calm corrections or quiet insight. Minghao surprised you yesterday by handing you a fig he’d somehow smuggled on board, simply saying, “You looked homesick.”

But not everyone has been welcoming.

From the wheel, Seungcheol watches you like a storm brewing on the horizon.

Every time you laugh with the crew, his brows pull tighter. Every time you roll up your sleeves to help scrub the deck, he mutters under his breath. Every time Soonyoung teaches you something new and ridiculous—like the hidden flamethrowers rigged beneath the starboard hull—Seungcheol sighs dramatically and mutters something about “idiots with too much enthusiasm.”

You try to ignore him. Most of the time, you succeed. But when you don’t—you argue. Loudly.

So loudly, the entire crew stops what they’re doing to listen. And now, on the second day, you find yourself once again at the centre of their amusement.

“Princess, let me show you how the harpoons work!” Soonyoung had grinned this morning, gripping your wrist before you could protest. “They’re hidden in the front of the ship. Serrated, retractable, brilliant.”

Chan, walking close behind, had added, “We rarely use them unless something with teeth comes after us.”

You had blinked at that. “What kind of something with teeth?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Soonyoung had said brightly. “Come on, my Lady! You’ll love this!”

They seem to delight in your confusion and wonder at every new piece of the ship, and they show you everything. Every trapdoor. Every hidden blade. Every half-working cannon.

Even the ones Seungcheol hasn’t touched in years.

You’re standing on the forecastle of the ship now, leaning over a concealed loading mechanism as Soonyoung animatedly describes the best way to ignite the twin-fire barrels when—

“You’d break your wrist trying to fire it like that.”

You glance down sharply.

Seungcheol stands at the bottom of the steps; one hand braced on the wooden beam, his brow arched like he’s just caught a child lying. Soonyoung snorts and mumbles something about checking on the sails, practically skipping down the stairs to leave you alone.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like I’m trying to shoot it.”

“You said it was ready,” Seungcheol replies, ascending slowly. “And it’s not. If you load the powder before locking the rotation pin, it misfires and tears the recoil plate clean off.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him. “You must be a joy at parties.” He steps into the space beside you, inspecting the weapon with a critical eye. “You’re the one who wants to play sailor. Don’t complain when someone points out you’re playing it wrong.”

“I wasn’t playing anything,” you say coolly. “I was listening. Which is what you could try doing once in a while.” Seungcheol scoffs, straightening. “Hard to listen when you never stop talking.”

You take a sharp breath, and just like that—you’re off. “You could just say thank you. You know, for me, trying to help.”

“You could stay out of things you don’t understand.”

“I’m learning—”

“Then learn quietly.”

The crew is practically holding their breath. Mingyu’s behind the wheel, keeping the ship’s course steady, smirking like this is the best entertainment he’s had in months. You step closer. “Why don’t you just admit you don’t like that I’m here?”

He scoffs. “What gave you that idea? The way you flirt with my crew every chance you get or the way you pretend to know everything after only two days on the water?”

“I’ve done no such thing—”

“Oh right, and I’m blind.”

You’re about to shoot back—something scathing, probably—when Mingyu raises his voice and interrupts flatly:

“Not to ruin the foreplay, but you might want to look ahead.”

You and Seungcheol whip your heads simultaneously.

A narrow opening in a line of towering cliffs—grey, jagged, and half-submerged in churning waters approaches you. Mist curls along the rocks, and sunken ship masts jut from the waves. The cavern walls are just wide enough for a ship to pass through, maybe.

Wonwoo squints from his perch near the quarterdeck. “Shipwreck’s Grotto.”

“Place gives me the creeps,” Chan mutters. “It should,” Minghao says. “Half the legends say no one makes it out the other side.”

You glance towards Seungcheol.

His jaw is tight. He turns, addressing the crew as he makes his way towards the wheel. You follow behind him silently. “Alright, boys,” he calls, voice clear and hard. “Drop the sails. Ready the rudder. We go in nice and easy.”

You swallow hard, the wind catching your hair. Soonyoung murmurs, “We’re going through that?”

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Only way forward,” he says.

The ship moves slowly under the measured hand of its captain. Her mahogany hull cuts carefully through the water, threading between reef and rock. Above, seagulls cry, but even their calls seem distant, swallowed by the dense fog coiling through the cavernous stone walls. The only real sound is the rhythmic drip of condensation falling from the overhangs, the occasional creak of rope, and the splash of waves against splintered wood.

Minghao’s voice rings out, low but steady. “Reef to port. Five meters. Sharp shelf ahead.”

His silhouette perches from the crow’s nest, legs hooked around the crossbeam, his spyglass flashing with the faintest light as he scans ahead.

Seungcheol stands behind the wheel; his entire body braced with tension. The lines of his jaw are tight, his grip white-knuckled. You stand to his right, your fingers brushing the hilt of your dagger at your hip—more for reassurance than necessity. Mingyu is on his left, arms folded, eyes flicking between the rocks and the horizon.

No one speaks.

The grotto is sacred in its stillness—a graveyard of ships and stories.

You pass the first wreck after fifteen minutes. A small cutter, no name visible, her mast snapped like a twig. The hull is cracked in half, one side suspended on a jagged stone, the other submerged. Torn sails drift like ghostly banners beneath the surface.

“Gods,” Chan whispers from the lower deck, eyes wide.

“There’s more,” Minghao calls again. “A whole fleet—dead ahead.” And indeed, as the Chimera crawls forward, the graveyard reveals itself. A merchant ship, barnacle-crusted and canted sideways. A war galleon, its cannons rusted and useless, ribs broken open like a carcass. A half-burned skiff tangled in the limbs of another, their final collision frozen in time.

You feel it in your bones—this place is wrong.

Seungcheol barks an order—“Trim the foresail, two degrees starboard. Watch the reef under the bow.”—and the men obey. His voice cuts through the fog with precision, and the ship shifts just in time to avoid a jagged outcrop lurking beneath the surface.

You watch him. For all his scowls and grumbling and sharp-edged arrogance, he’s in his element here. As he charts the way through a corridor of destruction, his presence pulses beside you—commanding, tangible, frustrating.

The air grows heavier. The mist thicker.

And then—You hear it. A whisper, tucked beneath the creak of the hull and the lapping of waves.

A melody.

It doesn’t make sense at first. It could be the wind. The groan of old wood. You brush it off. But it comes again.

A few soft notes, drifting upward like bubbles from the deep. It’s not music exactly, but something close—a kind of calling.

You turn slowly, looking out across the water.

Mist clings to the surface in swirling patches. Light plays tricks here—turning shadows into shapes and reflections into illusions. You narrow your eyes. Just beneath the waves, something moves. A shimmer of silver, gone as quickly as it came. You blink.

The music—if it is music—is louder now. It’s still not clear, but it’s beautiful. Ethereal. It pulls at something in you, something distant. You shake it off.

You turn back to the helm—and freeze. Seungcheol is slumped over the wheel. His hands no longer hold the handles, and his posture is slackened. His eyes are far away. Unfocused. Glazed with a sheen of awe, as if he’s staring into a dream, not the rotting shipwrecks ahead.

“Seungcheol?” you ask, your voice low. He doesn’t respond. You step closer. “Captain?” Still nothing. You reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. It’s rock-solid—tense and unmoving.

Voices. Singing. Soft, lilting harmonies that weave into one another, are beckoning. Your blood runs cold.

You run to the rail, lean over, and that’s when you see them.

Figures in the water. Pale, otherworldly, gliding just beneath the surface. Long hair fanning out behind them like ink in water, eyes glowing faintly beneath the waves.

Sirens.

You don’t think. You act.

The only thing you can hear now is your own breath—ragged, quick, almost desperate. The melodies rise in waves, crashing over the crew in pulses. And they fall, one by one. Not physically, but mentally. Pulled under the spell.

You reach for the wheel, grabbing it with both hands, the polished wood slick beneath your touch. The ship has already veered off-course, inching dangerously close to a spire of rock waiting like a fang to tear through the hull. You spin the wheel hard—your shoulders scream with the force—and the ship groans in protest. The hull misses the stone by a breath, scraping along the jagged edge with a deafening screech.

Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“Get it together,” you mutter to yourself, blinking the sweat from your lashes. The ship pitches under your feet as it glides forward. You grab hold of the spokes for balance as you scan the deck.

The crew is drifting—towards the edges.

You spot Soonyoung first, eyes glazed, a hand outstretched as if reaching for something just out of view. You grab the nearest length of coiled rope and sprint toward him. “Not today,” you hiss, looping the rope around his waist and yanking it tight, tying it off to the mainmast. He doesn’t fight you. He doesn’t even see you. He just keeps humming to himself, leaning with the sway of the song like a child in a lullaby.

You do the same with Chan, catching him just as one foot lifts onto the railing. He stares into the water with such adoration it makes your stomach turn. A siren surfaces a few meters off the starboard side, her mouth half-open in song, her eyes eerily void of life. You tie him off. Tight. Firm. You shout his name to wake him—nothing.

Wonwoo is slumped near a barrel, his book forgotten, his fingers twitching faintly to the rhythm of the melody. Mingyu is halfway to the prow, his hands limp at his sides. You tug him back by the loops of his pants, and he stumbles with a surprised grunt—but doesn’t react.

You secure them all to the mast, fashioning a web of knots in the chaos, your fingers bleeding against the rope. There’s no time to feel it.

The ship shudders again, scraping another submerged frame. You turn back and race to the helm. You spin the wheel again, the wood grating beneath your grip. The bow turns slowly, but it turns—avoiding a splintered mast impaled on a reef.

And then—A shadow moves beside you.

Seungcheol.

He’s walking down the stairs of the quarterdeck towards the side railing, his steps slow but sure, his eyes empty.

“Seungcheol!” you shout, but he doesn’t hear you. He moves like a man being called home. You leap down the steps two at a time and reach him just as his hands touch the rail, and he starts to hoist himself up. You grab his collar and yank him backwards.

He stumbles, surprised, blinking. But the trance still lingers. He stares at you like you’re not quite real.

“Snap out of it,” you grit out, pushing him against the wall of the cabin. You turn to head back to the helm—there’s no time to waste—

But his hand shoots out and pulls you back. Before you can react, his lips crash on yours.

You gasp, the surprise of it ripping the breath from your lungs. His mouth is fierce, desperate, all wild edges and instinct. His hands are at your waist, his mouth claiming yours. And despite yourself—despite everything—you melt into it. Your fingers curl into his shirt. You lean in. And gods help you, you kiss him back.

It’s fire. Heat. Tongue. Teeth. Unspoken fury. Unspoken want.

But suddenly, you remember where you are and who you’re kissing. You rip away. Your fist flies on its own accord, and it lands square on his jaw.

Seungcheol drops like a stone, knocked out cold.

Your breath is ragged as you stare down at him, trembling. What in the gods’ names—

But there’s no time.

The bow misses another reef by inches—but the hull clips it. The ship lurches, wood cracking. You run to steady her, but she’s wounded.

Suddenly, a scream rings out. You spin, eyes flying to the crow’s nest.

Minghao. You see the rope slacken. Then his body falls. “No—!”

You race to the rail as he crashes into the water with a splash. For a second, he’s still—then he’s flailing. Awake. But a siren is already approaching, gliding fast, her eyes locked on her prey.

You remember Soonyoung’s harpoon.

You dash to the foredeck, fingers flying over the latches of the weapon. You aim, inhale—fire. The harpoon slices through the mist, striking the water just as the siren reaches Minghao. He sees it and grabs the rope.

You throw your whole body weight onto the crank, activating the recoil system. The rope whines under pressure. Inch by inch, you pull him back toward the ship. The siren lashes out, claws raking through the water, just missing his leg. With a final pull, Minghao crashes onto the deck, gasping, eyes wide with fear and clarity.

You collapse beside him, your heart beating so loud it drowns out everything else. For a moment, you just lie there, winded, soaked, and shaking.

Then, your eyes find the wheel again. “Shit.” You stagger to your feet, dragging Minghao with you. “Can you stand?” He nods, coughing. “Yeah. Yeah, I can steer.”

Together, you limp to the helm. He takes the wheel while you shout directions, dodging the last gauntlet of stone and wreckage. The Chimera slams through the remnants of an old galleon’s hull with a crack, the wood splintering against the bow.

You burst out of the grotto’s mouth, the water opening up wide again, blue and endless. The ship is damaged. Her hull is scraped, and her sails are torn. But she floats. You lean over the rail, sucking in air as your lungs finally relax.

And somewhere on the floor, Seungcheol groans and stirs awake.

The men awaken slowly. One by one, groggy and confused, they blink into the sunlight.

“Ugh… what happened?” Chan mumbles as he wrestles with the rope tying him to the mast. Soonyoung blinks up at the sail, completely unfazed by the fact that he’s trussed like a holiday ham. “Was it rum? Did we hit the good casks again?”

“Wait,” Wonwoo mutters, tugging free. “Why are we tied up?”

Minghao leans weakly against the wheel, drenched and pale, but he’s breathing, and that’s all you care about.

The crew untangles themselves in a chorus of grunts and confusion, stumbling across the deck. Mingyu, dazed, rubs the back of his neck and looks around. “Where’s Seungcheol?”

The man in question is sitting up against the wall near the stairs, touching his jaw gingerly. His brows are furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of whatever fragments the sirens' spell didn’t erase.

Soonyoung squints at him. “He’s not tied up. Was it him who saved us?”

“Would make sense,” Chan adds, already beaming. “He’s the captain, after all.”

Then, a voice cuts through the rising chatter, calm but loud, carrying the weight of quiet authority. “It wasn’t him.” Everyone turns.

Minghao clears his throat and pushes off the wheel. “It was the Princess.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to speak up—as far as you knew, he is pretty reserved, comfortable in the shadows, not speaking unless spoken to.

Soonyoung gawks at you. “Princess—you. You saved us?” You nod slowly, not quite ready for the way they all light up at that piece of information.

“You tied us up?” Chan exclaims, both horrified and awed. “That’s—wow. Amazing.”

“She shot a harpoon at a siren,” Minghao confirms. “Pulled me out of the water. Just in time.”

“Damn,” Soonyoung whistles, clutching his heart. “I think I’m in love.” You let out a breathless laugh, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “Please, it was just—”

“—heroic,” Chan cuts in.

“Brilliant,” Wonwoo nods.

They swarm you in a chorus of praise, clapping you on the back, asking questions all at once. You smile, flustered but proud.

Until, of course, the storm cloud re-enters.

“My hand-carved railing,” Seungcheol’s voice suddenly booms from the starboard side. “Gone. Shattered.”

“What the—” You mumble.

“And the hull,” Seungcheol barrels on, stalking the deck with his arms thrown up. “My beautiful mahogany hull—scraped! Do you know how long it took me to sand that by hand? Chan, did you see the gouge?!”

“Oh boy,” Wonwoo mutters, exchanging a look with Mingyu. Mingyu folds his arms and smirks. “Ten silvers says she doesn’t let him finish his next sentence.”

“You’re on,” Wonwoo says.

You step forward, arms crossed, not hearing the murmurs of the crew. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Seungcheol spins to face you. “What?”

“You’re seriously yelling about cosmetic damage when you’d all be fish food if I hadn’t stepped in?”

“I’m yelling because my ship looks like it got chewed up and spit out by a Kraken!”

“And yet—” you gesture dramatically, “she’s still floating. You’re welcome.”

“I never asked you to save me,” he growls, jaw tense.

“No, you were too busy trying to kiss a siren to ask me for anything! Oh, but it wasn’t a siren, was it?” That shuts him up for half a second. His eyes narrow, and the muscle in his jaw jumps. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“That much was obvious,” you snap.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this ship myself—”

“For what? Daring to be useful?” you shoot back, stepping into his space. “God forbid the delicate balance of testosterone on this ship gets upset by a woman actually doing something right!”

“You crashed through a royal galleon!”

“I saved your life!”

You’re nose to nose now, practically vibrating with rage. His eyes are molten, dark and burning with the same fire that sparked the first time you met. You hate how handsome he is when he’s angry. You hate that he kissed you, and you felt something.

“Honestly,” you snap, “you are the most boorish and pigheaded man I have ever met!” His eyes flash.

“Princess,” he mocks, “I’ve seen the high-born boys your type hangs around with. I’m the only man you’ve ever met.”

You let out a shriek of frustration and stomp your foot. “Ugh!”

You spin on your heel and march toward the cabin door, slamming it shut behind you so hard the wood rattles in its hinges.

The silence on deck is deafening. Seungcheol turns back to face his crew, fists still clenched from his outburst. Six pairs of eyes are locked on him with unimpressed expressions ranging from judgmental to deeply disappointed. He blinks. “What?”

Soonyoung crosses his arms. “You could say thank you, Captain.” “Yeah,” Chan adds. “She saved us all. You could at least act like you have manners.” Minghao sighs. “Unbelievable.”

Seungcheol mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “goddamn woman,” and stalks toward your cabin.

He knocks once. You fling the door open. “What?” He scowls. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Fine. I won’t.”

You slam the door again.

Back on deck, Seungcheol breathes out once through his nose. “Well?” he asks, throwing his arms up. Minghao shrugs. “Could’ve used a bit more sincerity.”

Seungcheol glares at them all. “Whatever. Mingyu, find the nearest island. We need to fix the damn ship.”

As Mingyu steps toward the wheel, Soonyoung sidles up to Chan. “I ship them.”

“Same,” Chan nods.

“They’re gonna kill each other first,” Wonwoo adds.

“Wanna bet?”

“Always.”

You’ve never seen a ship come back to life so fast.

After a quick stop at a small, uncharted island to gather wood, sealant, and rigging parts, it only took two days for the Chimera to look almost as good as new. The hull still bears scratches, and the sails have a few new tears, but morale is oddly high. Everyone is doing their part—scrubbing, sawing, hammering, knotting, sealing. And you? You’re elbow-deep in tar, laughing with Soonyoung as you try to patch a crack in the starboard railing.

“You’re not bad with your hands, Princess,” he teases, handing you a brush. You raise an eyebrow, dipping it into the thick black tar. “And you’re not as annoying when your mouth is shut.” He barks a laugh, utterly delighted. “Ooh, she’s spicy today.”

Across the deck, Chan lets out a long whistle. “Careful, hyung, she already survived sirens. You might not be so lucky.”

You grin at them both, trying your best to ignore the weight you feel behind your back. That brooding, glowering, impossible weight in the shape of one Choi Seungcheol.

Ever since the grotto, since that kiss—and the furious argument that followed—he’s barely spoken to you. Avoids you like the plague. Unless he’s making some smart-ass remark, of course.

But that’s fine. You’ve got better things to focus on.

Wonwoo actually asked for your opinion yesterday on a course route—“You’ve got a sharp eye, might as well use it,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Minghao taught you how to tie a bowline knot. Chan insisted on bringing you extra water rations as you scrubbed the deck. And Soonyoung, gods help him, has taken to calling you Captain Princess.

You pretend it’s annoying. It’s not.

Which makes Seungcheol’s reactions all the more confusing. He’s been sniping at the crew left and right like a wounded bear.

“Soonyoung, if you’ve got time to flirt, you’ve got time to check the damn ropes.”

“Wonwoo, she’s not your first mate, she doesn’t need your damn charts.”

It’s exhausting. And worse, none of them even take him seriously anymore. They just roll their eyes and laugh him off.

What you don’t know is that while you’re still patching up the railing with Soonyoung, Mingyu sneaks up on Seungcheol, his voice low and teasing. “You’re jealous,”

Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.”

“They’re not focused. We’re sailing into unknown waters. This isn’t a game.”

Mingyu turns toward him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’ve had your crew flirting in taverns and stealing ladies’ hearts for years, and now you’re mad because Chan called her pretty?” Seungcheol glares. “She’s not part of the crew.”

“She’s the reason any of us are still alive.”

That shuts him up. Mingyu’s voice softens. “Whatever this is… deal with it. Before it consumes you.”

But Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He watches the horizon.

You, meanwhile, are cleaning your hands off with a rag when something shifts in the air.

Where the sky was painted in warm gold and soft blue, it now bleeds grey. Fast. Clouds roll in. The wind picks up so sharply you nearly lose your footing.

“Hey—” Chan shouts from across the deck. “Is anyone seeing that?” Thunder cracks overhead. The water darkens. You squint at the sky. “That wasn’t there five minutes ago.” Soonyoung’s smile falters. “Feels... wrong.”

Minghao climbs down from the crow’s nest, eyes narrowed. “There was no storm indicated this far south. This isn’t natural.”

You see Seungcheol’s figure, already moving into action, barking orders in that deep, commanding voice. “Tighten the ropes—drop half the sails. Minghao, check the compass. Chan, prepare the storm rigging.”

Everyone’s rushing now, hands on sails, feet racing across the deck. You grab a rope and instinctively help Soonyoung fasten it. “Is this another challenge?” you ask, breathless.

He nods grimly. “It has to be. Storms don’t rise like that unless something calls them.”

The sky rips apart.

Thunder explodes above your head, and the Chimera lurches violently beneath your feet as the first true wave of the storm crashes into her hull. You stumble, catching yourself on a rope, heart racing in your chest as the wind screams around you.

“Hold the sails! Batten down everything that moves!” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the chaos, barely audible over the howl of the wind. “Brace yourselves!”

You look to the others—Minghao already scaling up the mast, Chan clinging to the rigging, Soonyoung barking orders and running lines. Everyone’s in action, fluid and fierce. You mimic their movements, tying knots, steadying loose items, and gripping any anchor point you can find. But panic prickles at the edges of your throat.

This storm isn’t natural. You feel it in your bones.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You whip around to see Mingyu, rain slicking his hair flat against his forehead, concern etched into every line of his face. “You should go below deck—ride it out in your cabin. This isn’t just a squall, Princess.”

“If they can handle it, so can I,” you shout back, voice trembling slightly despite your resolve. Mingyu hesitates, eyes flicking toward Seungcheol. His jaw tightens. “Alright. Just stay sharp.” You nod once and return to the chaos.

Rain begins in earnest now, slicing sideways through the wind, soaking every inch of you in seconds. You’re drenched, shivering, boots slipping across the deck, hair sticking to your face.

Still, you stay.

Seungcheol is still at the wheel, knuckles white around the handles, shirt plastered to his chest, jaw locked tight. His gaze flickers to you, once, twice—his expression unreadable in the flicker of lightning. But it lingers.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

“Maelstrom!” Soonyoung shouts as the sea splits open.

Your eyes follow the direction of his trembling hand.

A great swirling vortex opens just ahead— deep and wide, churning with impossible violence. The water doesn’t move naturally—it spins with an eerie cadence, as though summoned by something ancient, something furious.

“Hard to starboard!” Seungcheol yells. He spins the wheel violently, trying to angle the ship away from the pull of the current.

It’s not enough. The ship begins to drag sideways, inch by inch, into the spiral. “Throw everything we don’t need overboard! We’re too heavy!”

Mingyu leaps toward the mainsail. You rush to help the others who have moved below deck—boxes, crates, barrels, anything not bolted down is passed along and hurled into the sea with panicked shouts and splashes that vanish into the stormy swirl.

The ship jolts again, water flooding over the railing. You sprint across the deck, nearly slipping, carrying what you can and tossing it over the edge.

And then it happens. One of the crates—a heavy box of scrap metal—catches on your foot. The rope slithers around your ankle and then tightens with sudden force as the crate slides across the deck, pulled over the railing by the ship’s tilt. Before you can cry out, it yanks you off your feet, face slamming into the soaked wood, pain blooming across your cheekbone.

You scream as your body is dragged backwards, feet first, the deck rushing by beneath you until your arms latch—barely—onto the railing. Your body already half overboard, legs dangling above the abyss.

“Arghhh!”

Seungcheol’s voice pierces the roar of the storm. “PRINCESS!”

And then he’s moving.

You see him abandon the wheel, Mingyu diving in to take his place without hesitation. Seungcheol barrels across the deck, boots skidding, eyes locked on yours with something that looks far too much like fear.

“I can’t hold on!” you cry, your voice breaking. The railing is slippery. Your strength is fading. “Don’t you dare let go,” he growls, dropping to his knees beside you. He grabs your arm and tries to pull—but the rope tugs you again, your hand slipping. “You’ll go over too!” Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “Like hell, I will.”

Then—without hesitation—he grabs his dagger, clenches it between his teeth, and climbs over the side of the ship.

Rain is slamming into his back, the waves crashing over him, but he reaches you. “I’ve got you,” he shouts, pulling the dagger free. Your voice breaks. “I’m scared.” Seungcheol’s movements falter for half a second. Then he growls, “I know. But I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Seungcheol cuts the rope, over and over, until it finally snaps free. The sudden release sends your body plummeting as your fingers lose their grip.

But you don’t fall into the sea. Seungcheol reaches out and clutches you to him, one arm locking around your waist, the other gripping the ladder in front of him. You wrap your arms around his neck instinctively, sobbing now.

“It’s okay, darling,” he mutters roughly, mouth by your ear. “You’re safe.” You pull back, just slightly, your eyes meeting his in the torrential downpour. “Thank you,” you whisper. His gaze softens. And for the briefest heartbeat, he whispers back, “Anytime.”

He hoists you both upward, muscle and willpower carrying you until you crash onto the deck once more. The two of you collapse in a heap of limbs, gasping, drenched, rain battering down.

But you’re alive.

You stare at him for a long moment, his face so close to yours, the adrenaline still pumping in your veins. His hair is soaked, brow creased—but he’s looking at you with something akin to relief.

Then Mingyu’s voice pierces the haze. “Cheol! We need you!”

You both snap out of it.

The storm dissapears as quickly as it came.

The roar of wind and water settles into a hushed murmur. Rain trickles to a stop. The sky peels open, dusky purple bleeds into soft orange and navy at the edges.

You stand on legs that barely feel like they belong to you. Shaky. Damp. Numb. The wood beneath your boots creaks and shifts with the gentle sway of the ship, no longer at war with the sea. No more maelstrom. No more screaming.

Around you, the crew slowly reorients themselves. Soonyoung rests his hands on his knees, panting. Wonwoo slouches against the railing. Chan leans back and exhales one long, broken breath. Minghao is seated on the deck, soaked through, running a hand through his wet hair. His eyes meet yours briefly. He gives you the faintest nod.

You’ve never seen men so strong, so wild, suddenly look so... human.

On the quarterdeck, Seungcheol is holding the wheel like it might still rip from his hands. Mingyu claps a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?” Seungcheol nods once, sharp. “We’re out.”

“You did good,” Mingyu says, and then—because he’s Mingyu—he adds, “Told you she wasn’t just a pretty face.” Seungcheol gives him a sidelong glare, his jaw working before he huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m just saying—if this is you pretending not to care about her, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”

Seungcheol grunts, but doesn’t argue. He turns his gaze back to the deck. At you. And you feel it like a tether tugging at your chest. You meet his gaze. He doesn’t look away. Everything else blurs: the crew, the remnants of the storm, the creaking ship.

It’s just you and him.

You, standing with seawater still dripping from your hair, your shirt sticking to your skin, your lip sore from where you bit it in panic. Him, forearms tense and shoulders set, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, eyes unreadable, but softened—a storm in his own right.

Mingyu steps in, subtle as always. “I’ll take over. Go.” Seungcheol raises a brow. “Go where?” Mingyu just smirks, hands already moving to the handles. “Go.” There’s a beat of resistance. But then Seungcheol pushes away, descending the stairs.

He stops just in front of you. Close enough that the heat of his body, still radiating from adrenaline and effort, warms your chilled skin.

You lift your hand. It’s steady, palm open, and fingers stretched toward him.

He stares at it for a moment, brows knitting together, as if it’s a puzzle he doesn’t quite know how to solve. You raise your eyebrows, the barest edge of a smirk playing on your lips. You wiggle your fingers slightly, urging. He blinks once before chuckling low in his throat.

Then, he takes it.

His hand is warm. Calloused. Larger than yours, his grasp firm but soft. His palm envelops yours, and for a moment, your breath catches—not from fear, not from shock, but something else entirely.

“Hello,” you say with mock formality. “I’m the princess who doesn’t know how to stay below deck, apparently.” That draws a real laugh from him. His smile is a little too pleased. His fingers tighten just slightly. “Seungcheol,” he replies, the word dipping low in his chest. “Captain of the Chimera. Horrible temper. Worse manners.”

“Yes, I noticed.” His mouth twitches. Your fingers linger in his. Just a bit too long. You look up at him, and you see none of the biting, brooding edge he usually shows. Just Seungcheol. Just the man who saved you from the sea like you weighed nothing. You cough lightly, clearing your throat as you gently extract your hand. Your face is hot. “I should clean up.”

“Right,” he says, still smiling. You nod and turn.

The men are suspiciously quiet as you pass—Chan nods his head softly, Soonyoung smiles brightly, and Wonwoo mutters something half-intelligible about “stormproof royalty.”

You flash a quick smile their way, half-formed, half-distracted. But your mind is still reeling. Your boots squelch as you approach your cabin. Your hand wraps around the brass handle, ready to go inside, but something—something instinctive—makes you glance back.

There he is.

Still standing in the middle of the deck, watching you like you’ve unravelled something inside him. Like he can’t stop looking, even if he tried. You inhale deeply and slip inside, the door shutting softly behind you.

And your heart—traitorous, fluttering thing—won’t stop pounding.

You can’t sleep.

Not from the cold, not from the rocking of the ship, not even from the aches that linger in your body after the storm. It’s something deeper. Something woven into your chest and bones and memory. The kind of thing that no amount of time beneath a blanket can soothe. So you dress quietly, wrap a shawl around your shoulders, and slip out of your cabin.

The deck is slick from the rain, shining faintly under the glow of the stars—more brilliant than you’ve ever seen them. Clear and cold and endless. You make your way toward the foredeck, your bare feet almost silent against the planks as the soft snores of the crew travel upwards from below. The wind is cooler out here, brushing through your hair and tugging at your shawl. You let it.

You close your eyes and… breathe.

The sea tonight is nothing like the one that tried to kill you earlier. Tonight, it’s still. Endless. The sky meets the horizon in a velvet embrace, and for a moment, you forget the chaos. The Book. The weight on your shoulders.

You don’t hear him until he speaks. “Can’t sleep?” You jolt, spinning toward the voice. But your tension eases the second you recognise him.

Seungcheol.

He stands a few feet behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, his hair slightly mussed from sleep—or the attempt of it. His voice is low, quiet enough to let the silence breathe between his words. You nod faintly, offering a ghost of a smile. “You either?” He steps closer, just enough to stand beside you as he leans on the railing, mirroring your stance. “Not tonight.”

His voice carries a kind of tiredness that extends beyond physical exhaustion. You recognise it. You feel it, too.

For a while, neither of you speak. You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because he saved your life. Maybe because you saw something behind his eyes when he held you. Maybe it’s just the hour—the strange truth of midnight, when secrets don’t feel so heavy.

“I fell in love with the sea when I was eight.”

He glances at you, curious. You keep your eyes on the endless abyss. “The palace walls in Mdina were too high to see the water. But there was one tower, this crumbling old thing the guards had stopped patrolling. I figured out how to climb it. There was a ledge on the roof. And from there… I could narrowly see the sea.”

You smile faintly, remembering. “I used to watch the ships. They looked like tiny ants, just dots. But I made up stories about them. I used to pretend I was on one of them. That I wasn’t a girl in a dress being groomed for court. I was a sailor. A pirate. A hero.”

He nods, slowly. “For me, it was the docks.” You look at him again. His voice is softer than usual. “I grew up in the lower district of Syracuse. Slums, really. My mother cleaned houses. My father died young. I used to scoop up fish guts at the port to make ends meet. Smelled like rot every damn day.”

He chuckles, a little bitter.

“But the sailors… they were different. They had stories. Gold teeth. Worn hands. Laughs like thunder. I used to watch them and think, ‘Maybe I could be like that.’ Maybe I didn’t have to stay where I was.” He smiles, but it’s a sad thing. “I wanted that life. Not the guts and coins—the freedom. The idea that you could leave. That you could choose who you wanted to be.”

Your heart twists.

“Then I met Joshua.” His voice drops further. “He was different. He didn’t treat me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his boot. He taught me how to read. I taught him how to climb walls and steal apples.”

That makes you laugh, even though your throat is tight.

“But the king hated me. Always did. Thought I was corrupting his perfect son. I guess in his eyes, I did.”

You want to say something. But you don’t. You let him speak.

“One day, we did something stupid. There was this abandoned building near the market—a half-finished palace, supposed to be part of some expansion. We climbed it. Dared each other to go higher. Joshua fell. Part of the roof caved in.”

His hands flex on the railing. “I pulled him out. But someone had to answer for it. The building collapsed. They blamed me.” He exhales slowly. “The King would’ve ruined me. Maybe worse. So I left before he could.”

You step closer. His eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move. You can see the weight in them—the shadow of old scars he’s never let anyone see. You reach out and gently take his hand in yours. He tenses, just for a second. But then his shoulders ease. You lift your other hand to his face, fingers brushing lightly along his jaw, turning him to face you. He lets you.

“After the book was stolen,” you say quietly, “The King said horrible things about you. I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought—maybe you deserved it.” His brow twitches, but you go on. “But he’s wrong.” Your voice is firmer now.

“You’re not what he says. You’re good, Seungcheol. You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, yes—but you didn’t hesitate to save Joshua all those years ago. And you didn’t hesitate to save me.” He huffs a small laugh. “Even when you were annoyed with me.” You smile softly. “Even then.”

There’s silence again, but it’s warm now. Comforting. Seungcheol’s eyes flutter closed for a second, his face leaning slightly into your touch. When he opens them again, they’re locked onto yours. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Princess.” His voice is low, hoarse. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

Before you can speak, he closes the space between you. His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You don’t resist. You don’t want to.

And then his lips are on yours.

It's nothing like before—nothing like that trance-induced kiss during the siren’s song. This one is real. All-consuming. It feels like every second of tension, every argument, every half-glance, and silent heartbeat between you two has built up to this moment.

You clutch him, fingers tangling in his hair as his hands slide around your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. You gasp into his mouth just as his hands slip lower—down your sides, over your hips, and finally, they settle on your bare ass. His breath hitches at the feel of your skin, his fingers tightening reflexively as he realizes what you’re wearing.

Or rather—what you’re not. No pants. No underwear. His groan reverberates through his chest, and it sparks heat through your core. You nip at his bottom lip, suck on it lightly, and feel the slight tremble in his breath.

But then, he pulls away. Not completely—his forehead still brushes against yours, his hands are still on your skin, his breath fanning across your lips. But something has shifted. You feel the hesitation before he speaks, the uncertainty tucked behind his usual bravado.

“I want you, Princess.” His whispers hoarsly, his thumbs rubbing small circles over your tailbone. “God, I want you. But—”

You blink up at him. “But what?” you whisper, your voice breathless from the kiss.

He sighs. “I’m not—” He swallows. “You’re promised to someone else. I’m—” He trails off. “I’m not what you were supposed to have. I don’t want to be the thing you regret. The man who ruins your perfect little royal life.” His words are quiet, but you can feel the weight in them—the insecurity.

You lift your hand and press your fingers to his lips, silencing him. His eyes flicker up to yours, uncertain, soft, searching. “That marriage,” you say, “was arranged five years ago. I never had a say in it. It was politics. An alliance. A duty.” Your eyes don't leave his. “I care for Joshua, I do. I don’t want him to die. But I don’t…” Your voice lowers. “I don’t long for him.”

He stares at you, unmoving, his hands gripping your hips like you might slip away. You lean in closer. “But I do, with you. I want you.” You kiss him again, and that’s what finally breaks him.

He growls softly against your mouth before gripping your thighs, and lifting you effortlessly. You gasp, giggling at the sudden motion as he carries you toward his cabin. The door swings open with a bang as his shoulder knocks it open, then slams it closed behind him with his foot. Inside, the space is dim and warm, filled with the scent of salt and leather, and something uniquely him.

He kisses you like he’s been starving, pressing against you, devouring every sigh and gasp you release. He spins you both before lowering himself onto his bed, you straddling his lap.

The room is cluttered with maps, artefacts, weapons—chaotic but oddly personal. You don’t care. It feels like him.

Your shirt is the only thing concealing your naked flesh. He unbuttons it—one, two, three—leaving kisses along every patch of newly exposed skin. His mouth lingers at your collarbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your neck. And then your shirt is open.

You shiver as the cool air hits your skin, but the feeling disappears the second his mouth wraps around your nipple. Your head tips back, a soft moan escaping your throat as your fingers tangle in his hair again. He groans as you arch into him, and his hands begin their slow, reverent path—skimming your thighs, your hips, your waist. One hand cups your breast, the other trails lower.

He finds your pussy and hisses through his teeth. “You’re soaked.”

You grind against him in response, your heat pressing against the hard length of his cock, straining through the fabric of his pants. “Seungcheol,” you whimper, shifting your hips. “Please…” He looks up at you, chest heaving, lips red and swollen from kissing. “You’re sure?” he whispers, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.” His mouth claims yours again, rougher this time. Needier.

And finally—finally—his fingers press against your clit. You moan into his mouth. Two of his fingers slide inside your wet heat, slow but deep. The stretch to your walls steals your breath, your body clenching around him instinctively.

“Fuck, Princess,” he groans against your neck, “you feel—” He cuts himself off with a growl as he thrusts his fingers again, and again. His mouth returns to your abandoned nipple, suckling, licking, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you’re writhing in his lap.

Your hips grind in rhythm with his hand. One of yours is still in his hair, but you slip the other past the waistband of his pants. Your fingers find him there—hot, hard, throbbing in your palm, his tip leaking precum.

“Shit—” He moans into your skin when you wrap your hand around his cock, matching your movements to the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The sensations overwhelm you—his mouth on your breast, his fingers working inside you, your own hand wrapped around the length of him, the quiet, desperate sounds he makes just for you. You don’t last long. Your body begins to quake, your hips stuttering.

“I’m—Seungcheol—” you gasp. His other hand grips your thigh as he presses his thumb firmly to your clit, rubbing short, hard circles over it. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Let go for me.”

And you do. You come with a sharp cry, the world shattering around you. Your grip on his member fluttering slightly.

Your body clenches around his fingers as you tremble, shaking in his lap while he continues to move his fingers inside you slowly, helping you ride it out. His mouth finds its way to your shoulder, murmuring something you can’t quite hear over the blood roaring in your ears.

Seungcheol’s fingers slip out of you slowly, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room—a slick, wet squelch that makes your body shudder. He brings his hand up without hesitation, the pads of his fingers glistening with your juices, and then—he sucks them into his mouth.

You watch, breath caught in your throat as his eyes flutter shut, a low groan vibrating in his chest. His cheeks hollow slightly as he licks them clean, dragging his tongue between his fingers.

“Delicious,” he mutters hoarsely.

You stifle a moan, biting your lower lip. Heat burns at the base of your spine. Gods, this man.

Your hand is still wrapped around his length—thick and throbbing in your palm, his tip slick with precum. He twitches in your palm, the veins on his shaft pulsing.

Slowly, you give his cock a firm stroke from base to tip. Then another. You pause at his tip, run your thumb along the slit, gather the moisture there, and spread it down his shaft. He groans again, his hips twitching slightly, breath hitching.

“Shit—” he hisses.

Your strokes become firmer and more deliberate. Your other hand drifts up his stomach, exploring every inch of his skin—feeling the way his abs clench and how his skin jumps beneath your touch.

His mouth leaves a trail of fire along your skin—down your collarbone, along the swell of your chest, up your neck. When he pulls back, you can see the flush painting his skin, the way his jaw trembles with restraint.

“You’re going to make me come,” he pants, looking at you like he’s never seen anything more devastatingly perfect. “Fuck, baby, you are—unreal.” You don’t stop. You just smirk. “That’s the idea.”

You grip his cock tighter, twisting your wrist slightly at the end of each stroke, dragging your palm over his head with calculated pressure. His hips start to buck, chasing the sensation. His breath is ragged. His forehead falls to your shoulder.

Suddenly, his hands shoot out, grabbing you by the hips. You yelp, breathless with laughter, as he flips you both over, laying you flat on the mattress under him. His hair is mussed, his chest heaving, and his cock—straining against his pants—is nestled between your thighs, pressing hotly against your entrance.

He chuckles breathlessly as he looks down at you. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

Your shirt is tossed somewhere over your head. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his waistband, shoving his pants down with a little too much urgency. He chuckles again, sitting up briefly to kick them off the rest of the way.

“Impatient?”

“Desperate.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. His cock slides along your folds, slick and hot, and it makes both of you stutter, gasping against each other’s mouths, as his tip catches on your clit.

He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, just enough to line himself up at your entrance. His eyes search yours, asking the question again—but not with words. And you answer him with a nod, small but certain.

Then—he pushes in.

The rhythm he sets isn’t gentle. It’s deliberate. Powerful. Deep, rolling thrusts that send jolts of sensation ricocheting through your spine. You gasp, your head falling back against the mattress as he fills you, again and again, harder each time. His breath is warm against your neck, his body tight above yours, every muscle in him working to give you pleasure.

“God, baby,” he growls against your ear, voice raw. “So tight—so fucking good.”

You whimper beneath him, your nails digging into the hard planes of his back as you cling to him, every thrust making you feel like you’re unravelling.

“Cheol—”

“That’s it,” he hisses, kissing your jaw. “Say my name. Say it again.”

“Cheol—fuck, yes—”

His hips slam into yours again, harder this time, and a loud moan escapes you. He swallows it with another kiss—it’s messy, perfect.

He adjusts his angle, one hand slides upward—first across your ribs, then higher, until his palm wraps gently around your throat. He squeezes gently. His fingers press against your vein, his thumb brushing your jaw, your pulse beating steady beneath his palm. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once.

“Too much?” he asks.

You shake your head slowly, biting your lip. “No,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His other hand slides down your body until he’s between your thighs again. His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that counter the pace of his thrusts. You shudder beneath him, crying out his name again, and he groans in return.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fuck, baby, you’re driving me crazy.”

His fingers circle in rhythm with his thrusts, the pressure building unbearably fast. It’s too much, too good—the heat of his body flush against yours, his breath on your skin, his cock sliding in and out of you with aching precision.

“You’re so good,” he groans, his voice cracking as he starts to lose control. “You take me so well. Look at you, wrapped around me like you were made for this.”

You can’t help it—you cry out, a desperate sound from deep in your chest. He’s hitting every place inside you that drives you wild, and his fingers are moving faster now, chasing the climax that’s rising too quickly.

Suddenly, his other hand grabs your leg, lifts it, and hooks it over his shoulder. He thrusts again, and the new angle makes you see stars. His cock is even deeper, stretching out your walls.

You swear aloud, a high, choked moan, as your hands fly to his biceps, clutching him like a lifeline. He fucks into you hard, deep, relentless, hitting that spot inside you with every powerful stroke.

“Right there, huh?” he pants, eyes locked to your face, drinking in every expression like it’s salvation. “You gonna come again for me, baby?” You nod frantically, incoherent with pleasure. He’s everywhere—his mouth on your neck, his hand on your clit, his body pounding into yours like he’s trying to fuse you together.

“Please—Cheol—”

Your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure. He doesn’t stop. “Come for me. Let me feel you, Princess.” And you do. It crashes into you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed, thighs trembling, mouth parting in a silent scream. Your vision blurs, the breath ripped from your lungs as your climax pulses through you, wave after devastating wave. Seungcheol groans low in his throat as your walls clamp down on him like a vice.

“Shit—fuck—” He stutters inside you, his rhythm faltering as the tight squeeze of your pussy sends him hurtling after you. His hand clenches your thigh tighter. One last thrust—and he comes with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the quiet tremble of your bodies still clinging to the aftershocks. He lowers your leg from his shoulder gently, his palm stroking down the back of your thigh. Your hands find his face. You run your fingertips along his jaw, tracing the line of it, soft and slow. He turns his face to kiss your palm, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your digits.

Then they open again—and you look at each other. You both chuckle at the same time.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

“Hey,” he replies, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you’ve been talking. Hours maybe. The sun has long since gone up, and you’ve laughed more in the last stretch of time than you have in years.

“Wait, wait—” you say, still laughing, grabbing the wrist that’s been stroking your side so his fingers stop distracting you. “You’re telling me you got your entire crew banned from a tavern... for winning too much?”

Seungcheol smirks, scratching the back of his head as if caught red-handed. “It wasn’t my fault they didn’t notice Minghao was using marked cards. I just happened to collect the winnings.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that now, but you’d have taken your cut too.”

You scoff, pushing at his shoulder, though your smile doesn’t waver. He catches your hand easily, presses a kiss to the inside of your palm, and doesn’t let go. The touch makes your breath catch.

“Alright then, your turn.” He leans back again, watching you with that unreadable glint in his eye. “We’ve covered your rebellious rooftop climbs and your hatred of court shoes. What else don’t you like?” You hum, pretending to think. “Hmm. Peaches. Overrated. Sweet and slimy. They remind me of Duke Alberon’s awful moustache.”

Seungcheol bursts out laughing, his whole body shaking beside you. “I am never going to eat a peach again without seeing that man’s ratty little face, thank you for that.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud, smug at his reaction. His hand slides from your stomach to your thigh, lazily stroking the skin again, and you don’t stop him. “I like this,” you murmur after a moment, your voice quieter now. “Talking. With you.” His expression softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. That is, until the door slams open.

“Hey, Cap—” Soonyoung’s voice booms into the room before his body does, stomping in without knocking. “The mist’s rolled in heavy, and Mingyu adjusted course, Wonwoo says if we keep east by southeast, we’ll—”

Soonyoung blinks once. Then again. His eyes dart from you— naked and lazily sprawled across the bed—to Seungcheol, shirtless, clearly dishevelled, and unmistakably not alone.

“I—” His jaw opens, but no sound comes out. You raise an amused eyebrow and tuck the blanket a little higher over your body. Seungcheol, on the other hand, is not nearly so composed.

“Get out!” he barks, grabbing a nearby pillow and hurling it with precision at Soonyoung’s head. The poor man yelps as it smacks into his face.

“I didn’t see anything!” Soonyoung squeaks, hands flailing as he turns around hastily. “I swear! Nothing at all—except her legs, and maybe a bit of—okay, I’m going!”

“Soonyoung!” Seungcheol snaps, now using his hand to shield your chest like his body alone could restore your modesty.

“I’m going! I’m going!” Soonyoung yells back, already halfway through the door. “But Mingyu said he needs you at the helm like now. There’s fog and a current and—and I’ll just go!”

The door slams shut behind him. For a moment, the room is still. Then your laughter bubbles up. You can’t hold it back even if you try. “That was—” you start between breaths, “the most mortified I’ve ever seen anyone in my life.” Seungcheol groans and slumps back against the headboard, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s gonna tell everyone, isn’t he?”

“Oh, without question,” you say, nudging his side. “The betting pool has probably reopened already.”

“Betting pool?”

“Please. They were definitely wagering when we’d fall into bed.”

Seungcheol drops his head against your stomach, groaning dramatically. “This crew is going to be unbearable.”

“Hmm.” You run your fingers through his hair slowly, scratching lightly at his scalp. “You’re just mad they were right.” You feel the warmth of his smile pressed against your belly, even as he pretends to sulk. “I can’t believe Soonyoung saw your boobs,” he mumbles. You grin. “And I’m pretty sure I traumatised him.”

Seungcheol exhales a quiet laugh through his nose and shakes his head as he sits up. The warmth of his body leaves your side, but you don’t mind—not when you get the view that’s in front of you. You watch him stretch lazily, muscles flexing as he reaches up before grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. Then he steps into his pants, tying the drawstring with practised ease. His back muscles ripple with every movement, and you don’t hide the way your eyes roam freely across the expanse of his torso.

He catches your gaze and smirks, glancing at you from over his shoulder.

“You staring, Princess?” he taunts, the smugness practically dripping from his voice. You smirk, stretching languidly on the bed. “Obviously. Wouldn’t want to waste the view.” That earns you a laugh. He finishes fastening the last button of his shirt and turns back to you, raking his gaze down the curve of your body, still on full display under the lazy fall of the blanket.

Then, without warning, he strides over to your side of the bed. His hand comes down with a swift, playful smack against your bare ass cheek.

“Up,” he says, voice low and commanding but tinged with amusement. “If I have to go face Mingyu and the crew after last night, you’re not getting out of it either.”

You yelp more out of surprise than pain, narrowing your eyes at him as you sit up. “I was perfectly content right here, actually.” He grins, stepping back as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “Well, now you can be content getting dressed. And preferably before Soonyoung bursts in again.”

You scoff but move to your feet anyway as he tosses you some undergarments from the floor without even trying to hide the smirk on his face. You catch them midair. “Thanks, Captain.”

He steps closer again, slower this time. One hand catches your chin, thumb brushing along your jawline as his eyes flicker over your face. “Try not to look too smug out there,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Or they’ll start placing bets on when I’ll marry you.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart skipping—but you smirk instead of answering. “Then maybe you should kiss me goodbye properly.” Seungcheol stares for a beat—then grins like a devil before pulling you into him, crashing his mouth to yours.

“Get dressed, Princess,” he rasps, eyes lingering. “Before I change my mind.” And with that, he walks to the door, grabbing his coat. He’s halfway through opening it when he glances back.

“Five minutes. Or I’m coming back for you.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The mist swallows everything.

You don’t even see it at first—just a soft shift in the air as you step out of Seungcheol’s cabin. You’d expected teasing whistles or knowing grins, maybe a few sly comments from Mingyu or Chan. Instead, silence meets you. A quiet so thick it pulls the breath from your lungs. The Chimera is cloaked in a pale grey fog, dense and unmoving, the deck slick with dew and the sails limp in the breathless air.

Your eyes move quickly, scanning the ship. No one is looking at you—not because they’re being polite, but because every man is on edge. Focused. Alert. Like something’s about to happen.

Above you, Minghao stands in the crow’s nest, his thin frame just barely visible through the thick veil of mist. He’s rotating slowly, scanning with a spyglass in one hand and a compass in the other. Every few minutes, he mutters something, too quiet to carry. Soonyoung and Chan move carefully near the weapons stash, inventorying each item with tight mouths and nervous hands. Their usual playfulness has been swallowed whole by the fog.

You walk further along the deck, your boots quiet on the wood, until you spot them—Seungcheol and Wonwoo near the main mast, crouched low over a spread of maps and books. Wonwoo is muttering frantically, his fingers darting between pages, eyes wild with thought. Seungcheol is tense. His broad shoulders are hunched, eyes narrowed, and jaw tight.

You move beside him quietly, and when your hand grazes his bicep, he startles before looking up. The hard line of his shoulders eases at the sight of you. His hand comes to rest on your waist, the weight of it grounding. He squeezes softly. You do the same in return. “Morning,” you say gently. “Afternoon,” Wonwoo corrects immediately, eyes not leaving the yellowed page he’s turned to.

You smile faintly and lean in to study the map, tilting your head as you glance from it to the thick book in his other hand. The letters are unfamiliar—twisting, ancient shapes carved in what looks more like inked bone than any written language.

Wonwoo’s voice picks up. “It doesn’t make sense—nothing does—but it’s all here, I know it is. I’ve read the entire Codex of the Four Winds twice now, and all the references to Tartarus, to the ferryway—Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius—it’s all pointing here. But I can’t decode the meaning of it. It’s like, like the pieces are there, but the puzzle’s missing half its edges—”

“Breathe, Wonwoo,” Seungcheol says quietly, trying not to snap. Wonwoo exhales sharply through his nose, flipping another page. “Do you know what the poets of Andelos called it? The place beyond the fog? The Cradle of the Dead. And every single account, no matter how fantastical, mentions a waterfall. But not a normal one. A falling of stars. Water going up and down, as if the sky and sea mirror each other.” Your brow furrows. “As above, so below.” Wonwoo snaps his head toward you, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

You kneel beside them now, brushing your fingers lightly over a different page. “There was a book in Mdina. An old one. Verses of the Vanished. I read it when I was nine and had nightmares for weeks. It mentioned a veil of silence, a place past the final sea where time collapses, and stars sink beneath the water.” Wonwoo is nodding quickly. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. But how do we find it?”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “you don’t. Maybe it finds you.” The mist swirls closer around the ship, like it heard you. Mingyu leaves the helm and strides toward you, his boots thudding heavily. “It’s getting worse,” he says. “Visibility’s almost zero. The current’s off too—subtle, but it’s pulling.”

“We’re near it,” Wonwoo mutters. “I know it.”

Mingyu looks down at the pages, then over at you and Seungcheol. “He’s been at this since dawn.” Seungcheol reaches out and flips a corner of the map. “Wonwoo, you said something about the water falling up. What if it’s not a place we sail into, but something that pulls us in?”

“Like a gate?” you ask. “Or a crossing,” Mingyu adds. Wonwoo slams his book shut. “It could be anything. That’s the problem.”

Silence falls again.

You glance up toward the crow’s nest. Minghao hasn’t moved, but now he’s gripping the rail tighter. You hear his voice float down, quiet and unsure. “Captain?” Seungcheol looks up. “What is it?”

Minghao slowly turns his spyglass. “I… don’t know.”

Wonwoo’s breath catches. “It’s beginning.”

The sound hits first.

A low, guttural rumble that shakes the air. It begins deep below deck, in the bones of the ship, before rolling up through the planks and ropes and sails. You freeze, eyes narrowing toward the horizon—or what should be the horizon—but the mist is too thick, the light too dim.

Then, as if guided by some unseen hand, the mist begins to pull away. It unfurls slowly at first, like curtains parting on a stage, but it quickly gives way to something utterly impossible.

There, ahead of you, rises a waterfall. Not falling. Rising.

A great column of water, impossibly wide, impossibly tall, rushes skyward, curling into the clouds above. Spray bursts from the base of it in violent gusts, catching the late afternoon light in prismatic flashes. You blink. “What the—” The words are half-formed before they’re lost in the roar of the ocean.

Seungcheol moves instantly.

“Raise the sails!” he shouts, already sprinting toward the helm. “To your stations! Man the lines! Chan—get those sails ready for shift, now!” Mingyu’s already right behind him, racing to the helm. “We’ll be in it within minutes if we stay this course!” The crew explodes into motion. Minghao descends swiftly from the crow’s nest. Soonyoung and Chan tear across the deck. Even Wonwoo doesn’t look up from the open book on his lap, only flips another page with frantic energy.

You remain frozen—just for a heartbeat.

Until Seungcheol turns toward you. “Princess”, he points, eyes blazing. “To the port lines. Watch the tension; call if we’re drifting!” He’s giving you a task. For the first time since you’ve boarded the Chimera, he’s treating you not as cargo, not as a complication, not even as a lover—but as crew.

You nod firmly. “Aye, Captain.”

You run, the wind lashing your hair around your face. Your feet are sure beneath you, heart pounding, and you grab the rope with firm hands, joining Soonyoung and Chan without hesitation. You glance once over your shoulder—Seungcheol is watching. And when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. Pride. You see it in his eyes.

“Steady!” he shouts. “We’re almost at the pull!”

The wind screams louder. The sound of the waterfall is deafening. The closer you get, the more the air warps and howls. Hair and clothes whip around every which way. Sails strain under pressure. The Chimera groans beneath you like it’s fighting not to be torn apart.

“It’s not just a waterfall!” he yells over the sound. “It’s a threshold! A crossing point—between realms! As above, so below—it’s—” “Wonwoo!” Seungcheol cuts in sharply. “What happens when we go through?”

“I don’t know!” Wonwoo shouts back, desperation in his voice. “No one ever has!” You don’t hear the end of that sentence because that’s when it begins.

A tendril of smoke.

No—not smoke. Something darker. Slick and slow, it creeps across the surface of the sea, winding around the hull of the Chimera. More follow—dozens. Hundreds. They rise like grasping hands, curling toward the deck.

“Captain…” Chan breathes, stepping back from one of the ropes, eyes wide. Minghao calls out from above. “Smoke! From the water!”

“Cordia,” Seungcheol breathes, barely a whisper.

“Seungcheol?” you call out, your voice trembling now.

His head snaps up. For the first time in this madness, his expression fractures. “Get to me!” he yells.

You don’t hesitate. You run—but before you can reach him— The mist turns black. The tendrils strike.

And the world goes dark.

You wake to the taste of ash in your mouth.

Your body feels heavy—every bone weighed down, every muscle groaning in protest as consciousness claws its way to the surface. The air is cold and wet, and the first thing you feel is a strange texture under your hands: gritty, soft, but wrong. You open your eyes.

Black sand.

You blink against the dim light. A haze clings to the air, the world around you coated in an eerie hue between shadow and flame. Ancient ruins loom ahead, crumbling columns and broken statues half-sunken into the sand. A river pulses in the distance—thick, dark, and slow, like black ink. The air hums with something foul and powerful.

You turn your head. Seungcheol is lying beside you. He groans softly as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before his eyes snap to you. “You okay?” His voice is hoarse. “I think so,” you murmur, looking around again. “Where are we?”

But you already know. You feel it in your bones.

“Tartarus,” he says, confirming it.

You sit up with a wince. The black sand clings to your skin. Seungcheol instinctively pulls you closer, shielding your body with his as you both rise to your feet. The river’s distant pulse echoes like a heartbeat. And then the smoke returns. It billows from the earth, curling and creeping toward you until the very air feels thick with it. From it, she comes.

Cordia.

She glides forward, her form half-shadow, half-woman. She circles the ruins before settling on a broken, throne-like seat made of obsidian stone. Her long fingers drum against the armrest as she regards you both with a smile too wide, too cold.

“Congratulations,” she purrs. “You made it.”

Her voice is sickly sweet. “No one ever has before. Well… not alive, anyway.”

Seungcheol squares his shoulders. “Give me the book,” he demands. “I fulfilled my end of the deal.”

Cordia blinks at him once. And then laughs. It is a terrible sound, echoing off every ruin, slithering into your skin. “Oh, darling,” she coos. “What makes you think I have it?”

Seungcheol’s expression tightens. “You stole it. You framed me. So you could have me executed.” Cordia interrupts with a smirk. “You?” Her voice turns mocking as she slinks closer. “It was never about you.”

Realization dawns on his face—horror blooming in his eyes.

“Joshua.”

Cordia grins. “Now you’re catching up.”

She circles you both like a vulture. “The golden prince. The next king of Syracuse. So noble. So predictable. I knew he’d take your place, just as I knew you’d run. And then—chaos. Twelve cities. No heir. No peace. No order. Glorious, isn’t it?”

She trails her fingers over a broken statue, sharp nails dragging against the stone. “He couldn’t help himself, could he? Defending you without hesitation. And you—” she turns to Seungcheol, “—you couldn’t help but betray him.”

Seungcheol’s voice is sharp. “I didn’t betray Joshua. I came for the book.” Cordia chuckles, walking toward you. You feel her presence behind your back.

“Oh, but you did betray him,” she hums. “You stole his fiancée.”

With a sharp motion, she pushes you forward, making you stumble into Seungcheol’s arms. Cordia tilts her head.

“Look at her, Seungcheol. Joshua isn’t even in his grave yet, and you’ve already claimed her.” Her voice is gleeful. “Or did ‘that’s my girl’ not mean anything to you?”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. You can feel the tension radiating from him. Cordia steps closer, her voice now a whisper. “Face it, pirate. Your heart is as black as mine.”

“No,” you finally speak up. You face her. “You’re wrong. You don’t know what’s in his heart.” Cordia’s eyes flash. She chuckles once. And then her smile fades. “Oh, but I do,” she says, her voice cold as stone. “And most importantly… so does he.”

Seungcheol’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “You’re wrong.” Cordia rolls her eyes. “Fine. Want to bet?”

And then it appears—the book. Suspended in midair, cradled by smoke. Glowing faintly with ancient magic.

“Two choices, Seungcheol.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “One: Take the book. Return it to Syracuse. Save the heir. Save the alliance. Watch her marry Joshua, as promised. You restore your honour and lose the girl.”

You freeze.

“Or,” she continues, “Two: Refuse the book. Let Joshua die. Watch Syracuse fall. And sail away to paradise with the love of your life.”

Your eyes lock with Seungcheol’s. The look you give him is a plea and a promise all at once—don’t leave me. He stares at you for what feels like an eternity, agony etched into every line of his face. The war behind his eyes. The sorrow. The weight.

He loves you. But his heart is cracked open for the first time.

Then he turns to Cordia. And speaks. “...Let her marry Joshua.”

Cordia’s eyes narrow. Her smile fades. “Liar,” she hisses. “You could never let go of a treasure once it was yours.”

The book disappears.

“No—!” you cry, stepping forward, but Cordia is already fading, her face twisted in triumph.

Seungcheol grabs your hand just as the smoke rushes in again, tendrils wrapping around your legs, your waist, and your arms.

Cordia’s voice echoes as the world goes black again: “You’ll see… we always are what we choose.”

You gasp as your feet hit solid ground, stumbling forward as the world stops spinning. Black sand is replaced by cobblestone, and pulsing smoke is traded for stagnant city air thick with tension. You blink up—recognising the narrow curve of the harbour road, the looming cliffs, and the ancient colonnades of Syracuse’s port.

Seungcheol lands beside you with a grunt, steadying himself with one hand on the uneven stone. His eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings, the shadows, the distant sound of a crowd gathering near the square.

You both realise what day it is as you hear the bell—Joshua’s execution day.

“Oh gods,” you whisper.

You grab Seungcheol’s wrist and pull him into the narrow alley between two warehouses, pressing his back against the wall. The city might be grieving, but the guards will still be out—especially today. “You can’t be seen,” you whisper urgently. “We don’t have the book. If they find you now—”

“I know,” Seungcheol murmurs. His voice is calm. Too calm.

“I’ll talk to them,” you push. “I’ll go to the kings myself. I’ll tell them everything. That it was Cordia, that we got to Tartarus—”

“They won’t believe you,” he cuts in, voice cracking.

“They will. They have to.” You step closer, chest heaving. “They won’t kill Joshua if I tell them what we saw. If I tell them—if I make them understand.”

He looks down at you. And you feel it. A shift in the air between you.

“No,” you breathe.

“I can’t let you take the fall for this.”

“And I won’t let you—” your voice breaks. “No. No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare, Seungcheol—”

His hands come up, gently framing your face, thumbs stroking beneath your eyes as he places his forehead against yours. “You have to leave the city,” you whisper quickly, desperately. “We’ll go. Wherever you want. Right now. Just—just, please. Let’s run. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

He smiles softly, and that’s what undoes you. That smile. Tender. Wistful. “I can’t do that either,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You shake your head. “No. No, please. You’re not doing this.” Tears burn behind your eyes. But he’s already pulling away. And you know. You know.

Seungcheol has made up his mind. He’s going to take Joshua’s place.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, fists grabbing the front of his shirt. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“No, you don’t.” Your hands fist in his shirt. “I love you. I love you, and if you walk out of this alley, I will never be whole again.”

His breath shudders. And then he whispers: “But could you love a man who would run away?”

You want to scream yes. You want to say I don’t care, that love should be enough, that you’d throw Syracuse to the gods if it meant keeping him safe.

But you know what he means. He couldn’t live with himself if he ran. He’s never been the kind of man who takes the easy road. He never could.

The tears spill over your cheeks. “Don’t do this,” you plead, broken. “Don’t leave me. I belong with you.”

His face crumples, his own tears finally falling. And then he lets go. He takes a step back. Another.

You try to grab him, but he’s already out of reach. Already walking out into the gloom-filled street, into the path of soldiers making their way toward the square.

And then—he stops. He turns back to you, tears streaking his face, mouth curved in the saddest smile you’ve ever seen.

“For the first time in my life,” he chuckles emptily, “I wish I was someone else.”

Your breath catches.

“I wish I was someone worthy of you.”

The sharp clatter of boots echoes down the cobblestones.

“Hey—!”

Three guards spot him immediately. Recognise him.

Seungcheol lifts his hands slowly, not resisting as they rush him. You scream his name, but it’s drowned out by the sound of steel and shouting.

They seize him and drag him away.

Your legs give out from under you, the grief slamming into you like a wave. But just before your knees hit the cobblestones—Strong arms wrap around you.

Mingyu.

His chest presses against your back, one arm around your middle, holding you upright, the other around your shoulder, shielding your trembling frame. You feel him shush you gently, but it’s broken, because he is crying too. Silent tears streak down his face as he watches his captain—his brother—being dragged away like a criminal.

You sob, your hands clutching his arms, unable to speak. Unable to breathe. Mingyu’s voice is thick. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, Princess.”

But nothing can stop the image from burning into your mind. Seungcheol, dragged into the fog of a city that forgot him. Head held high. Heartbroken.

The square is deathly still when they drag him in.

You see the moment he steps onto the square—his hands bound in chains, his jaw locked in that stubborn defiance you’ve come to know too well. He walks with that same confident gait, even though there’s no wind in his sails anymore. Even though he’s walking toward death.

Mingyu’s arm presses around your shoulders more tightly. Chan and Soonyoung hold their ground beside you, and even Minghao and Wonwoo have joined now, the five of them forming a silent, protective wall around you. But your focus is only on one man.

The crowd ripples with whispers as he passes—the pirate returns. The traitor dares to show his face. Where’s the Book? Did he come to beg for mercy?

But Seungcheol isn’t begging.

His eyes are fixed ahead, never faltering. Not even when he spots the platform of the Twelve Kings—gilded thrones stacked in a crescent high above the square. Not even when his gaze lands on Joshua.

He stands shackled near the edge of the platform, clothes rumpled, his shoulders hunched from the weight of days in captivity. You can see the flicker in his eyes when he spots Seungcheol. First confusion, then rising hope—But then his gaze drops to Seungcheol’s hands. No book in sight. Joshua’s expression crumbles.

But Seungcheol doesn’t stop. He’s led to the centre of the platform below the Kings, behind the ornate shadow of the execution block. The chains at his wrists clink as they force him to stand alone, surrounded by guards.

Then, the King of Syracuse rises.

He stands before his throne, draped in deep blue ceremonial robes, his silver crown catching the light of the pale, cloud-choked sky. His face is stern—no, cold. Cruel. And his voice cuts through the silence like steel.

“Choi Seungcheol,” he begins, voice echoing across the square, “you are brought before the Crowned Council of the Twelve Cities, accused of treason most foul. The theft of the sacred Book of Peace and the attempted destruction of our alliance.”

The King steps closer, looking down at him like one might a rat scurrying in the gutter. “You were given a pardon once, pirate—a chance to walk among kings. You spit on it. And now, you crawl back here in chains like a dog seeking a master’s mercy.”

Still, Seungcheol says nothing.

The King sneers. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

He looks up then. Seungcheol’s voice is quiet, but it carries. Measured. Steady.

“I take full responsibility for the course I’ve chosen,” he says. “I accept whatever sentence the Council deems fit.”

Gasps spread through the crowd, but the King only laughs—a cold, humourless sound.

“And what course was that, pirate?” he snaps. “My son claims you didn’t steal the Book, yet it vanished the moment you returned to the city. And now you return without it. Do you expect us to believe in your honour?”

“I expect nothing,” Seungcheol says simply. “I don’t ask for forgiveness. Only that you let the innocent walk free.” His eyes flick to Joshua, just once.

“He wasn’t part of this. Let him go.”

Across the square, Joshua’s eyes widen.

He steps forward slightly—chained though he is—and looks down at Seungcheol with something like dawning realisation.

He came back for me.

The King narrows his eyes.

“How noble of you,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You who fled in the dead of night like a coward. Who let your blood brother be imprisoned while you wandered free. You think claiming responsibility now will wash you clean?”

The King sneers. “There is no redemption for you, Seungcheol. You’ve already chosen your fate.”

Then he lifts a hand. “Release the prince.”

A pair of guards move to Joshua’s side. The chains fall from his wrists with a dull clatter, and for a moment, Joshua just stands there, stunned.

Then he sees you.

He sees the clothes you wear—still half-pirate, half-Seungcheol’s. He sees the tears on your cheeks. The way your entire soul seems pinned to the man at the block.

He smiles sadly.

The guards seize Seungcheol again, forcing him to kneel.

Your breath hitches violently as they press his chest against the worn wood of the chopping block.

The executioner steps forward, masked and silent, a massive blade in his gloved hands.

The King raises his voice for the final time.

“Seungcheol, former captain of The Chimera, for the crimes of treason, betrayal, and sacrilege against the Twelve Cities, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Seungcheol closes his eyes as the executioner lifts the blade.

The blade is coming down.

Chan grips your shoulder. Mingyu holds your waist tighter. You bury your face into Soonyoung’s chest, unable to look.

But then— a sound like thunder.

You open your eyes just in time to see it — the blade, fractured mid-air, split into a thousand pieces. The metal clatters uselessly across the stone. The executioner stumbles back, horrified.

Suddenly, the smoke comes. It spills over the steps, hissing as it touches the ground. Shadows twist in unnatural shapes. She steps from it.

Cordia.

Seungcheol stumbles to his feet, eyes locked on her as the guards around him recoil in instinctive terror.

“Cordia,” he breathes. Her lips curl into a smile, sharp as a blade.

“Well, well,” she purrs, circling him. “So it worked. A last-second rescue. Just in time for the drama. Quite the scene, wouldn’t you say?”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “Why are you here?”

“Why?” she echoes, spinning lightly until she perches on the wooden base of the executioner’s platform. Her fingers steeple together. “Because, unfortunately for me, you held up your end of the bargain.”

He stiffens.

“You came,” she continues, teeth gleaming. “You fulfilled your impossible task. And now, by the rules of the oath I made to you in that wretched cell, I have to keep my word.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flicker downward—to the faint, glowing cross on her chest. The mark. The promise.

His mouth parts slightly. Realisation dawning. “You can’t let them kill me.”

Cordia scowls, her lips thinning into a vicious sneer. “No, pirate, I can’t.”

The silence is deafening.

Cordia stands, flinging her arms open as black smoke bursts from the ground around her, swirling once, twice — and then condensing.

The Book of Peace.

Floating in the air like it was never lost.

Gasps echo through the square. Even the Kings are on their feet now.

Cordia glares at Seungcheol.

Seungcheol lifts his chin, watching her.

“Do you have any idea how close I came?” she spits. “One more day. One more lie. One more little betrayal, and the cities would’ve crumbled like dominoes. Syracuse would’ve fallen. Joshua would be dead. And you? You’d be just another pirate with blood on his hands and no compass to guide him.”

Her eyes flick to you in the crowd, narrowing.

“But no,” she says, quieter now. “You had to change. For her.”

Seungcheol takes a step forward slowly.

“And now you’re here,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers. “Because a promise is a promise.”

Cordia’s head tilts. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re no hero. You still betrayed your friend. You stole his future. You might not have stolen the Book, but you took her.”

Her hand sweeps toward the crowd, towards you.

Seungcheol’s gaze snaps to where you stand.

You don’t need to speak. Everything you need to say is in your eyes.

Cordia snarls. “You’re no different than me, Captain. Just another liar clutching at something that doesn’t belong to him.”

Seungcheol turns back to her, a small, tired smile curving his lips.

“You know,” he says softly, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever beaten someone like you.”

Cordia freezes.

“I survived your challenges. I entered Tartarus. I gave up the girl. I faced the blade. And here I stand,” he murmurs. “Looks like I outplayed you.”

Her eyes flash. But she knows. The mark glows brighter now, a divine seal binding her to her word. With a snarl of fury, the smoke whips around her again, and the Book floats forward.

Seungcheol’s arm reaches out, his fingers wrapping around it just before it drops. Cordia’s eyes are pure fire. “Enjoy your little victory, pirate. I’ll get my chaos somewhere else.”

And in one last swirl of smoke — she’s gone.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Then Seungcheol turns. Joshua, still nearby, approaches slowly.

Seungcheol looks at the Book in his hands, then at him.

“It’s yours,” he says, extending it.

Joshua takes it carefully, his expression unreadable.

There’s a long moment where he just stares at it, running a thumb over its carved edge. Then he glances back at Seungcheol.

“You got your treasure back,” Seungcheol says, trying for a smirk, but it lands crooked. Joshua looks past him—to you, before turning his gaze back to him.

“Looks like you found some, too,” Joshua replies quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He looks down, overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For believing in me.”

Joshua only nods. “It’s the least I could do.”

Seungcheol glances at the artefact. “Use it well,” he murmurs. “When you become king someday… make it worth something.”

Joshua’s grip tightens. Then, with a breath, he steps forward and opens the Book.

The light explodes. Blinding, radiant, pure.

It pours over the city like a tide, driving out the shadow, painting stone and sky in colours so vibrant it feels like the first day of creation. The clouds scatter. The sun returns. Flowers bloom in cracks along the walls.

And all you can do is stare as the world comes back to life.

And the man who saved it stands at the centre of it all.

The Chimera sways gently in the harbour of Syracuse, her sails rolled tight and her hull gleaming with a fresh coat of tar. Dockhands and palace servants had swarmed the ship earlier that morning, unloading barrels of salted meat, crates of fruit and wine, bundles of new linens, and enough gold to make a dragon blush.

The King of Syracuse, for all his pride and disdain, had come through in the end—Joshua made sure of it. A debt repaid in coin, jewels, and an official pardon carved into parchment and sealed in royal wax.

Seungcheol walks across the deck with sure, measured steps, hands tucked behind his back as he surveys his men and his ship. He’s never seen her look better. The wood gleams, the ropes are neatly coiled, and his crew is laughing. Alive.

Mingyu leans lazily against the helm, tossing a peeled orange slice into Chan’s open mouth. Soonyoung is checking the tension in the sails with exaggerated flair, and Wonwoo—unsurprisingly—is sitting cross-legged near the gunwale, rereading a book they all swore he’d already memorized.

“Oi, Chan!” Seungcheol calls, pointing to the uneven crates. “If you stack that any higher, you’re going overboard with them.”

“Relax, hyung!” Chan chirps. “I tied them.”

“Like you tied the dinghy last time, and it floated off?”

Laughter echoes. Soonyoung snickers while Mingyu shakes his head, lounging smugly.

Just as Seungcheol opens his mouth to continue scolding, something thunks heavily onto his head.

He flinches, already turning with a scowl. “Minghao! I thought I told you—”

“Wasn’t me, Captain,” Minghao replies from near the foremast, barely glancing up from his map as he smiles. “Try higher.”

Seungcheol squints and cranes his head back.

Up in the crow’s nest, a familiar silhouette grins down at him, hair tousled by the wind, one arm looped around the mast. Your shirt’s tucked in lopsided, and your boots have seen better days, but you’ve never looked better.

“Thought you might need someone competent keeping lookout,” You call.

Seungcheol’s face breaks into a full smile, sunlight warming every line. “That so?”

Before he can say anything else, you swing effortlessly down the ropes. You land squarely in front of him with a thud and a slight bounce, and before he can even steady himself, you jump up in his arms.

He catches you easily, hands firm around your waist. “You always make an entrance,” he murmurs.

You smirk, hooking your arms around his neck. “You always look like you need one.”

He laughs, leaning in close. “You think you’re ready to join my crew, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you tease, pressing closer. “What are the dangers of sailing with the infamous Captain Choi?”

“Oh, let’s see,” Seungcheol hums, trailing his hands up your back. “Terrible food. Terrifying storms. Occasional gods of chaos. And a captain who gets distracted by pretty girls in crow’s nests.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Unforgiving waters.”

“I’m a strong swimmer.”

“Unruly crew.”

“I’ll whip them into shape.”

Seungcheol grins, pulling you flush against him. “You’re hired.” Your eyes sparkle. “That easy?” He leans in, voice low. “I’ve seen what you can do.”

Your lips meet before another word can be said—slow, smiling, deep. The kiss is full of promise and freedom and all the things you haven’t had a name for yet, not until he almost died. Around you, the crew lets out a round of whooping cheers.

Chan whoops the loudest. “About damn time!”

Soonyoung claps his hands. “So, when’s the wedding?”

Mingyu shouts down from the helm, cutting through the noise, “Alright, Captain! Where to now?”

Seungcheol looks down at you, arms still around your waist.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “I thought we were going to Fiji?”

Seungcheol raises a brow. “Fiji’s nice...”

“But?”

He smirks. “What about another adventure instead?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“I say lead the way, Captain.”

A/N: Another idea I've had in my head for a very long time. Took a bit longer to write but I'm really proud of it. Thank you to those who joined in the poll and chose Seungcheol as the MMC. Hope you enjoy! 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[lucydixon]

Sweet on you

GIF by @jst2guyz

Summary: You and Erik are friends who seem, to everyone around you, including the Campbell family, to have a deeper relationship than either of you is willing to admit. When you express wanting your nipples pierced one afternoon, Erik jumps at the chance to offer his services.

Warning: NSFW, Needles, Piercing, Hand Stuff, Unprotected P in V

You and Erik had been somewhere between friends and maybe more since high school. You didn’t kiss and weren’t sleeping together, not in that way at least. You’d spent plenty of nights sharing his bed, and you'd woken up in his arms too many times to count after a late night at the Campbell family home.

From the outside, the two of you looked like a couple. You teased one another relentlessly, exchanging flirty banter and hanging off of eachother constantly.

Even his family wasn’t sure where you stood.

Neither of you had ever had a serious relationship that had lasted all that far beyond the introduction to the other. Every partner either of you had ever had was unsettled by how close to eachother you were, and they always wound up asking you to choose. 

You’d never not chosen each other. 

There was tension, sure.

More times than either of you could count, you’d gotten a little bit too close, and found yourselves inches away from locking lips, or allowed your casual touching to venture beyond the line of friendship, your fingertips would brush over his stomach when he was walking around the house shirtless, his running over your exposed collarbones or the curve of your waist whenever he had access to either. 

But, anytime things got a little too real, the two of you laughed it off. 

“How bad did it hurt when you got your nipples pierced?” You asked Erik absently, chewing on the end of your pencil while you sketched in the margins of your notebook, legs draped over his lap while he played videogames on a Sunday afternoon. 

“Not as bad as it hurt to pierce my dick.” He scoffed without tearing his eyes away from the TV. 

“Think I could take it?” You asked, genuinely waiting to know what he thought. 

Nobody knew you better than he did.

“Probably,” He shrugged “There’s no way it’ll hurt worse than getting your ribs inked did. Why? You want me to pinch them so you can find out?” 

A lazy smirk crept across his face and you kicked him lightly. 

“No, I don’t want you to pinch them.” You rolled your eyes “Asshole.” 

“I just don’t know if I wanna deal with the healing time.” 

“That’s the worst part.” He bobbed his head thoughtfully. “I think you could handle it though, you’re tough.” 

“I think I’m gonna do it.” You muttered, nodding decisively to yourself after a moment. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tommorow?” He raised a brow, looking away from his game finally. 

“Before I chicken out.” You shrugged, “Is Janey working tomorrow?” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoah!” He exclaimed, tossing the controller aside to look at you like you’d lost your mind “You’ve got an expert piercer right here and you want Janey to do it?” 

“If you wanted to see my tits, you could’ve just asked.” You told him, biting back a smirk when his cheeks noticeably warmed.  

“C’mon, sweets” he groaned, trying to play it off “I could really use the scratch. You let me do it and that’s fifty bucks in my pocket.” 

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. He’d been calling you that for ages. Neither of you were sure when it had started or where it had come from, but you never asked him to stop so he never did. 

“Yeah, okay.” You conceded, holding your hands up in surrender. “Fine.” 

“Alright, sweets,” Erik started getting set up the following evening after he'd finished with all of his clients for the day, and waved you over to the piercing chair “strip.” 

“You could at least buy me dinner first” You gave him a light shove, shrugging off your coat while he chuckled under his breath. 

You pulled your shirt over your head and draped it over the back of the chair, then made yourself comfortable. You’d purposefully not worn a bra so that you didn’t have anything rubbing up against your fresh piercings. 

When Erik turned to face you, he wasn’t sure why your bare chest had caught him so off guard. 

He’d seen them in tanktops and sports bras, but to see your tits in all their glory without a stitch of fabric covering them was something else entirely. 

His eyes raked over the soft swell of your breasts and the little, pink buds adorning them. 

They were perfect and looked like they’d fit beautifully in the palm of his hands. 

He’d be lying if he said that he’d never thought about it. 

Erik felt his breath hitch in his throat, but covered it up with a cough, trying not to look like he was ogling you despite that very much being the case. 

The fact that you were just sitting there comfortably, making no attempt to hide them from him, even for a moment, made his dick twitch in his pants. 

He rolled his stool closer to the piercing chair so that it would hide the bulge slowly growing from your view, determined not to ruin this. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he offered to do it. 

Maybe he did just want to see your tits. 

“Do you want them vetical or horizontal?” He asked you, swallowing hard. 

“That’s a thing?” You asked, looking amused “People get verical nipple piercings?” 

“Some people.” Erik shrugged “I take that as a no on the vertical?” 

“Correct” 

“Okay, I’m gonna mark them out with a pen” He muttered, grabbing one off of his station before hesitating. “I’m gonna have to like, touch you.” 

“Oh, really?” You smirked softly “Here I was thinking you could pierce my nipples without touching me at all.” 

“Alright.” He rolled his eyes “Laugh it up sweets, I’m about to cop a feel, so you’d better savour it.” 

“Oh, I will.” You scoffed, but still, you shuddered when he reached out and touched you gently. 

The side of his hand rested on your breast, fingers carefully pinching the little pink bud while he placed a dot on either side, ducking down to make sure it was even. 

He was close enough that you could feel his breath fanning over your chest and you couldn’t deny the way it made you feel. 

He moved onto the other side, just as diligent and shockingly professional about the whole thing while you watched, breathing shakily. 

Your cocky, teasing stare was was long gone, replaced by a soft look and lightly parted lips. 

You wondered if he could feel your heart racing in your chest. 

Erik was far too busy fighting the urge to engulf your nipples with his mouth to notice anything. 

He was trying so, so hard to pretend that you were just any other customer. As if it would keep the nerves settling in his chest from getting any worse. 

He wasn’t sure that the two of you had ever been in such an intimate position. 

It shouldn’t have felt intimate. Not when he was just doing his job. 

But it was you. 

Even though he was talking you thorough the whole process, you still jolted when he came near you with the clamp. 

“Easy, sweets.” He warned, looking up at you teasingly as he clicked the clamps “don’t get all squirmy on me now. You’re gonna fuck it up.” 

“I’m not getting squirmy.” You defended, huffing softly “just do it.” 

“I’m trying!” He chuckled, slowly fastening the clamp so he could grab a clean needle. “Don’t look while the needle’s going through it.” 

“Yeah, okay.” You grumbled, looking up at the ceiling. 

“Do you want me to count?” Erik asked, lining the tip of the needle up with the marks he’d made. “Or just do it?” 

“Just do it-” Your sentence ended in a gasp when you felt the needle pierce the bundle of nerves 

“Fuck Erik!” You whimpered, fighting the urge to look “That fucking hurt!” 

“Of course it did, it’s a needle.” He rolled his eyes “Want me to kiss it better?” 

“Shut up.” You huffed, able to hear the smirk in his voice. 

He put the bar through it and started on the other one right away. 

You made the same gasping sound when the needle went in, but this time, you didn’t complain. 

“There.” He undid the clamp and sat back, admiring his work, acutely aware hat he probably wasn’t going to ever get to stare at your tits so blatantly ever again. So, he was taking full advantage. “Done.” 

You looked down and inspected the little metal bars through your nipples before beaming at him. 

“What do you think?” You asked, looking back down at them “Cute, right?” 

“Very.” Erik scoffed, biting back a remark about just how good they looked. 

He tossed his gloves into the bin under the table, and you immediately reached for your bag before even putting your top back on. 

“Nah, you don’t have to pay.” Erik waved you off and you faltered, staring at him. 

“I thought you needed the money?” You frowned, brows pulling together slightly. 

“I said it’s fine.” He insisted, very clearly avoiding eye contact.

“You fucker!” You gasped, “You did just want to see my tits!” 

He made a huffing sound and you knew that you were right. 

“Erik Campbell, you sly dog.” You teased, reaching out to grab his chin and force him to look at you “I told you yesterday. You could’ve just asked.” 

“Stop,” he groaned, trying the pull away. 

“No, way!” You exclaimed, tightening your grip and looking far too amused. “tell me the truth. Was this all some ploy to cop a feel?” 

You didn’t seem weirded out, which was throwing him off a bit. 

Did you want this as much as he did?

His breathing shifted, a little ragged as he considered the possibility. 

“What if it was?” His voice didn’t waver, his gaze suddenly sharp instead of embarrassed, darting down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. 

Now it was your cheeks heating up. 

You swallowed hard. 

“Then I’d tell you again,” you breathed, leaning forward slightly in your seat, “You don’t need a ploy, Campbell. Don’t need tricks or excuses. You could’ve just asked.” 

“And what?” He scoffed softly, resting his hand over your knee, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “You’d have flashed me?” 

“I’d have let you do a whole lot more than look.” 

“Yeah?” he couldn’t help the gleam of disbelief in his eyes, hiding behind the blatant hunger. 

“Mhmm.” You hummed, releasing his chin to let your hand trail down his neck and rest on his shoulder. 

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?” He muttered, breathing deeply as you kept getting closer and closer “You’ve been teasing me for years, sweets.”

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t tease me too, Campbell.” You nuzzled his cheek with your nose once you got close enough.

“I’m not the one walking around in short little skirts.” Erik’s fingers inched up your leg “You think I don’t notice when you rub up against me in the morning? The way you squirm whenever you’re sitting in my lap? That little smirk when you act like you can’t feel me getting hard?” 

“What about you, huh?” you all but purred, “I’m not the one who only sleeps in their underwear. Don’t think I can’t feel you rubbing right back in the mornings, Erik. You’re just as bad as I am. The way you hold my waist when we’re at concerts or on the train? That’s a little more than friendly, don’t you think?” 

“We’ve always been a little more than friendly, sweets.” he hummed, raking his nails over the skin just below the hem of your skirt “You know that as well as I do.” 

“What’s a little more then?” 

You yelped when Erik pulled you off the table and into his lap suddenly, grabbing onto his hair. 

You could feel his bulge pressed up against your scantily clad clit, arching your body into him slightly as a whimper slipped past your lips. 

“Watch the piercings.” he pulled back slightly to growl at you, hands resting on your ass, over your skirt. “That’s some of my best work right there.” 

“You watch them.” you huffed, tilting his head back with the grip you had on his hair. 

Your bottom lip was jutting out in a soft pout and he’d never wanted to kiss you so badly in his life. 

So he did. 

Your lips collided roughly, slotting together and immediately moving at a near frantic pace. 

Years of tension bubbled up to the surface and you were really struggling not to press your upper body flush against his. His hands kneaded the plump flesh of your backside roughly and you moaned into his mouth. You could feel your panties soaking right through and were sure that you were so wet that you’d soak through his jeans if he didn’t take them off very soon. 

Your hips rocked into his and he couldn’t help but groan. 

You swallowed the sound happily, hands trailing down his shoulders to tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours while you continued to grind yourself up against him, getting yourself more and more worked up.

Erik happily shrugged off his t-shirt, tossing it across the room before grabbing the bottom of your thighs and standing. 

You whined when he set you down, but the sound turned into a gasp when he spun you around and pulled you back into his lap. 

Your back pressed up against his bare chest as he hooked your legs over his knees and spread you wide open. 

You could feel the cool air against your soaked panties and let your head fall back on his shoulder, giving him great access to the side of your throat. 

His mouth was on you, hot and wet, sloppily pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck while you squirmed in his lap, making little needy, breathless sounds. 

“You know how long I’ve been wanting to touch you like this, sweets?” he muttered into your throat, hands running up and down the insides of your thighs, coming so close, yet still too far from your aching core. 

“How long?” you panted, about ready to let your own hand fall between your legs to get some relief. 

“Since the day I met you.” he growled, finally caressing the drenched fabric acting as the sole barrier to your burning heat. “God, you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you?” 

“Maybe I’ve been waiting for you to touch me like this for just as long.” You whined “please, Erik.” 

Your pleading almost had his cumming in his pants but he squeezed his eyes shut and goaned loudly into the back of your shoulder. 

Just as you were opening your mouth to start really begging, he suddenly pulled your panties to the side and ran his finger along your slit.

You jolted, hips bucking into his hand involuntarily as you hissed.

“This what you want, sweets?” he breathed, struggling to keep his composure. There was a slight vulnerability in his tone.

He needed you to say it. 

Needed you to tell him that this was okay and that it wouldn’t ruin things because he just couldn’t lose you and if stopping then and there was it took to make sure he didn’t, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. 

“Yes,” You gasped, breathy and desperate, “Oh god, please. Yes, Erik, yes! I want this.” 

That was all he needed. 

The sound that tore its way out of your throat when his finger sunk into your drenched hole was other worldly and send a shudder up his spine. 

Your entire body melted into his, and he was sure that if he wasn’t already sitting down, his knees would have buckled. 

“Promise me I’m gonna see you tomorrow.” It was a demand, really, but he needed to hear it. 

“I promise.” You panted, crying out when he worked a second finger into you “Fuck- of course you will. You’ll see me tomorrow and every day after that.” 

“Think you can get rid of me, Campbell?” You rocked your hips into his hand, moaning lowly 

“you’re stuck with me, baby” you were practically fucking yourself on his fingers, only vaguely aware of the words coming out of your mouth in between desperate whines and mewls. “Always have been, always will be” 

A shaky breath fell from his lips and for a moment, he was glad that you couldn’t see him. 

“You’re mine, sweets.” he muttered into your ear, his breath fanned over the sensitive skin and you shuddered. Your movements slowed and your breath caught in your throat “Aren’t you?” 

“Course I am, Erik.” you breathed, leaning further into him, “now, are we gonna keep talking, or are you gonna take your pants off?” 

A soft growl left his throat and in an instant, you were being tossed back onto the chair while he stood abruptly, fumbling with his belt buckle. 

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his clear eagerness, but the laughter died in your throat when he finally got his pants down around his knees and pulled you to the edge of the chair, prying your legs open roughly so he could line himself up with your cunt. 

“Last chance to turn back,” He breathed, running the head of his cock through your folds. 

You could feel the cool metal of his piercing nudging your clit and throught you might come undone then and there. 

You forced yourself to look up at him instead of letting your eyes roll back inside your head. 

“Fuck that.” You panted, desperate to feel him inside of you. 

After one last deep, shaky breath, Erik teased your entrance with the head of his cock, easing it into you painfully slowly in long, but shallow thrusts. 

That piercing of his dragging along your walls was damn near eupphoric. 

He’d only made it to the halfway point, exercising an impressive amount of restraint despite the urge to slam into you, before you started gasping and groaning, already teetering over the edge. 

“You already gonna cum for me, sweets?” He cooed teasingly, albiet shakily “God, you’re so fucking hot. You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” 

All you could do was nod, screwing your eyes shut in complete bliss. 

“Fuck, that feels so fucking good.” He groaned, letting his head fall back while he quickened his shallow thrusts, timing them in between your little desperate pants. “So goddamn tight.” 

You were so wet hat lewd squelching sounds filled the air, background music to the symphony of sounds pouring out of your mouths. 

As soon as he felt your walls fluttering around him, Erik sunk into you until he bottommed out. 

You gasped, but didn’t have time to adjust before he was pounding your poor cunt, fucking you hard and fast through your orgasm. 

“Holy shit,” He panted, slamming himself home over and over while you convulsed around him, your cunt squeezing him so tightly that he couldn’t have stoped his own release even if he’d wanted to. 

You could feel the hot ropes of cum painting your insides and clenched around him, milking his balls of all you could while he sloppily thrust into you, slowing to a stop.

For the third time, he picked you up and sat himself on the piercing table, keeping himself buried deep inside your still pulsating cunt while you both caught your breath, still be careful with the fresh piercings. 

“Does this mean you’re gonna clean these piercings for me every day till they heal?” You sighed contently after awhile, brushing your fingers over his chest. 

“Gonna have to hang out with me extra if I’m gonna do it twice a day, every day.” he breathed, smiling softly, and blinking at you tiredly “You sure you can commit to that?” 

“I’m pretty sure I can live with that.” 

“Then yeah.”

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[fallenprophets]

◦⭐︎・love lost

Ekko x reader

Summary: once a Firelight and Ekko's partner, you are now a mercenary, dragging yourself through jobs to make enough money to pay for food. After one too many drinks, you take a job you can't handle, and get hurt. It's no shocker who comes to your rescue.

Set at undefined time, no use of Y/N, gender neutral reader

Warnings: gore (not too bad but be mindful), swearing, mentions of death/welcoming death. 3.2 K words (oops), not proofread as always

A/N: icl guys this is one of the longer fics I've written, and definitely the angstiest one. Again, for my best friend, @sahxrii (go check out her recs, they're SO good) who I do everything for, lets be honest.

You have always prided yourself for knowing your limits; stopping when you need to stop, being reasonable about your own abilities. This has kept you out of quite a lot of trouble- avoiding fights you could not have won, not provoking people who were clearly able to whoop your ass. 

This, however, is very different, and not a common occurrence. 

First of all, you might be a little drunk- you’ve just had to numb the sting of your day with a drink, just a small one, in a tiny grimy bar run by a tall man with bright orange skin. Second of all, you’re running on two hours of sleep and painkillers (the painkillers are slowly wearing off, to make matters worse). 

And lastly, you’re in a really bad fucking mood. 

So, when your handler slides you a note with a name and address written in ugly red letters, you think fuck it, and take the job. You should’ve known this was stupid- you should’ve done what the sober, not exhausted version of yourself would have done. But instead, you accept with a bleary nod, because, to be frank, all you want at that moment is to break something. 

So you take the note, drain your drink, and leave the bar, shrugging on your worn coat. Adrenaline is already starting to buzz beneath your skin, your knuckles tingling softly in anticipation. You had never been this excited about violence when you were younger- in fact, people might have described you as gentle, even. But now, with all the things you have witnessed, all the people you’ve lost, hitting people brought a kind of release you could find nowhere else. 

Besides, there’s no one who remembers you as that gentle person left, anyway, so who are you disappointing? Yourself? You chuckle drily into the cold air, thick with gas. 

You stop in front of the building, your hands tucked into your pockets. It is big, red, and ugly (like the ink the name had been written in, you thought), bright colourful light shining from the broken windows. A Zaunite haunt, typical for a wannabe drug lord- the kind of man you were often hired to beat up or kill. You kick into the dirt at your feet, take a deep breath. You have hardly sobered up on the walk here, so your vision is still somewhat blurry, everything swimming around you like you’re underwater. 

Broken memories of swimming in an underground lake with him flitter through your mind, and you dismiss them, muttering a curse between your teeth. You roll your shoulders and make your way inside, striding in like you own the goddamn place. 

“You can’t be here,” a goon dressed all in black calls from the top of badly painted stairs. You look at him, an ugly grin splitting your face. 

“Kick me out, then,” you say, your heart already beginning to beat a little faster. 

Before you know, goons are coming at you from the sides, cracking their knuckles. The twat at the top of the stairs sneers down at you, his teeth oily and black. 

“You don’t wanna do this,” a woman on your left growls. She’s twice as big as you, her arms covered in bright red, winding tattoos. 

“I think I do,” you answer, raising your hands, which are already curled into fists. 

She lunges first, and you catch her with a right hook in the jaw. She hardly falters, but you drive your knee into her stomach. Now, she stumbles, and you leap up, narrowly avoiding an attack from another goon. You grab goon number one- the woman- and smash your forehead into her face. Her nose explodes, red and white flying all over you as she falls backwards. You spin and grab the nearest object- a stool- and bring it smack into the second goon’s middle. He collapses, and you walk over to him, drop the stool on his head. He stops moving. 

You turn to the giant of a woman, who is standing and looking at you with pure, unadulterated hatred. Her face is broken into bits, blood and spit dribbling down her chin. “Come on, then,” you say, cracking your already sore knuckles. 

She throws herself at you, twice as angry as before. You dodge, but she catches you in the shoulder. Excruciating pain shoots through you, and you realise too late that she has wicked little claw-like contraptions on her fingers. She comes at you again, slashing wildly. You jump out of the way, once again catching a claw in the face. It slices open your left cheek; pain explodes all through the area, but you grin. A challenge- you’ve always liked that. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a child’s voice screams at you to stop, to leave, to give up. The goon from the top of the stairs is gone. You falter when you notice this- he must be warning his boss, who is your target. You double your efforts, lunging at the woman. You manage to punch her in the stomach, but your second hit, aimed at her throat, is knocked out of the way as she drives her claws into your wrist. You scream, not really in pain but in sheer shock at the sharp metal slivers protruding from your skin. 

“Should’ve left,” she sneers into your face. You spit into the bloody mess that was her nose and wrench your arm back, kicking her, hard, in the sternum. She stumbled backwards and you pull your weapon- a machete, sheathed against your back- out, spinning it around. She assesses you for a moment, with what you realise now are robotic eyes. 

Oh. 

Oh, fuck. 

You are not fighting a person, you’re fighting a robot. Or something that’s half half- the blood spilling from her face gives you the idea that she might be made of flesh and bones, but those eyes- you’ve seen them before. She’s assessing your fight patterns, and she’s going to win. 

You duck out of the way of another attack, but she manages to graze your neck with her claws. You slash wildly with your machete, to no avail- she avoids each blow easily, and the ones that do hit, she ignores happily. 

Finally, one of your attacks hits- you aim the blow upwards, and the machete carves straight through her face. Blood, huge quantities of the stuff, gushes all over you, bone shattering under the power of your blow. You yank the machete out, momentarily stunned as she stumbles to her knees, eyes fizzing out. 

“Fuck,” you pant, stumbling backwards, “fuck you.” 

Your victory is short lived. More goons are coming down the stairs, armed to the teeth. You raise your weapon, ready to fight them all if it kills you, when you feel something strange. Your shirt has been sliced open- cold hair breezes around your stomach. You look down, and are somewhat horrified to find blood; your own blood. 

All at once, you feel nausea hit. You stumble to your knees, gasping for air. She got you- you feel the pain shooting through now. She managed to sink her dirty claws into your stomach as if you were made of mist and gas. 

Everything flickers in front of you as the last few days finally hit. You’re in so much pain, it’s almost incredible- had you been an author, you would have liked to write about this one day. It’s like your insides have been ripped out (they kind of have, you suppose) and set on fire, stomped on, pissed on- you almost laugh at the thought as your head hits the ground. 

You can’t remember when you fell. 

Your vision goes dark, flickering in and out. You see the goons approach you, pick you up unceremoniously. You are outside your body, floating somewhere beyond, watching through your eyes as they drag you outside. It is raining- you wish you could feel the raindrops on your face, one last time. 

You laughed, holding out a hand. It had been a while since you had experienced rain- in the Firelights hideout, you are protected by the huge leaves of the tree; and the Firelights hideout has everything (and everyone) you could wish for, so why would you ever go outside? 

But, after hearing you sigh softly and murmur something about the only thing you miss about your old home being the rain, Ekko made it his mission to bring it back. As soon as it rained again, he took you by the arm, promising a wonderful surprise. He offered to blindfold you, but you kindly refused when you saw that he intended to take you up the tree. You had climbed together, him guiding you gently upwards; and as you’d ascended, you had heard a beautiful, soft patter; a sound that made your heart beat speed up and your throat close. Finally, you had reached the top, and he had lifted the leaves to reveal a little area above the canopy, partly shielded from the rain with a makeshift structure made of leaves and cloth. 

Now, you sat in this structure, your side flush against his, a hand held out to the pouring rain.  

“Do you like it?” He asked softly, looking at you. 

“Do I like it?” You cried, almost incredulous. “Yes, Ekko, I love it!” You turned to him, grinning so widely it almost hurt. “Thank you,” you added after a moment. “Thank you so much, Ekko.” He smiled too, and you took his face in your hands and kissed him, and Gods knew you’d never been happier. 

You’re lying in an alleyway. It’s like you can physically feel the blood leaking from you, your life draining from the gash in your stomach and the holes in your arm. The goons have left, convinced you are dead- why didn’t they check your pulse, stupid bastards? 

It has stopped raining, but you’re soaked to the bone, lying there in the dark. Someone has stolen your jacket and your machete. 

You groaned as you lifted the jacket up to the light. A bright fabric, the colour of the sunset, now stained with dark greenish grey goo. You should have known that wearing your favourite jacket down into the mines was a stupid idea, but you’d done it anyway. 

“Stupid,” you mumbled to yourself, dropping the jacket into a heap on the floor. You wondered briefly if it was salvageable, but deep down knew it wasn’t. You’d have to find a new one, which would be nowhere near as nice. 

Someone knocked on your door, and a soft voice spoke your name. 

“Come in,” you called, still staring sadly at your jacket. 

Ekko stepped inside, his presence like warm sunlight. Despite the grief caused by the ruined jacket, you smile, turning to him instantly relaxing as he wrapped his arms around your waist. 

“I hear your jacket got ruined,” he said softly. 

“Yeah,” you muttered in response. “Upsetting.” He laughed. “I have something for you.” You pulled away, moving your hands to his biceps and looking at him. “What, Ekko?” You already knew what he was going to show you, but it warmed your heart all the same. 

“It’s not exactly the same colour,” he said apologetically, “but-“ 

You put a hand over his mouth, beaming. “I don’t care,” you said. 

He smiled back at you, releasing you to pull something out of his bag. It was neatly folded, but he held it out to you. You shook it out, and found a jacket, almost identical to the one that you had just ruined; it was a slightly lighter shade of orange, and the pattern on the back was a tree instead of the flowers you’d had on your last one. 

“You’re insane,” you said, in awe. You put the jacket on- it was a little too big, but who gave a shit? It was your jacket, gifted to you by your boy. 

You blink back into consciousness, and almost screamed. The pain coursing through you is like nothing you’d ever imagined; like being electrocuted and burned and drowned all at the same time. Despite the gaping hole in you, you want to curl up, to shield yourself from the wet and cold and pain. 

“Please,” you whimper into the ground, “please, no.” 

It’s not that you don’t want to die. In fact, you welcome death- you see it as a release more than anything else, from the bullshit life you lead. But dying here, like this- 

You start to cry, and you gag and retch as tears spill mercilessly. 

You are about to give in- you have given in- when a bright light seems to fill your vision. It is green and orange and yellow and pink and warm and fills everything around you. For a moment you think you’ve died, and this is some kind deity welcoming you into the next life, whispering I forgive you don’t worry as it carries you away. But no, the truth is much harsher than that. 

A face hovers into your field of vision, and warm hands tug your shirt upwards. You want to protest, but your throat is dry from all the retching and sobbing you’ve been doing. A cloth presses down into the wound in your stomach and you howl, eyes rolling back in your head as the pain grabs you by the throat and fucking throttles you. 

“Stop,” you manage to whimper. “Why- why are you doing this?” Your voice is hoarse, you’re crying again as you try to shut out the pain. 

You hear shouting- words like help and home and quick- and black out again. 

When you come to, you are no longer lying wet and dying in an alleyway miles from home (where even is home anymore? It’s just you, and that orange jacket, which you don’t even have anymore). 

Your surroundings slowly swim into focus (swimming, your brain sings, swimming in an underwater cave, hands on your waist, kisses all over). You are lying down, mercifully dry and warm. Pain pumps through you in waves, mostly coming from your wrist and your stomach. You wonder, again, if this is some afterlife- if so, it is far less cruel than your parents described. 

But then, you turn your head, and pain sears through you. 

But that is not what makes you cry. 

He lifts his head instantly as he hears your quiet sobs, and he’s at your side, a hand carefully gripping yours (he’s avoiding the bloody bandage wrapped around your wrist, you realise), the other gently brushing soft fingers over your bruised face. “It’s okay,” he says, even though you think he doesn’t mean it. It’s not okay- you ran away, got yourself beat up, almost killed, and he’s had to rescue you. Of course it’s not okay.

“Ekko,” you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats, stroking your hair away from his face. Instinctively, you curl away, wanting to hide your injury from him. He shakes his head, his eyes brimming with tears (or maybe you’re delusional, because who would cry over you?) 

“I-“ Your words are lost in a pathetic sob, and you turn your face away from him. 

“Don’t,” he says. A pause. “How are you feeling?” 

You croak out what should’ve been fuck but instead comes out as a bad imitation . You would’ve laughed, in any other situation. 

“What happened?” His voice is so soft, so kind, it makes you want to rip your eyeballs out and stuff them into your ears. 

You shake your head. You don’t want him to know what you’ve been up to since you left the Firelights. 

He lets go of your hand, and for a moment you think he’s leaving you. It wouldn’t surprise you, to be honest. But no, he doesn’t leave you. Instead, he leans over, inspects the bandages wrapped around your midsection. Your mind instantly flashes to him prodding it, digging his fingers into your wound and calling you names. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says finally, still glaring at your bandaged stomach. 

“Excuse me?” That is the first full statement you manage to force past your shredded throat. 

“You’re an idiot,” he repeats with just as much gusto. “I mean, how could you just go and do this?” He gestures at your injuries. 

“I didn’t-“ 

“What, think? Yeah, I can tell.” His face is partly obscured, so you can’t tell what face he’s making. 

“I-“ 

“You’re so stupid. I mean, did you really think you could survive taking on all of the goons in that building?” He snorts to himself. “At least tell me the pay was worth it.” 

You’re somewhat incredulous. All the time you’ve known Ekko, he’s never been this outright mean to you. 

“What-“ you sputter, unable to find the words. 

“Did you not think for a moment that you might get killed?” He puts extra emphasis on the word killed, and it’s like a punch in the gut. When he turns his gaze onto you, you think you’d prefer to have the goons rip you apart than see him look at you like this ever again. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage to say through a fresh tightening in your throat. Your eyes sting and you’re about to turn away when you see his expression. 

He’s smiling. 

“What?” You almost choke out. “What is it?” 

His smile is the softest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s the sunlight, shining through the leaves of the tree; it’s the rain gently pattering on the roof of your childhood home. It’s the smell of old books and wood. 

It’s so painfully home. 

Your eyes sting, and you turn your face away from him, swallowing the bile rising in your throat. He still smiles at you like that, after everything you’ve done. 

He takes your hand again, his other beginning to gently trace patterns on the bandage on your stomach. It’s such a soft, kind gesture. He used to do that, you remember with a pang, when you two would lie in bed together: draw little patterns on your back with his fingers, when he thought you were asleep. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and for the first time, you wholeheartedly believe him. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because those are the only words your throat will allow out. “I am.” 

“I know,” he murmurs. He hesitates, then leans forwards, kissing your forehead gently. “Just…” he trails off, his gaze now focused back on your bruised face. “Don’t do that again.” 

You promise him. Not with words, but with the feeling in your chest, the loosening of your lungs and throat as you watch him watch you. You promise him with the way your knuckles have stopped aching for more skin to break, with the way your eyes water again. 

You promise him with all that you have, because that is the least you can do for him. 

“I love you,” you mumble, almost sheepishly. 

“I love you too,” he answers; there is no hesitation, no layered but only if… behind the words. He says it back with the same confidence he gives orders, the words more of a declaration than softly spoken pretty things. 

“I’m sorry,” you add, after a few moments of just watching him breathe. 

“I love you,” is his answer. 

You shut your eyes, and he squeezes your hand. 

[ceruark]

mia kaiser—a pampered, regal cat—is about as famous and demanding as the father that spoils her rotten.

the maine coon-tabby mix is posted to kaiser's public instagram more frequently than the man himself or any of his teammates, her fluffy orange coat appearing pristine in every single photo she appears in. kaiser's fans fawn over just as much as they do him (if not more), absolutely taken with her and showering her in nicknames such as "sweetheart" and "lovely" when she shows up on their feed, butting her head against kaiser's thigh or caught in the middle of licking a hand with a familiar crown inked on the back of it.

the veterinary clinic located near bastard münchen's stadium has a much different opinion of her than the public, though. if mia has an upcoming appointment, they're scheduling three vets to just her—two to handle the fussy, dramatic kitty, and one to deal with her equally ostentatious owner.

you transferred to the munich branch of the vet clinic chain from cologne about three months ago for a change in scenery and a fresh start in a new, larger city. you've already proven your worth during your time there, though, receiving nothing but positive reviews from clients you've seen, and have even started being requested by name when they call to schedule an appointment for their beloved pets.

so when michael kaiser strides into the clinic one morning, unannounced and unplanned for, the other vets on duty are eager to throw you at him and let you have at it.

"consider it the final module of your training," your boss tells you with a sharp grin—as if you haven't been fully onboarded for nearly two months now.

you've heard the horror stories from your coworkers, but they don't really compare to the real thing. thankfully, you've got two of them in the room with you (as is standard for treating mia), but your coworkers' attempts at calming kaiser down do little, and it's only working mia up even more. unfortunately for you, the man is snappier than usual, agitated with worry over mia's sudden illness.

(not that he'll ever admit it.)

mia lashes out at you again as you try to approach her with the ophthalmoscope, batting at your arm and letting out a low, vicious hiss that's all teeth.

humming, you slip the scope into your pocket and kneel down so your face is level with hers. ever so slowly, you move your hand toward her. a low yowling sounds from the back of her throat as if to warn you away, but you keep advancing inch by inch, until your hand is right in front of her nose.

cautiously, she sniffs at your palm, still grumbling. after a moment of allowing her to familiarize herself with you, you give a gentle pet to her head. when she doesn't lash out, you carefully continue to stroke your fingers through her fur until she eases up and lays down on the counter.

"there you go," you coo at her softly. you take the scope back out and handing it off to your coworker, who watches, absolutely bewildered, as mia begins purring and snuggling into your touch. "you're just scared, aren't you? poor girl. you're actually very sweet, hm?"

you continue petting her with one hand and use the other to hold her head in place as your coworker observes her eyes with the scope. once he nods at you, you release her head, but don't stop carding your hands through her fur.

"the good news is that there aren't any ulcers, tumors, or severe injuries in either of her eyes," your coworker says.

you hum, looking away from mia and to her owner. you feel a bit taken aback when you catch him watching you sharply, but force yourself to relax, as to not work the cat up again.

“we’ll have to run some blood tests and take the pressure in her eyes to determine the exact cause of the conjunctivitis, but at the very least, it’s nothing too serious,” you explain. "it'll take a few days to get the results back, but in the meantime, we can give her some medication to help with the symptoms."

to everyone's surprise, you manage to wrap up the impromptu check-up without a major outburst from either of the kaisers. the blonde seems a bit ruffled by the fact that he actually has to fight mia to get her away from you, but there's nothing greater than the scathing, "already trying to replace me, are you?" that's directed more toward the cat rather than you.

your boss is already scheming to assign you to mia's appointments for as long as possible, but kaiser takes care of that for him when he specifically requests you to treat his precious daughter from now on.

as of late, your fingers end up littered with the scratches and nips that mia makes when she's being playful with you. you can't bring yourself to mind when she always looks up at you with wide, endearing eyes after, making up for it by licking the small wounds clean.

perhaps it's an indicator of what's to come—the behavior she's inherited from her owner, who is also rapidly developing a keen interest in the only other person who has managed to touch mia's heart.

[reidsism]

➳ LOCH NESS — S.R

to nav 𓇙 to s.r mlist 𓇙 to records!reader mlist

spencer reid x archivist!fem!reader

your first non-sanctioned trip to the bau is met with the upwards brows of derek morgan, and maybe dr reid gets a bit too defensive

wc: 1.4k

warnings: none!!!!! maybe like.. allusions to sex? but it’s vague and jokes idk 😭 takes place the day after frigid

a/n: another one written in my notes app lovingly at 3am. so it’s lowk shit and i kinda hate it but i love these two too much to stop sorry :(

You’re halfway through talking yourself out of this when the elevator doors open and your eyes are graced with the buzzing hallway of floor six.

You gulp, hugging the two cups close to your chest, a thick, heavy brown overcoat—his—draped over your forearm. The lights are brighter up here, it smells faintly like citrus cleaner and someone’s too-strong cologne and nothing at all like what you’re used to.

Paper and dust and faded ink.

It’s loud too, far louder than you’re used to, the sounds of phones ringing and pens scribbling and people chattering that it feels like this is a whole other world. Like there’s no way this is the same building as the room you work in.

But you take a heavy breath and stick your leg out quickly as the doors begin to close before you can even make it off the elevator.

You feel horrendously out of place in this area full of suits and slacks and general business attire.

Your FBI badge hangs off your cardigan and you wonder, for a moment, with all of these people milling around you, if you even deserve to wear it.

You haven’t been anywhere above the main floor in six years, bar once.

Three weeks ago. Agent Hotchner of this very unit had requested your assistance on a case. But that was different—you were called up here, and he had met you at the elevator to lead you to the conference room himself.

Now? Now you’re here alone, nobody meeting you at the elevator because this is a non-bureau sanctioned visit to the BAU.

And it’s making you really fucking nervous.

But you grip at the handle of the heavy glass door with your pinky, pulling it open with your foot with a soft grunt to enter the bullpen.

It’s not that people stop and stare, really, but… but it’s awkward. Like, really awkward.

You imagine, from what you know about Dr. Reid, his desk is the one covered in stacks of books with a messenger bag propped against the side of it, but he’s not there.

Who does spot you, however, is Agent Morgan.

And you swallow roughly. Because he is openly staring at you with his brows raised so far up his forehead that you’d worry they’d get lost in his hair, if he had any.

He’s staring at you like someone just walked in dragging the fucking Loch Ness monster and simply said “Hey, I found her.”

You blink at him.

It’s a small miracle that Dr. Reid is approaching his desk again, sitting down and immediately scribbling something onto his file.

You don’t hesitate—not with Agent Morgan looking at you like that—and make a beeline for his desk.

Spencer blinks up at you, like even he’s shocked you’re up here. (He is. He doesn’t think Hotch called you up here again).

You don’t give him a chance to speak before you’re setting a cup down on his desk and drop his coat over his lap.

“You forgot your coat,” you mumble quietly. “And, uh, I got coffee. As a thanks for last night. I stopped by that place on Eighth you mentioned a while ago.”

His lips curl into a little smile, but you grab the lid off his cup before he can grab it, checking the contents before swapping it out for the one in your other hand. “Mixed them up,” you offer lamely, an embarrassed grimace on your face.

Spencer just huffs a soft laugh, taking a sip. Sweetness melts on his tongue and his eyes go slightly wide as he looks up at you. “You know how I take my coffee?”

You shrug. “You dumped four sugars into yours that one time,” you take a sip of your cup. “I just figured that’s your usual.” You remembered it, actually. He said he had a sweet tooth and you’d stored the information away for later use.

This is that later use.

He’s barely able to mumble out a thank you before you’re nodding and darting back out the glass door towards the elevator, slamming your palm on the down button.

You step inside and keep your head down as the doors close, sending you back eight floors down.

Morgan stares at him. “Oh hell no,” he says, dropping his folder onto his desk. “Did she just say ‘thanks for last night’ and walk in here with your coat?”

Spencer blinks, spluttering. “Wha- no! N-no, it’s not like that!”

“Oh, I see how it is, kid,” he cackles, leaning in. “You two kept warm, huh? Played a little basement survival?” His grin reaches ear to ear.

“I- Morgan, it wasn’t like that!” Spencer huffs, face redder than Garcia’s glasses of the day. “She didn’t have a ride home! I drove her. She was freezing, I didn’t- Nothing happened!”

Garcia chooses then to walk into the bullpen from her office, a wide grin on her red lips. “Did I just hear basement survival?” she stops beside Morgan’s desk. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“You’re blushing, Spence,” JJ laughs, hardly looking up from the file on her desk.

Spencer falters. “I- I always blush,” he mutters, ducking his head to hide the obvious redness that’s flushed up his neck and cheeks and ears. “I have sensitive skin!”

Morgan leans back in his chair with a smug chuckle. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh? Records cryptid and the genius golden boy. Who’d have thought?”

Spencer just sighs, picking up the cup again and taking a long swig. “She just brought me coffee, okay? That’s not some secret code for anything.”

Garcia smiles coyly. “Oh sweetie,” she says, tone dripping with honey. “For you? That’s basically a marriage proposal.”

“It is not! JJ brings me coffee!” Spencer groans, gesturing to her with his hand.

JJ raises a brow. “I don’t leave a cave and come up from a basement for like, the third time this year just to do that though.” She still hasn’t looked up from her desk, once.

And Spencer just blinks. Okay, maybe it was a bit of a big deal, you coming up here. He knows you rarely leave B3 other than just coming and leaving work, but still. It’s not like it’s some deep, important, big thing, you were just… being nice.

Right?

He lifts the cup to his lips again with a quiet, heavy sigh, just to furrow his brows.

Scribbled in tiny font on the side of the red cup, is your handwriting.

i hope you weren’t too cold driving home. thank you for being kind.

And, oh. Just underneath is the shyest, sweetest little doodle of a snow cloud . Because of course.

He blinks, then just stares at it with a goofy little half-smile, picturing you writing it on the way over, and now he’s cradling this paper coffee cup like it’s made of solid gold, when Morgan approaches over his shoulder and snatches it out of his hand.

“OH MY GOD,” he howls, dramatically clutching at his chest with his free hand. “A HANDWRITTEN NOTE? Reid, you got a love letter from the basement dweller!”

“Morgan, give it back!” Spencer stands, lunging to flail and grab his coffee back, a deep furrow in his brow.

Penelope gasps, running over from her spot beside Morgan’s desk. “A love letter?! Oh, let me see!” she laughs.

“It’s not a love letter,” Spencer huffs. “It’s just a- a thank you, that’s all!”

“It is absolutely a love letter, kid,” Morgan cackles, holding the cup up above his head as Spencer reaches for it again. “Spencer Reid and goblin from the Archives. Sounds like a Netflix original,” he laughs again.

Spencer’s not laughing.

In fact, he’s pretty frustrated, honestly. Not only at Morgan stealing his coffee, but at the names he’s used for you.

Names that came from office gossip. Names you don’t like, but deal with anyway.

Records cryptid. Basement dweller. Goblin from the Archives.

It’s not nice, not kind, not what you deserve.

And he knows Morgan means nothing malicious by it, he knows that. Derek is kind. But he doesn’t know you, either. Nobody really does, that’s the problem.

“She’s not ‘the goblin from the archives’, or a ‘basement dweller’, or a ‘cryptid’, Morgan. She has a name,” Spencer huffs, crossing his arms. “Give me my coffee back. Please.”

And that shuts them up.

Because he’s not laughing, he hasn’t been laughing since Morgan grabbed his cup in the first place. It’s not funny anymore.

Derek nods, setting the cup back down on the desk before raising his hands with a soft sorry, kid before heading back to his own desk. Garcia offers a tiny smile of apology before backing into her office again.

Spencer sighs. He doesn’t mean to snap, really. He doesn’t like doing that. But you deserve to have people know your name.

And if he’s the one who has to remind people of that for you, because he knows you won’t do it yourself? Then yeah, he will.

[kefiteria]

A Knight Must Protect... In His Master's Name!!

Epilogue: Returning Sebek's Coat!

Sebek x Reader

tags: fluff, sharing umbrella during the rain ☔🌧️, coat from sebek, ROMANTIC SEBEK BECAUSE WE NEED MORE SEBEK

The first raindrop was a quiet thief, stealing warmth from your cheek.

The second, more brazen, landed upon your open notebook, blurring the careful script into ghostly ink-stained tendrils.

The third? The executioner, heralding the sky’s sudden, merciless deluge.

The wind exhaled a long, shuddering sigh. The rain poured, in thick silver ribbons, upon stone and grass and skin. You exhaled, mimicking the heavens, pressing your bag against your chest. No reprieve.

And yet—

“Hah! Is that all?”

The voice struck through the downpour with all the force of a battle cry.

Sebek Zigvolt stood beside you, unbowed, unshaken, as if carved from the very storm itself. His uniform clung to him, soaked through, a second skin of heavy fabric and purpose. The rainwater traced its way along his jaw, his throat, pooling in his collar.

He folded his arms across his chest, the very image of indomitable resolve. “Such paltry rainfall! A knight does not tremble before the elements!”

You turned to him, slow yet deliberate, your gaze traveling the length of his utterly drenched form.

“Sebek?” you said, voice edged with disbelief. “You’re soaked.”

He scoffed, chin lifting in imperious defiance. “And yet, I remain standing! Do you think the young master would cower before a mere storm?”

You tilted your head confused with his antics. “Malleus isn’t even here.”

A sharp inhale. The sound of scandalized dignity crumbling into affronted despair.

“His greatness transcends distance!” Sebek barked. “Were he to witness this sorry spectacle—” his gesture encompassed the rain, your utterly unprotected state, perhaps even the tragic futility of mortal existence itself “—he would surely shake his head in disappointment!”

“… Because I forgot an umbrella?”

“Yes!”

Silence.

“Well…“ you exhaled. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of your bag, your fingers found salvation: a small, foldable umbrella, its handle cool beneath your touch. With the click of a latch, the canopy unfurled—fragile, human-made, unassuming.

Sebek did not move.

He regarded the umbrella with an expression of profound hesitation, as if its mere existence posed some unspeakable moral dilemma.

“Are you seriously going to just stand there?” You raised an eyebrow with an amused face.

“A knight—” he intoned, voice rich with conviction, “does not falter before the elements.”

“Orrrr” you countered, unimpressed, “a knight could just get under the umbrella and not be miserable.”

A pause. The warring factions of his soul engaged in vicious battle. His mouth parted, a protest forming—but before he could voice it, you stepped forward.

Closer.

Close enough that the damp chill of his presence became something tangible, something warm. Close enough that his breath, sharp and shallow, hitched at the proximity. The umbrella shifted, adjusting, sheltering him in its arc.

Sebek went utterly, devastatingly still.

“… W-what are you doing?” he rasped.

“Keeping us dry?” you murmured, voice edged with quiet amusement. “Perhaps would you rather catch a cold to prove a point?”

Something in him coiled tight, a drawn bowstring, a tension bordering on unbearable. He stared, as if at some unfathomable equation, as if the answer to his torment lay somewhere in the shadowed space between you.

Then—abrupt, decisive—he tore off his coat.

The weight of it settled over your shoulders, heavy with rain, thick with the scent of leather and steel and the electric bite of magic.

“… Huh?” you blinked, fingers curling into the lapels.

Sebek turned away sharply, ears betraying him with the barest flush of pink. “It would be inappropriate for a lady to be drenched in such conditions!”

“… I’m not that—”

“You are a human! And humans are fragile!” His voice lifted, as if the mere suggestion of your resilience were an unthinkable crime. “If the young master were to witness such disgrace—no, I cannot permit it!”

The coat was too large, swallowing you whole, draped like a shield about your form. It was warm, impossibly so, carrying the ghost of his body heat.

Sebek, meanwhile, stood beside you, conspicuously quiet with almost reckless determination, he plucked the umbrella from your grasp.

You arched a brow. “Taking over, huh?”

“A knight does not let their charge bear the burden alone.”

At first, he held it with military precision. But as you walked, something curious—something imperceptibly telling—began to happen.

The umbrella shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

Tilting. Just so.

You believed it an accident so to speak. The wind, perhaps. But no—the pattern remained, unwavering. The coverage leaned toward you, shielding you entirely—while his shoulder, his back, bore the brunt of the storm.

“…Sebek.” You turned your gaze upward, studying him. He did not seem to realize.

“Hm?”

“You’re getting wet.”

A fractional pause. “What? No, I am holding the umbrella in the optimal position!”

“Your entire shoulder is out in the rain.” You pointed.

Sebek blinked, at last looking at himself.

Oh.

A strangled sound, half cough, half choked-back denial. “That is—irrelevant! So long as you remain dry, my duty is fulfilled!”

A slow, knowing smile curled at your lips.

“Sebek.” you murmured, voice soft, dangerous, “are you sure this is about duty and not just because you want to keep me close?”

Sebek inhaled sharply.

His fingers twitched. A hesitation, poised between restraint and instinct. Tentative, barely there, as if the mere notion of touch might undo him—

His arm slid around your waist.

It was stiff, at first. A mere breath of contact. But you did not pull away.

And so, slowly, his grip firmed.

For practicality, of course. Yes. Practicality. Because closer was better—closer meant the umbrella’s coverage was more effective—closer meant he could shield you from the rain—closer meant—

Your breath, warm against his rain-chilled skin.

Sebek swallowed, his face a riot of color.

You tilted your head. “Better?”

Sebek stiffened. “I—I—”

A flicker of something in your gaze. Amusement? Understanding? Fondness?

His breath hitched.

“… I must escort you home,” he blurted, voice cracking, “IN THE NAME OF THE YOUNG MASTER!”

By the time you reached Ramshackle, the rain had quieted to a whisper.

As you stepped inside, shrugging off his coat, only to turn and—

Sebek stormed past you.

Not walked. Stormed.

Straight to the fireplace, where he immediately crouched, stacking logs with all the unchained restrained violence of a man at war with his own heart.

“…Sebek?”

“A knight!” he barked, ears red, “does not leave their charge in the cold!”

You tilted your head, there's so much confusion for today. “I wasn’t even that cold.”

“That is IRRELEVANT!”

The fire roared to life. Sebek glared at it, as if daring the flames to soothe whatever turmoil lay beneath his armor.

So with abrupt, frantic—he bolted upright.

“I—I MUST GO!” he blurted. “TRAINING! YES! TRAINING.”

“Wait, your coa—!”

Too late.

Sebek had already vanished into the night.

You stood there, his coat still in your hands.

A slow, creeping grin.

“… He’s going to come back for this later,” you mused, fingers curling into the fabric, “and die of embarrassment, isn’t he?”

You could hardly wait.

a/u🍨: epilogue is up now!!!! Thank you for reading 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[yo-ri-su-ki]

Hello, how are you? This is my first time here and I would like to know how to make a request if it is okay and if you feel comfortable.

I'm wondering how Vergil would react to Reader, who is half human and half angel, coming to him and asking for help combing her wings, since they are heavy and she keeps them inside her body as a tattoo on her back. But she uses them in battle to help with agility and combat. However, she can't keep them in a hurry for too long because the feathers get tangled and often get knotted. She keeps them hidden because she has suffered from people who have tried to pull or even rip off her wings. She opens and combs them and is liberating, but there are places she can't reach and everyone in the DMC building left. However, not everyone...

Thank you and have a good weekend 😊☺️

Unfurling Feathers

Vergil Sparda x Female!Reader

An: URGHHH THIS IS AN AMAZING IDEAAA I SHOULD'VE THOUGHT OF THISSSSS

The hum of the city outside the Devil May Cry building faded into a dull murmur, muted by the thick walls and the lingering weight of a long day. The clang of weapons being cleaned had gone silent. Nero had left hours ago with a grin and a joke about getting drunk before Kyrie dragged him home. Lady and Trish had followed, bickering about who had the highest demon body count this week.

You were alone.

Or so you thought.

Steam curled in wisps around you, the hot water from the shower doing little to ease the tight ache in your back. Your fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the base of your neck, where the inked tattoo stretched across your shoulder blades in the shape of folded wings. The dark design shimmered faintly, alive with hidden magic, pulsing with the desire to unfurl.

You drew a steady breath and whispered the command.

The tattoo rippled—then burst outward in a sudden, silent motion. Feathers, long and glowing with subtle gold, blossomed from your back like petals from a sealed bud. The weight of them hit you like a second spine. Always heavier than you remembered, always aching with the effort of staying hidden inside flesh and ink.

You exhaled shakily.

Stretching them felt like stretching parts of yourself that weren’t meant to be seen. Not here. Not anymore.

You stepped into the lounge slowly, towel tucked tight around your body, your wings half-draped behind you. Each movement stirred a fresh tangle in the feathers. Your hands worked at the knots carefully, trying to untangle the ones you could see—brushing, tugging, whispering soft apologies when one snapped under your fingers.

You couldn’t reach the worst parts. The ones near the top. The base. The inner curve.

Frustration burned behind your eyes.

You used your wings in battle for speed, evasion, sudden aerial bursts that gave you the edge in combat—and every time, they ended up matted. Twisted. You never had time to properly tend to them. You couldn’t. People stared. People touched. Some even tried to rip them out.

You clenched your fists at the memory. The feeling of claws, chains, greedy hands—

Footsteps.

Your heart stopped.

Vergil stepped into the doorway, Yamato glinting faintly at his hip, his long coat dusted from whatever training he had just finished. His silver hair was loose at the tips, slightly mussed in a way that should’ve been impossible for someone so controlled. His sharp blue eyes landed on you—and the wings.

You froze.

Neither of you spoke.

His gaze didn’t travel down your body, didn’t flinch at your half-state of dress. He only stared at your wings.

You opened your mouth, hesitated. “I… I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

He blinked slowly. “The others left. I remained behind to meditate.”

Of course he did.

You swallowed hard. “I… I know this is strange, but—”

“You are in pain,” he said plainly.

You stiffened.

“It’s not… nothing I can’t handle,” you lied, brushing at another knotted feather that made you wince.

“You cannot reach the base.” He took a step closer, voice quieter now. “May I?”

You looked at him, stunned. Of all people, you had never imagined asking Vergil for help with something so… personal. Your wings were a part of your soul. You had only ever let one person touch them before—and they had betrayed you.

But Vergil didn’t move any closer. He waited, eyes unreadable.

You nodded.

He gestured for you to sit on the couch, and you did, folding your wings forward slightly to allow him access to the tangle of feathers near your shoulders.

His touch was… unexpected.

Gentle. Deliberate. Not clinical, but precise. As if he understood instinctively what not to do. He combed through with fingers like blades dulled to velvet, smoothing through the feathers, loosening knots with slow, practiced care.

“I have read that angelic feathers are sensitive to both pain and memory,” he murmured. “They store remnants of emotion. Is that true?”

You nodded slowly, voice soft. “Yes. Some call it a curse.”

“A burden, perhaps.” His fingers paused on a particularly thick knot. “But not a curse.”

He worked in silence for a while, untangling each section with unwavering patience.

“…You’ve done this before,” you said finally.

“I’ve trained with beings who had wings,” he replied. “Long ago. I learned how they function. What they carry.”

His hand brushed the base of your wing, and you flinched. Not from pain—but something deeper. An echo of fear.

He stilled.

“I won’t harm you.”

You looked over your shoulder. He wasn’t even looking at your body. Just the feathers. As if they were something sacred.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… don’t let anyone see them, usually.”

“Why?”

“Because when they do, they try to take them.”

Vergil was silent.

Then, very softly: “Fools. They see only beauty. Not the strength it takes to carry them.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He resumed combing, slower now. With reverence.

Minutes passed. You felt your heart beating too fast, your wings lighter than they’d been in months. Your eyes prickled.

When he finally stopped, your feathers were smooth. Gleaming. You hadn’t realized how much pain you’d been in until it was gone.

“Thank you,” you said. “I didn’t expect… I didn’t think you’d help.”

He stepped back. “You did not ask anyone else.”

You blinked.

“I was the one you trusted.” His eyes met yours. “Do not doubt the wisdom in that.”

You turned fully now, your wings folding behind you with a grace that surprised even you.

Vergil’s gaze lingered.

Not on your body.

On your wings.

Then—so softly you barely heard it—he said, “They are… beautiful.”

And he left the room before you could ask if he meant just the feathers.

Or all of you.

You didn’t see him for three days.

Not that you were keeping track. Not that it bothered you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But every time you walked past the lounge, you remembered his hands—how they’d moved through your feathers like he wasn’t afraid of touching something sacred. Like he understood that pain could be quiet, that softness could be armored.

You still felt the ghost of his touch when you stretched your wings, still found your breath catching when you thought of the way he’d said beautiful.

You should’ve said something. You should’ve asked what he meant.

But Vergil was Vergil. Elusive. Sharp-edged. As unreadable as a locked gate to an old library filled with ancient regrets. You didn’t pry. You didn’t beg. But something had shifted. And you weren’t sure if he felt it too.

---

The fourth night, you found him on the roof.

Moonlight silvered his coat, and the wind tugged gently at his hair as he stood there with his eyes closed, arms crossed, Yamato glowing faintly at his side.

You stepped forward quietly.

“You always train in the dark?” you asked.

He didn’t turn around.

“It is quiet up here.”

You took a breath, stepping beside him. “Thank you again. For helping me the other day. I never got to say that properly.”

He opened his eyes. “You already did.”

“Yes, but…” You hesitated. “Not like this. Not face-to-face. I don’t… usually let people see me like that. Not just the wings. The rest of it.”

His eyes flickered over to you.

“And what is the rest of it?”

You looked at the stars. “Vulnerability. Trust. Needing help.”

His silence stretched, but it wasn’t cold.

“…You are not weak for needing someone,” he said finally. “Strength and solitude are not the same.”

That surprised you.

“I thought you believed the opposite.”

Vergil turned to face you fully now. “Once, perhaps. But solitude becomes a cage when you build it high enough.”

You couldn’t stop the soft sound that left your throat. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition.

You let your wings bloom again, this time slow, deliberate. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His gaze remained steady as they unfurled beside you, stretching wide into the night air. The wind caught in them, and for a moment, you felt weightless.

You saw his fingers twitch faintly—like he wanted to reach again. Like he remembered.

“…Would you like to touch them again?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His expression didn’t change, but you saw the faintest trace of tension leave his shoulders.

“If you’ll allow it.”

You stepped closer.

He reached out.

And this time, he touched them not with caution—but with something like familiarity. His fingers brushed gently through the outer feathers, curling slightly where they caught in the breeze. You shivered, but not from the cold.

“They’re warmer tonight,” he said softly.

“So is the moonlight,” you replied.

His hand lingered, then rested just at the joint where wing met shoulder. It was a place no one had ever touched before—at least, not without pain. But here, now… it felt like trust made flesh.

“Have you ever flown?” he asked.

“Not in a long time.”

He stepped behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his body along your spine. “Then let me watch when you do.”

You turned your head slightly. “You want to see me fly?”

“I want to see you unbound.”

Your breath caught.

Vergil’s hand left your wing then—but his fingers brushed against your own, a silent echo of what might come later.

---

Some time later…

You find a letter left in your room, sealed with his calligraphy—neat, sharp strokes of ink:

“I find myself dwelling not on your power… but on the peace I felt, combing your wings in silence. I do not understand it. But I want to. If you are willing.”

You reread it three times.

Then you smiled.

You were falling.

And he was beginning to reach.

The next morning, the rain had passed, and the sky cracked open into soft gold.

You stood on the same rooftop where Vergil had trained nights before, your wings extended, your bare feet curled against the cool stone. The city below moved on in its usual noisy chaos—unaware of the weight pressing on your shoulders. The ache in your back had faded, soothed by his touch, by his words.

You hadn’t flown in years.

Not since the last time you were hunted.

But Vergil's words echoed in your chest, deeper than marrow:

“Then let me watch when you do. I want to see you unbound.”

And for the first time, you wanted to be seen.

---

He didn’t speak when he joined you. No footsteps. Just a familiar shift in the air, a presence at your back that brought calm instead of fear.

You turned slightly. “You came.”

“I said I would.” His eyes roamed the curve of your wings—not with hunger or awe, but with a kind of reverence, quiet and grounded.

You looked out toward the sky, jaw tight. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know.”

“What if I fall?”

He stepped closer.

“Then I will catch you.”

The words were simple.

But they settled inside you like truth.

You stepped to the edge. The wind brushed your face, curling in your hair, dancing between feathers that now gleamed from careful untangling.

You exhaled.

Then you leapt.

For one terrifying heartbeat, you dropped.

Then—your wings caught.

Not as smooth as they used to be, not yet—but strong. They beat once. Twice.

Then the air lifted you.

The world tilted away as you rose into the sky.

Wind rushed past you like laughter. The sun hit your face and filled your chest with something like joy—and something dangerously close to freedom. You circled once, then twice, higher now, your wings responding like second nature. You laughed—a sound you hadn’t made in too long.

Below, Vergil watched.

He stood still, head tilted up, the faintest trace of something like awe softening the hard line of his mouth.

You swooped low, flying over him in a gentle arc. Your shadow passed over his face—and for just a second, your eyes met his.

And he smiled.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold.

It was quiet. Almost reverent.

You landed gently moments later, stumbling slightly—but he was there instantly, steadying you with one hand at your back, the other bracing your arm.

“You flew,” he said softly.

“I did.”

You looked up at him, breathing hard.

“I didn’t think I could anymore. Not really.”

He studied you with something unreadable in his eyes—then leaned in.

And kissed your forehead.

It was brief. Chaste. But deliberate.

You felt your breath catch.

“I am glad I was here to witness it,” he said. “Even angels deserve to remember their sky.”

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!

An: TYSMM IM SORRY I COULDN'T MAKE IT SOONER, AS I SAID I'M VERY SICK!! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING LOVE YOU MWAAAH

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

a/n: second to last one :)

summary: natasha romanoff x married!reader; nat and you used to be in love. now, years later, you're married to a wealthy man and have a daughter with him. will running into natasha change everything?

warnings: guns/gunshots

word count: 8.5k

…part 4, part 5, part 6

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— SECRETS IN INK —

The automatic doors of the grocery store slide open with a hiss, letting in a gust of cold wind that makes Nina squeal with delight. She jumps out into the snow, which crunches under the soles of her little boots.

"Mommy, look!", she says, puffing out dramatic clouds of steam. You manage a smile, though your mind is miles away. The note in your pocket, which you keep touching with your fingertips to make sure you didn't lose it, feels like a weight dragging you down.

When did she put it there?, you wonder, absently grabbing Nina's hand to make sure she doesn't run off. You approach your car, your free hand holding the handle of the shopping cart. Did she sneak into the house? Or was it the day she left? But when? How?

Too many questions, too few answers. Your brain is a mess, your thoughts louder than your daughter's endless chatter.

Back at home, the warmth of the house greets you as Nina stomps her feet against the entry rug, sending chunks of slush flying. She lets out a quiet "oops" and apologizes, but her wide smile doesn't waver.

"It's okay", you murmur, setting the grocery bags down next to the door. You bend down to help Nina out of her coat, but — again — your mind is elsewhere. You're wondering why Natasha didn't just call. Why she left a cryptic note, telling you to come after her when you don't even know where you're supposed to be going.

There's her apartment, of course. Or the Avengers' Compound. Both would be reasonable, obvious choices, but you doubt them for several reasons. Natasha has never been easy to pin down, for one. Part of you also wonders whether she's testing your resolve — is this a riddle? A game? It feels like something she'd do just to see how far you'd go.

At the same time, an even larger part of you protests at the mere idea that she'd do something like this now, when things are so serious. This is not something she'd use as an opportunity to mess with you, is it?

You rub your temple and turn around, starting to put the groceries away. Nina skips away into the living room, her feet pattering against the hardwood floors. Your hands work on autopilot as you put cans and cartons away, your thoughts circling through the same questions.

Finally, you reach for the note again. Your finger brushes over the paper mindlessly as you stare at the words and the hourglass symbol underneath. The boldness of it is so her — a quiet defiance, a challenge. You almost smile at the thought, but then reality comes crashing down on you again.

Sighing, you turn around and lean against the kitchen island. Nina comes back into the kitchen, proudly holding her notebook.

"Want to see?", she asks, already holding out the notebook for you. You smile and let her put it in your hands, but your smile fades as soon as you see the picture. Three figures — one smaller, two slightly bigger. Red hair and a black jacket. Your breath catches slightly and you silently curse as you realize how serious this has gotten.

"Wow. That's beautiful, baby. Who's this?", you ask, pointing to the figure with the red hair, even though you already know.

"That's Natasha! I like her. I think she likes you", she says innocently, clearly not grasping the complexity of what you and Natasha have. She likes you, alright.

"She's very...nice", you say quietly, running your finger over the page. The three of you almost look like a family.

Nina nods, climbing onto a barstool and swinging her feet back and forth. She pats the surface of the kitchen island with her hands. "I'm thirsty, mommy."

"You are?" You put the notebook aside and turn around, grabbing a plastic cup for the girl. "What do you want? Water, milk? We also got lemonade."

"Lemonade!"

"Got it, honey." You pour some of the lemonade into the cup, then you hand it to her.

She takes a few sips, then sets it down. Her hand bumps it just hard enough to send the cup tipping over, and the yellow liquid spills in a swift arc across the kitchen island. Your eyes widen and your hand quickly reaches out to grab the cup, but it's too late — the lemonade has soaked through the note you left there so carelessly.

"Nina!", you exclaim, grabbing a dishcloth to mop it up. Your daughter seems to shrink, looking genuinely upset.

"I'm sorry, mommy", she mumbles, giving you a sheepish look.

"It's okay", you mutter, dabbing at the counter. You grab the damp note, your heart already feeling heavy — this feels like the last thing connecting you to Natasha, for some reason —, but then you freeze. Faint, delicate writing has started to appear on the back of the page.

Of course. Natasha used invisible ink.

Nina frowns, leaning in to see. She can't quite believe her eyes. It's like the magic she sees in her favorite cartoons, where characters wave their hands and make secrets appear out of nowhere. "What's that?"

"I don't know", you say unsurely, looking at the words that have appeared on the back of the page.

Safehouse. Catskill Mountains.

Underneath it, some coordinates that you won't need. You know what safehouse she's talking about — you went there after the attack on New York together.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you stare at the message. It's more than just a cryptic invitation — Natasha left you a way to find her.

"What does it say?", Nina probes, craning her head to look at the front of the note. She spots the hourglass symbol. "What's that?"

"It's nothing, sweetheart. Just something silly", you reassure her, gently patting the note with a towel and putting it aside. Your daughter tilts her head but doesn't push, instead sliding off the barstool and zooming back into the living room. Your eyes flicker back to the note, more specifically the words on the back.

Natasha was deliberate, careful, knowing you'd want this enough to figure it out. In the end, a simple accident caused you to reveal the additional information on the back.

The question is: do you want it? Do you have the courage to risk everything for it?

Your eyes drift back to the drawing Nina left in the kitchen, to the three of you standing there like you belong together.

. . .

You spend the day trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, for both your sake and Nina's. You have time, after all — you doubt Natasha is going to vanish if you don't show up right away. Besides, Ethan won't be home for another few days, so you can choose whether you want to leave now or wait a bit.

It's hard, though. Deep down, you've made your decision. There's no need to question anything, really. But something is holding you back, and it frustrates you immensely. Because if you go, there's no coming back. You're sure of it.

Nina doesn't notice your inner turmoil, which you're grateful for. You spend the afternoon distracting yourself by entertaining her — picture books, cartoons, making puzzles.

By the time dinner rolls around, you feel more frayed than you'd like to admit. It's not the exhaustion of the day itself — it's knowing this might be the last 'normal' day you can give Nina for a long time.

You watch your daughter happily munch on her mac and cheese, blissfully unaware of the underlying tension in the room and the problems that you might encounter soon. She's chattering about her day animatedly, gesturing dramatically with her free hand and laughing at her own silly impressions. Every now and then, she pauses to take a bite before continuing with her rambling. You cling to every word, savoring the sound of her carefree laughter.

"Mommy?", she suddenly says, putting her favorite green fork aside. "Does Natasha like adventures?"

You force a small smile. "I think she loves them", you say softly.

"I love them, too", she says, proud to have something in common with Natasha. "And you? Do you like adventures?"

"Hmmm..." You smile, reaching out to boop her nose. "I like them when you're with me."

Nina beams. "I like that, too!"

"Yeah?" You laugh quietly and nod, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Good. Maybe one day we'll go on a big adventure. Just you and me."

"Yes! We can see ponies and rivers and a circus and-" A yawn cuts her off — the fourth one in the past half hour. It's still early, but the girl is getting tired.

You wait until she finishes dinner, then you get up and start gathering the plates and silverware. You put everything aside, then you scoop her into your arms.

"Alright, sweetheart, let's get you to bed."

Nina scrunches her nose. "Do I have to?", she whines. You smile at her protesting — still not fond of bedtime, it seems.

"Even adventurers need their rest", you tease, tickling her side and making her giggle.

As you tuck her in, her eyes grow heavy. You sit on the edge of her bed, gently brushing wayward strands of hair from her face. "How do you feel about going on a real adventure?", you ask after hesitating for a moment.

Her eyes flutter open slightly. "Like...with Nat?", she mumbles.

"Maybe", you say softly. "Or just you and me, for now. Sounds good?"

"Can I bring Bearie?", she asks, clutching her stuffed bear tighter.

"Of course." You nod and kiss her forehead, then you get up. "Good night, sweetheart."

. . .

— TIME TO GO —

Later you sit on the couch, staring at the crumpled note you've pulled from her pocket. You trace the faint outline of Natasha's hourglass symbol with your thumb, willing yourself to stop overthinking. Natasha has left you a way out, a chance to escape. All you have to do is take it.

But something holds you in place, a nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that maybe you're wrong. That maybe running will only make things worse.

The sound of the front door opening interrupts your thoughts, and you freeze. Ethan's voice calls out from the hallway. "Y/N?"

Your stomach churns. He wasn't supposed to be back before Friday.

Quickly, you shove the note into the pocket of your sweatpants before forcing yourself to stand up. You smooth down your hair as you enter the foyer. "You're back early", you say, trying to keep your voice light.

"Plans changed", he says briefly, his expression unreadable as he looks at you. His tone makes you uneasy, but you don't press further.

"Dinner's in the fridge if you're hungry", you say, leaning against the wall and avoiding his gaze. He puts his coat aside and starts making his way up the stairs.

"Not yet", he says. "I have a call to make."

He disappears into his office upstairs, the door shutting quietly behind him. You exhale and relax, even if only a little, then you tiptoe up the stairs and toward his study.

Through the door, you can faintly hear his voice.

"...promised results, not delays... No, you handle it. I don't want them anywhere near here."

Your heart drops. Them?

"Yes, the wife and the kid are here. They don't know anything... No, don't you dare. They're not involved in this."

Every word increases the nausea you're slowly starting to feel. You take a step back from the door without really meaning to.

"... If it comes to that, clean up your mess without involving me."

You may have doubted your intentions before, but now, you don't. This isn't overreacting — this is survival. This is keeping your daughter and yourself safe from whatever mess Ethan has dragged you into.

You don't think twice before rushing through the house. You grab a duffel bag and throw everything inside that you can find — few changes of clothes for Nina and you, snacks, a couple of documents you don't want to leave behind. You make your way to the bathroom, quietly praying that Ethan won't break his habit of staying in his office until after midnight, and toss in a few hygiene products like toothbrushes and shampoo.

A blanket. A towel. A gun you've been storing in your safe for years.

Yes, a gun. There's just something about being in a relationship with Natasha Romanoff and working at SHIELD that will make you consider buying one.

You distinctly remember her scolding you about living alone without a weapon when she started staying at your place more regularly. A woman. Alone. Without a gun. Seriously, Y/N?

Those words stuck, and you're grateful for it.

Once you're done, you tuck the duffel bag into the corner behind Nina's bed, then you go and lay down.

. . .

You've gone over the plan a dozen times in your head, running through every possible scenario. It's simple, really: wait for Ethan to fall asleep, slip out with Nina, and disappear into the night. But simple plans don't always go smoothly, and that thought keeps gnawing at you

You hear his footsteps approach the bedroom at around 1am. The door creaks open, his shirt hits the floor as he drops it, then the mattress dips next to you as he climbs into bed. The room is quiet, save for the faint rustle of bedsheets and the rhythm of his slow, steady breathing.

You wait, listening to each breath until it evens out. Minutes stretch into what feel like hours before you're finally sure he's asleep, then you carefully and quietly slip out of bed. You don't fully close the door, but you leave only a narrow gap to make sure he won't hear you.

When you reach Nina's bedroom, you hesitate. She's curled up underneath the blankets with her stuffed bear clutched to her chest, her mouth slightly agape. For a brief second, your resolve wavers — and then you remember staying isn't an option. Not anymore.

You crouch down next to her bed and gently run your hand over her head. "Nina", you whisper, your voice soft but urgent. "Sweetheart, wake up. We're going on an adventure, remember?"

Your quiet words rouse her from her sleep. She rubs her eyes, clearly sleepy and confused. Your heart aches at the sight.

"Now?", she mumbles, sitting up blindly and reaching for her Bearie.

"Yes, now. We have to be very quiet, okay?"

She nods, letting you put on her shoes and coat without protesting. You grab her hat and scarf — it's snowed again and the temperatures are icy —, then you scoop her up. You don't bother changing her out of her pajamas. You don't have the time.

With Nina in one hand and the duffel bag in the other, you swiftly move down the stairs. You listen for any signs of Ethan stirring, but the house remains quiet apart from his muffled snoring.

When you reach the front door, you hesitate. It feels like crossing a threshold you can't come back from, and the weight of it presses heavily on your chest. But then Nina looks up at you, sleepy and trusting, and that's all the encouragement you need.

You open the door and step into the cool night air, closing it softly behind you.

"Where are we going?", she whispers, her hand clutching yours tightly. You unlock the car and buckle her into her booster seat.

"To someone who can help us", you say, brushing your thumb over her rosy cheek. "It'll be fun, okay?"

"Okay", she agrees, her eyes drooping shut again already. You slide into the driver's seat and buckle up, then you finally pull out of the driveway. The lights in your bedroom remain dark as you drive down the street.

. . .

The road stretches endlessly before you, cloaked in darkness and lit only by the headlights of your car. Nina has fallen back asleep, her hands clutching her stuffie and her head lolling to the side. The steady hum of the engine is the only sound, but your nerves are on edge.

You glance in the rear view mirror, scanning the empty road behind you. You've been driving for about an hour now, and things have been going somewhat smoothly. Still, the tension in your chest hasn't lessened. Every shadow seems to stretch too far, every turn feels too sharp. You've made it this far, but the weight of your decision hasn't fully sunk in until now.

Then, the car sputters. Your heart jumps.

"No, no, no", you mutter, your grip on the steering wheel tightening. The car lurches and the engine coughs, then everything goes silent. The headlights flicker out and you're in the middle of the road in near-total darkness.

"Mommy?", Nina says after stirring awake, her voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay, sweetheart", you say quickly, forcing a calmness you're not feeling. You twist the key in the ignition, but the car won't start.

God, why did I insist on keeping this old thing?

Because Natasha sat in it. That's why.

You curse quietly as you glance in the rear view mirror again. From behind, a faint light appears on the horizon — headlights. The vehicles approaches slowly, its beams growing brighter as it draws closer.

Is this it?

Immediately, your mind jumps to worst-case scenarios. Ethan's associates. The people he's been dealing with. Whoever he was on the phone with. They've found you.

Your hand flies to the key in the ignition again, turning it desperately. "Come on, please", you whisper, your fingers trembling. The car groans, catching for a few seconds before dying again. The car behind you is only a few hundred feet away from you now, approaching like a stalker chasing its prey.

"What's wrong?", Nina asks, sitting up.

You glance back at your daughter, panic filling you at the sight. You can't let anything happen to her — not now, not ever.

Summoning every ounce of focus, you grip the key again. You turn it, the engine sputters, and then roars to life. A shaky breath escapes you and, without wasting a second, you slam your foot on the gas. The car gains speed quickly, headlights cutting through the darkness once more. Behind you, the strange vehicle's lights recede, disappearing in the distance.

You glance at Nina once more, who's curled up in her booster seat again. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, but she keeps watching you.

"Are we okay now, mommy?", she asks drowsily.

You manage a small, shaky smile. "Yes, baby. We're okay. Go back to sleep, alright?"

The girl nods, her head tilting to one side as she closes her eyes.

You keep checking the rear view mirror every few seconds, unable to shake the feeling that someone is following you. You're practically waiting for the headlights to reappear again, but it doesn't happen. The road stays dark and empty.

You bite your lip, Natasha's words from days ago echoing in your mind: "Trust me."

Can you?

You have no choice now.

. . .

At three in the morning, with snow falling thickly over the narrow, twisting road, the drive through the Catskill Mountains feels more like a scene from a horror movie than a journey to safety. Towering trees loom on either side, their bare branches clawing at the darkness. The headlights barely cut through the swirling snow, and you curse under your breath at Natasha's choice of a safehouse in the middle of nowhere.

It's not something you're not used to — you've been to creepy, deserted places before. Hell, you've been to places that were way worse than this, since you know that you're actually approaching somewhere safe. But you're alone, with a little child and a car that literally broke down a mere hour ago, and you're terrified.

The fact that the safehouse is enveloped by darkness doesn't help. It's tucked deep into the snow, silent and almost ominous, with a narrow road leading up to it. No tracks mar the freshly fallen snow.

You cautiously park the car at the edge of the clearing, the unsettling silence greeting you. Not a trace of light spills from the windows of the house, and Natasha is nowhere in sight.

It looks too quiet. Too abandoned. Too empty.

You scan your surroundings again, but the snow-laden pines give nothing away. You even start to doubt whether she's actually here, which is something that fills you with guilt. No, Natasha would never do that to you.

"Mommy?", Nina mumbles, looking out the window. She immediately thinks the house is scary. It looks like a place a witch would live in. "Where are we?"

"You'll see, NeeNee." You unbuckle and then — hesitantly — reach for your gun. You tuck it into the waistband of your sweatpants before getting you both out of the car. Snow crunches underfoot as you make your way to the cabin, your one arm holding Nina and your free hand resting on the gun.

You approach the dark cabin, its frame both a promise and a threat. You hold Nina tighter as you make your way up the few steps that lead to the porch, then you pause. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting the forest to shift under your gaze or someone to jump out with a knife, but nothing happens.

The cabin door is slightly weathered, its surface a mix of peeling paint and exposed wood. You lift your fist and it hovers above the door for a second or two. Then, a faint creaking sound coming from inside makes you flinch, and you instinctively reach for your gun.

"Mommy, listen", Nina whispers, her voice small but curious.

"Shh, baby", you murmur, your lips brushing the top of her head. You let go of the gun to grab and twist the doorknob, the door creaking open with a reluctant groan.

Inside, faint traces of moonlight spilling in through the windows illuminate the outlines of sparse furniture. The air carries a scent of pine and dust, mixed with the smell of extinguished candles.

"Natasha?", you call hesitantly, glancing around the room to check if some masked killer will suddenly appear with an axe.

Nothing, of course. This isn't a horror movie. But it feels like one — the cabin doesn't answer, its darkness swallowing your words, and you're standing there helplessly. You tighten your grip on Nina as you step inside cautiously, closing the door behind you.

For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own quiet breathing, mixed with the rustle of Nina's coat as she shifts in your arms. Then, a muffled voice breaks the stillness.

"Took you long enough."

A breath, half-relieved and half-irritated, escapes you as Natasha emerges from the small hallway. You shift Nina on your hip, your eyes narrowed. "You idiot!", you hiss, your voice trembling with relief. "What were you thinking? Why is it so dark? I thought we'd get jumped by some psycho-"

"Y/N", Natasha cuts you off, firmly but gently. She approaches you, her hands outstretched slightly with her palms up — a silent reassurance. Nina smiles widely at the sight, her eyes squinted so she can see the familiar woman better. "You're safe here. Both of you."

You huff, feeling your daughter's hand grip your hoodie. She's unbothered by your nerves. "You could've turned on the lights", you mutter, your voice cracking slightly.

"Didn't want to risk drawing attention", Natasha says, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she approaches you. "You're here now. That's what matters."

"Yeah, we're here now", you snap halfheartedly, your shoulders sagging. You gently put Nina down when she starts squirming. "Which is a miracle, may I add. Could've warned me about the whole invisible ink thing, superspy."

"Didn't think I'd need to hold your hand through that one", she teases, stepping around you to reach the door. She locks it with one swift, practiced movement. "Figured you'd put the pieces together. Which you did."

"Yeah, well. Try not scaring the hell out of me the next time."

"Noted." She turns around, her gaze lingering on you before dropping to Nina, who's blinking sleepily. The excitement from earlier has faded away, and the girl is tired again. "Hey, Tiny."

"Hi", Nina says, giving a small wave. Natasha's expression melts into something warmer, almost tender.

"You did good", she says, crouching down in front of the girl, "sticking with your mom like that. Brave girl."

Your daughter smiles, perking up at the praise. "Mommy said we're going on an adventure", she mumbles. Natasha glances at you, something like amusement shimmering in her eyes.

"An adventure, huh?"

"What was I supposed to say?", you retort. "'Hey, we're fleeing for our lives. By the way, your dad might be the reason'?"

At the sound of your slight bitterness, Natasha's smirk fades. She nods, her face more serious as she crouches down and holds out her hand like a secret pact. "Well, you made it. Adventures don't scare you, right?"

Nina giggles, shaking her head as she grabs Natasha's hand. "No. But mommy was scared."

You raise your eyebrows at her. "I didn't raise you to be a traitor", you scold her playfully.

Natasha smiles, straightening up. "Smart kid", she says. "Takes after you."

"She's the one who discovered the invisible ink", you say, looking at Nina. Her smile is wide, despite the exhaustion that's evident in her eyes. "You're lucky we found the message."

"Nobody else saw it?", Natasha probes, leading you to a small dining nook. "Ethan, for example?"

"No, he didn't." You sit down, pulling Nina into your lap in the process. "We're safe here, right? I mean, what if he-"

"You're safe here", she reassures you again, her hands resting on the surface of the table. "I would've have brought you here if that wasn't the case."

You nod, keeping your daughter close. Silence lingers, heavy and unspoken, broken only by the quiet howling of the wind outside. Nina nestles into you, her eyes drooping as she lets out a tiny yawn. You run a soothing hand through her soft locks, though your own mind is far from at ease.

Natasha glances at you, her face softening at the sight. "There's a double bed in the bedroom", she offers. "I'll crash on the couch."

You look up, exhaustion and vulnerability etched into your features. You don't say anything for a moment, then you shake your head. "No."

She blinks, surprised. "...No?"

"No." You shake your head again. After everything that's happened, you're not going to sleep by yourself. "We're all sleeping in the same bed", you say, straightening up and balancing Nina in your arms. "I just- I need to know you're here. I need to feel that."

The protests die on the tip of her tongue as she looks at you. The bravado from earlier has slipped away, replaced by something raw and fearful. And she wouldn't argue with that.

"Okay", she says softly, nodding. Relief flickers across your face. You don't thank Natasha out loud, but the way you squeeze your arm as you walk past her says enough.

The bedroom is bare and utilitarian, with a simple wooden frame supporting the double bed, but the thick blankets look comfortable and warm, which is all that matters. You tuck Nina in first before slipping in beside her. Natasha hesitates as she sits on the edge of the bed, then she takes off her boots.

"This is a bad idea", she mumbles halfheartedly, curling up on the other side of Nina. The mattress dips slightly underneath her weight.

"Maybe", you reply, already settling into the warmth of the forest green comforters. There's a nightlight that Natasha plugged in near the door, which is dipping the room into a gentle, golden light. "It's the only one I've got for now, though."

Nina nods off quickly, her little breaths quiet and rhythmic as she nestles against you. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling, the faint scent of pine and aged wood wrapping around you like a memory.

"We've been here before", you whisper, not wanting to disturb Nina's slumber.

"After New York", Natasha whispers back, her head turning towards you. She smiles faintly.

"You dragged me here after that mess. I think we slept for twenty hours straight."

"You snored", she teases softly, making you huff a laugh. You shoot her a crooked smile.

"You were out so cold you wouldn't have noticed if the building collapsed." You pause, your expression somewhere between weary and wistful as you absentmindedly stroke Nina's hair. "It felt safe. Like nothing could touch us here."

"It still is", she says quietly, looking at you. Her hand shifts under the covers, brushing lightly against yours. Not a grand gesture, just enough to remind you that you aren't alone. "I promise."

. . .

Morning light seeps through the narrow gaps in the blinds, casting thin beams of sunlight across the room. The cabin is quiet, save for the soft sounds of breathing — slow and quiet.

You wake up first, the warmth of the bed making it difficult to separate yourself from the cocoon of sleep. But, as you stir, you realize something: you're tangled in a mess of limbs — yours, Natasha's, and Nina's.

Nina is nestled between the two of you, her body half draped across Natasha, the other half across you. Her face is pressed into Natasha's side, her cheek pink from sleep. Natasha has one arm wrapped across the child loosely, the other is tucked underneath your shoulders and holding you close.

You smile softly, the quiet intimacy of the moment grounding you. Your life may have fallen apart, shattered into pieces, but this? This feels like a fragile kind of peace.

You watch for a moment, your heart full and warm, then you shift slightly. You're careful, trying not to wake either of them up, but Nina stirs in her sleep. Her little hand fists the fabric of Natasha's shirt as she mumbles something unintelligible.

Eventually, thanks to Nina's movements, Natasha wakes up as well. The look on her face is warm, content, as if the chaos of last night never happened.

"Morning", she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep.

Your lips curve into a small smile. You look at Nina, who's still blissfully unaware of the world around her. "I think we've made a human knot here."

"It's cozy", Natasha says, her hand gently adjusting your daughter's position without waking her.

"I'm glad we're here", you say, shifting a little to press a kiss to Nina's temple. You hesitate, then tilt your head up and kiss Natasha's cheek as well. "For saving us", you tease, though your heart feels heavy. "Can't just exclude you."

"Very thoughtful", she whispers, considering to pull you into an actual kiss this time. But Nina finally rouses from sleep and she sits up, rubbing her cheeks. She scrunches up her face, eyes squeezing shut to block out the sunlight seeping in through the windows. Natasha smiles, pulling the girl into a light hug, and Nina hums happily as she nuzzles into her side and falls back asleep.

You simply look at them, realizing the same thing once more — this is where you're supposed to be. For the first time in forever, you feel like you can finally rest.

. . .

— THE FALLOUT BEGINS —

The moment Ethan opens his eyes, he knows something is off.

His hand blindly reaches out for you, but his fingertips are met with the cold material of the bedsheets. Seems like you're up already — which isn't unusual, as you sometimes manage to wake up before him —, but today, there is no telltale hum of activity coming from downstairs.

Instead, the house is eerily quiet. No faint sound of Nina's giggles, no murmur of cartoons playing on the tv, no waft of coffee coming in through the slightly ajar door. He sits up, running his hand through his hair nervously, then he finally plucks up the courage to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and get up.

His movements are slow, unhurried, as if his body hasn't caught up to his mind yet. He pads to the door and pauses, listening for any signs of life — nothing.

Growing more worried by the second, he makes his way down the stairs. He glances into the living room — empty. The kitchen is spotless, a mug resting in the sink. He frowns, confusion cutting through the mess in his head. You hate leaving before cleaning up.

Then, he notices something else. The drawer where you keeps the keys to your Range Rover is ajar. The keys? Gone.

Ethan looks around the room frantically as if he expects to see them somewhere. Instead, his gaze lands on an envelope sticking out of the fruit bowl. He takes a few tentative steps toward it, then he reaches for it. He pulls out a letter, the text inside typed and printed. His eyes scan its contents, once, twice, then the truth sinks in.

It's the letter you received not too long ago, the one that confirmed your suspicions about Ethan. You had no idea who sent it, obviously — but Ethan knows immediately.

Isabelle.

She sent you this letter, causing you to pack your stuff and leave. With Nina. And now his family is gone, gone without so much as a goodbye.

Fuming, he pulls out his phone and dials Isabelle's number. He starts to pace around the room, his fingertips rubbing at his hairline as he waits for her to pick up. When she does, he comes to an abrupt stop.

"How could you?", he barks without waiting for her to say much besides 'hello', his hand landing flat on the surface of the kitchen island. "Are you dumb? You ratted me out to my wife? Isabelle, I am going to KILL you-"

"Relax, Tiger", she says, clearly amused by his little outburst. She pops a maraschino cherry into her mouth, chewing idly. "You're interrupting my beach day."

"Beach day? You think I give a fuck about that? Isabelle, my family is gone! Because of you!", he yells, breaking out into a cold sweat. "They're gone! She took my kid, you moron!"

"Please. Aren't you the one who's been having an affair for months now? With me, may I add. I really doubt your kid is your top priority."

"That doesn't matter! This- this isn't just about us!" Ethan slams his hand down on the marble surface again, his chest feeling tight. All his secrets, the ones he's managed to keep locked away for so long, are now teetering on the edge of exposure. "You're fucking stupid, that's what you are! Did all that cocaine fry your fucking brain?"

"My god, Ethie-kins. No need to swear so much." Isabelle laughs, emptying her cocktail with one quick sip. "You're always so stressed. You should be relieved, now that you've gotten rid of those two. I mean, you always go on and on and on about how tedious it is, don't you? Now it's finally just the two of us."

"That's not the point! What if she informs the authorities? What if she reports me? I have worked so hard for this!"

Isabelle tuts, a sound that nearly sends him through the roof. He's seconds away from ripping the entire place apart.

"That's what you're worried about? My, my, you're naive. Your little wifey is far too busy taking care of that brat you created. If I were you, I'd worry about her girlfriend", she says nonchalantly, making him freeze.

He stays silent for a moment — girlfriend? what in the world? —, and then it clicks. Mommy's friend. The redhead that left his office building. That's why Nina knew her.

He grabs the neckline of his shirt, which suddenly seems way too tight, and tugs on it.

"What?", he croaks.

"You didn't know? Wow, men really are oblivious. You think you're the only one who can have an affair, boo?" She laughs and keeps talking, but her next words barely register in his mind. "At least we've got them both in the same spot now. Makes things easier."

Ethan shakes his head, his hand stretching out before he balls it into a tight fist again. "You're lying. Y/N is not...she..."

"What? Not gay? Because she married you? Frankly, I thought you'd be smarter. Not much smarter, no, but seriously?" Isabelle slides off the barstool gracefully, her bare feet dipping into the sand in front of her. "You know, you're really ruining my vacation. I'm supposed to get a massage in ten minutes."

"Shut up!", he yells, sweeping the fruit bowl off the kitchen island. It shatters on the floor, shards everywhere, apples rolling around. "I don't give a fuck about your vacation! Isabelle, who is she?"

"Oh, nobody important. Barely worth mentioning." She smiles to herself, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. "Ever heard of Natasha Romanoff?"

. . .

The entire kitchen smells sweet and milky. Natasha's sitting in the dining nook, sipping on a steaming cup of something, and there's a pot of rice pudding boiling on the stove. It's warm in the cabin, despite the fact that it snowed all night.

The sound of small feet padding across the floor breaks the calm. Natasha looks up to see Nina, hair tousled and still sleepy from sleep, appear in the doorway. The girl smiles when she sees her, her entire face lighting up.

"Morning", Natasha greets warmly.

Nina's smile only widens. She scrambles into Natasha's lap without a second thought, nestling herself into the safety of her arms.

You appear seconds later, your messy hair and tired eyes still making you look like you've just woken up. You offer Natasha a small smile as you catch her eye, then you step in front of the stove. You nudge the pot of rice pudding to check its consistency, then stir the frozen wild blueberries she's heating up separately. Your voice, when it comes, is low.

"I was thinking we stay here for a while. No rush."

"Sounds good", she says, her hand lightly resting on Nina's back. "I think you could both use the time to breathe."

You nod, scooping some rice pudding into a bowl and topping it off with hot blueberries. You put the bowl in front of Nina and hand her a spoon, watching her scoop some pudding up and blow on it.

"She loves it here", you murmur as your daughter carefully tries a tiny amount of rice pudding. "Which is quite the compliment. She usually needs more time to adjust to new places. I think we can both make peace with it."

Natasha hums, not pushing for more than that. There is no need. For now, you have time.

Nina looks at Natasha, her mouth stained with blueberries. Natasha smiles, using her thumb to wipe the fruit juice off her face. "I like rice soup", Nina declares happily.

"That's rice pudding", Natasha reveals.

"Oh." The girl pauses, then lifts her spoon to offer Natasha a bite. "Do you like rice pudding?"

"I do", she says, smiling, and runs her hand over the little girl's head. "But I should let you finish that before I try some. Or maybe your mom will get me a bowl as well?"

Without hesitating, you scoop rice pudding into a second bowl. Blueberries on top, then you put the bowl in front of Natasha.

"Thank you, mommy", Natasha teases, making you roll your eyes. You gently swat at the back of her head and she laughs, a fond glint in her eyes. You smile and shake your head, momentarily forgetting about everything else.

The soft clink of spoons against bowls fills the living space as you settle into your makeshift breakfast routine. But as the quiet stretches on, something nags at the back of your mind. You've been avoiding it for hours at this point, so you quietly get up and walk over to your bag on the counter.

You grab your phone, press the power button and watch the familiar lock screen greet you. Then, a bunch of messages start popping up.

Ethan: Where are you? — 7.25am

Ethan: This isn't funny, Y/N. Come home. We need to talk. — 7.26am

Ethan: I've called in some favors. You know what that means. — 7.28am

With shaky hands, you put your phone aside. But your eyes stay glued to the screen.

Ethan has resources, you knew that already. You know it's only be a matter of time before he starts looking for you — he won't let you slip away that easily.

"What's wrong?", Natasha's voice cuts through the silence.

You glance at her, then shake your head. "Just Ethan."

"Everything okay?"

You nod, slipping your phone back into your bag. "I'll have to deal with it eventually", you say quietly, as to not disturb your daughter. She's happily eating the last spoonfuls of your rice pudding, scraping out the bowl as best as she can.

Natasha frowns, her fingers gently combing through Nina's hair. At least your daughter is oblivious to the storm brewing just outside your little sanctuary.

. . .

It doesn't take long for Ethan to start freaking out. The texts he sent you are just the beginning. A subtle warning, a desperate attempt to get you back home now.

He googles Natasha's name, asks a few of his 'friends' about her, does his own research. The more he finds out, the worse his nausea gets.

He's been trying to convince himself that he's not the bad guy here all day. What did he do, after all? Attend a few shady auctions? Buy some artworks? Oh no, the horrors.

Deep down, however, he's aware of just how much he's done.

He's been funding human trafficking rings. He's been putting lives at risk. He's the one who's been too complacent, too blinded by his own ambitions, and now his family is gone. Natasha has found them — and now he's up against something far worse than a petty affair.

Natasha Romanoff. Not just a threat, but the threat. He keeps scrolling through the information on her, nervously licking his lips in the process. Her reputation, her history. The things she's done, the lives she's ended. The connections she has. And now, they have his name.

Ethan grabs his keyboard and slams it against the wall, individual keys falling out and clacking quietly as they fall on the floor. He scrubs a hand down his face and gets up, nervously pacing through his office.

Without thinking twice, he picks up the phone and calls the one person who'll get you and his daughter back home.

"Ethan?", he says, his voice deep and rich with depth.

"Hey, Vance", he says curtly, running his fingers through his short hair and tugging on it. "There's an issue. I need you to help me out."

"Calling in favors, I see. What did you do this time?"

"I didn't 'do' anything", he immediately snaps, then forces himself to calm down. If anyone can find the two of you, it's Vance Harrington. He can't get on his bad side. "Look, I need you to find out where my wife is. She left. Took my kid with her."

"Sounds like they're running from you, man. You screwed up?"

Ethan grits his teeth. "I don't need your commentary. Just find out where they are. Make sure they come back home before things escalate."

Vance laughs, a sound that's smooth like butter. "Fine, fine. I can track 'em. But you know the drill — it'll cost you."

"I don't care about the cost! Just get it done."

"Alright, I'll need a few hours", Vance replies. "But I'll find them. When I do, I'll let you know. Don't go anywhere, Ethan. You wouldn't want this getting out of hand."

The call ends, and Ethan sinks back into his chair. A moment later, his phone buzzes.

Vance: It's a small world. You'll want to make sure she knows where she stands. Don't make me remind you. — 10.52pm

It's a cryptic message that makes Ethan feel uneasy, but he pushes the uncomfortable feeling down. He has no choice — he needs you back. He can't let his family slip through his fingers, not after he worked so hard to build everything you have.

Little does he know that a simple, two-minute phone call would start a ripple effect.

. . .

A faint scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs fills the air. Nina is perched on the counter, her little hands clumsy but determined as she follows Natasha's instructions. Together, they carefully cut potatoes and carrots into cubes.

"It's my birthday soon", Nina informs Natasha, briefly looking up from the cutting board. The woman smiles. "I'm going to be four."

"Yeah?" Natasha hums, scooping the potato cubes into a bowl. She adds some olive oil and then hands the potatoes to you so you can season them. "What do you want for your birthday, Tiny?"

"A puppy", your daughter says, beaming. She glances at you to make sure you don't argue — you've said no to pets more times than she can count —, then she keeps talking. "A little one. Can I get a puppy, Natasha? Please?"

You exchange a quick glance with her, raising your eyebrows teasingly. Try getting out of this one, is what your eyes say. But she just smiles, shrugging.

"You know what, Tiny?", Natasha says, scooping Nina into her arms. "How about we first finish making lunch. Puppies can wait."

"Okay", she says, then leans in and whispers into her ear: "Please, Natasha. I really want a puppy."

"I heard that", you say, amused, as your gaze shifts to the window.

Snow is falling in a dense flurry, swirling and thick as they add more layers to the blur of white that's covering the ground. A snowman is waiting next to the porch, its pebble-smile crooked. It'd be a peaceful, idyllic scene, if it weren't for the black SUV disrupting it.

A large vehicle with tinted windows and a man sitting behind the wheel. He doesn't move or get out — he simply sits and stares.

You freeze and stop stirring the soup in front of you. Your heart starts racing, a cold wave of anxiety washing over you. Slowly, you reach out for Natasha. She glances at you, then follows your stunned gaze out the window. Her hand moves toward the weapon she has hidden in one of the drawers instinctively.

The man doesn't move for what feels like an eternity, his eyes fixed on the cabin with unnerving precision. Then he starts the engine of the SUV, the sound cutting through the air like a knife, and slowly pulls away from the cabin.

You watch him disappear. The silence afterwards feels oppressive.

"Mommy?", Nina says insecurely, tugging at your hand. Her head is tilted to the side, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "What happened?"

You look at her, forcing a small smile. "It's nothing", you say, trying to sound reassuring. Natasha bites the insides of her cheeks, still staring out of the window.

The black SUV was just a warning, but it's concerning nonetheless. Ethan clearly doesn't like that you left, and now he'll know where you are.

. . .

You thought one car showing up unannounced would be bad, but neither of you had an idea.

A few days pass in between. Snow melts and then falls again, the temperatures turn icy, the atmosphere slowly shifts to a less tense one. The cabin is silent save for the occasional wind gust against the windows and the soft crackle of the wood stove. The storm outside has grown harsher over the past few hours, with snow piling high around the cabin and isolating you further.

The three of you are calmer than you should be given the events of the past days. You're having dinner together — a sparse meal consisting of canned stew and Ritz crackers, since Natasha hasn't had a chance to go to the only nearby grocery store yet.

You look up from your plate, breaking the silence that's settled over you. "Natasha", you say, putting your spoon aside. "Have you heard anything else from SHIELD? Any updates?"

"No", she says, her posture tensing up. "Nothing yet."

It's clear that she, just like you, has been expecting something — anything — to happen. The quiet you're experiencing now is a prelude to the storm she's waiting for. She can't shake the feeling that the people she's been investigating, the ones she's been digging into so thoroughly, are aware of her presence now.

The silence stretches on, until a faint sound disrupts it. A car engine, too close, too precise, purrs in the distance.

You and Natasha exchange a look. She exhales before rising quietly, subtly slipping her Glock into her pocket before making her way to the window. Nina looks up briefly, her face scrunching up.

"Where is Natasha going?"

"Shh", you say, putting your hand on hers.

Natasha stands in front of the window. Again, a black car is pulling into the clearing by the cabin, but it's a different one this time. Her chest tightens.

It's them. The ones she's been investigating, the ones who've been tracking her.

"Is that...?"

"Yes", she murmurs, her voice low but filled with urgency. "They've found us."

The vehicle has stopped a few yards away from the cabin, its engine dying with a soft hum. No one gets out immediately, the world seeming to hold its breath. Then, the door opens, and a tall man with broad shoulders and graying hair exits. Another one follows, bald and tattooed all over, his expression grim.

They both stand in front of the cabin as they survey it from a distance, taking it all in. You're vulnerable here, and the stakes have never been higher.

"Stay here", Natasha orders, quickly moving to the front door. You frown and shake your head, instinctively pulling Nina into your lap.

"What? No! You don't know who that is, what if-"

"Y/N", she interrupts you, slipping into her coat. "This isn't just a random threat anymore. This is targeted. Now stay here and keep the kid safe."

Outside, the men start heading to the cabin. Natasha glances at you one last time before she opens the door. You want to argue, to follow her, but you can't. It'd be too risky. Instead you watch as the door falls shut behind her with a groan and a click, leaving you and Nina alone.

Natasha approaches them, keeping her distance but not showing fear. They stop in their tracks.

"You", one of them sneers, the other one reaching for his gun. "You think you can just walk away? We don't just let people disappear after they dig into our business."

"I suggest you leave", she says, her voice low. "Otherwise, I could make this way worse for you."

A standoff. A moment of tension thick enough to cut.

The men exchange a look, communicating silently. One of them pulls out a gun, causing Natasha to point her own Glock at him.

Then, without warning, the other man moves, drawing his gun way too quickly for her to react.

A gunshot rings through the air.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlets @upsidedowndanvers @s1ut4nat

[i-loved-silly]

Hii~ This is a bit specific so feel free to tweak around for your liking but, can I request a hurt/ comfort of Mud with a reader that also has the black blood?

Took a week break without writing and now I am SO back. So glad to see a bunch of Mud enjoyers in my inbox, keep them coming ❤️

Warnings maybe? Mentions of blood and injuries, Mud lowkeu yelling at you but he behaves at the end <3

MUD X READER | BLACK BLOOD!

He saw it on a mission.

Like Mel, it was your first time going out with the family. You’d been with Mud for a while now, close enough that Ken finally caved—more out of exhaustion than trust—and let you tag along. However, you were Mud’s responsibility. Not before you proved yourself, though. You handled your weapons well and seemed trustworthy enough. It was a one time thing, Ken threatened.

But fuck, you didn’t think Mud would see. He wasn’t supposed to.

He used to tease you about how careful you were. How your pretty little limbs stayed untouched while his were always knicked and scraped and skinned.

“C’mon, dollface, ain’t love if we ain’t got matching battle scars,” he’d snort. You always brushed it off and refused to bleed. Now he knew why.

The bullet didn’t hit you, just skimmed past your shoulder—but it was enough to slice the skin open. You clutched at it fast, hunching over like you were gonna throw up. Mud didn’t notice at first. He was too busy laughing, reloading his gun, blood still warm and purple on his coat.

“That’ll teach ‘em—fuckin’ amateurs,” he huffed, turning toward you with a smirk. “Y’get scratched up or what?”

You flinched. Just barely. But he caught it.

“Hey, relax,” he said, stepping forward. “That scar’s nothin’. It’ll heal up all pretty—”

“W-wait, Mud!” you cut in fast, hand out. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes narrowing.

You were shaking.

He’s seen you kill with a clean shot, narrowed eyes, not even a breath out of place. But now you looked like your spine might give out. You looked damn horrified. He wiped his chin.

“What’s goin’ on…?” he asked, voice low.

And then he saw it.

The black blood.

Dripping down your wrist in thick, oily streaks. As dark as ink, something wasn’t right. Then his eyes averted to your bloody shoulder. Black blood.

“Jesus,” Mud muttered, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s not rotling blood.”

You froze, quickly hiding your bloody hand. Still trying to cover the gash, but the damage was done. He’d seen it.

“That’s what you were hidin’ from me,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Shit.” Your breath hitched as he took a step back.

You opened your mouth, closed it again. Useless.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed.

What would he think of you now? A liar? Untrustworthy? He had more of a reason to kill you now, for fucks sake.

He glanced around. Nobody else was looking. The family was too busy celebrating their kills and making sure no one was left over. They had to get out of here, no one—especially Ken—could see you.

Mud took you by the elbow—surprisingly gentle—and steered you behind the car, shielding you from view. His nervousness was evident on his face, he almost hesitated staying with you in this spot. He kept looking back.

“Hey, dollface… we’re gonna talk about this later, alright? But I don’t want the rest of ‘em seein’ you like this.”

He gestured at the blood streaking your skin, your clothes. You nodded, still too shaken to speak.

He didn’t ask if you were cursed, or blessed. Didn’t start yelling, or ask if you were one of them. It was no use, you were one of them. He lit another cigarette, coming from who knows where. He chewed on it anxiously as he thought about what to do.

“Black blood,” he said, shaking his head. “I oughta be pissed you didn’t tell me… but mostly I’m just wonderin’ how the hell you’re still standin’.”

You looked at him. You weren’t sure what you expected—anger, rejection, fear—but what you got was a half-assed plan. He grabbed a handful of dried gore from the pavement and smeared it across your shirt, rough but deliberate. It was thick enough to cover the black stains. You ignored the burning sensation and instead just stared at him.

“There. Now you look like the rest of us,” he muttered, standing up. “Let’s get back to the shop.”

The ride back was stiff and heavy with silence in the back seat, Mud didn’t let you out of his sight. His thigh stayed pressed against yours in the backseat, lanky palm resting across your knee. He continued his commentary along the ride, bragging about how good his shots were, messing with his brother. He seemed a bit quiet, cold to you during the ride though, maybe you were making it up. Maybe not.

He had his arm around your shoulder by the time you got through the doors of The Whale Belly Butcher Shop, guiding you in. You could smell the iron of the place again, all cut meat and tile cleaner, sawdust thick underfoot, the faint scent of blood. The front was empty, the usual stink of raw fat hanging low over the meat counter. Someone must’ve distracted Ken in the back. You didn’t hear Breadhead either. Mel was already chatting up some customer.

“C’mon, c’mon, this way,” Mud muttered under his breath. You weren’t sure where he was taking you until he took you to the freezer, where he used to sleep before you two were together. You felt goosebumps along your skin as you entered, whether from the cold or your own fear.

He shut the door behind you and locked it.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was!?” he exclaimed, pacing once before stopping in front of you. His hands were fidgeting, twitchy, like he didn’t know whether to shake you or hug you.

You swallowed. Your voice cracked. “It’s not—it’s not what you think. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“That you’re a fuckin’ black blood? That you’re not even—not even a rotling? Ya haven’t died once? That you’re the damn reason that prophecy exis—“

“Mud,” you interrupted, barely a whisper. Your throat felt tight and you wanted to run away.

He stopped.

You took a shaky breath, glancing down at your shoulder. The purple blood still mixed in with your dried black blood.

“I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I didn’t even know what it meant until recently. I just—” your voice caught. That was an exaggeration, you had known you were doomed. “I just wanted to stay. With you. And them. I thought if I told you, you’d kick me out. Or worse! Someone would come after us. Fuck, I thought you’d kill me. You’d have every reason to but…I didn’t mean to lie to you. I promise.”

Mud stared at you for a long time, something unreadable passing over his face.

Then finally he stepped forward.

“You think I care about that black sludge in your veins?” he said, voice low and rough. “You think I truly give a shit if you’re human? I should, I really should.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He leaned in, roughly wrapping an arm around your shoulders, your side hitting his. His grip loosened once he had you close.

“You’re mine,” he said, so sure of himself. “I ain’t gonna leave ya because of what’s in your veins. I ain’t gonna tell anyone either. Just…tell me next time. Any secret of yours. Besides,” he leaned in, the smell of smoke hitting your face. “I like ya too much to let ol’ Kenny-boy cut you up into little meat slabs.”

That was supposed to be comforting.

He sat you down on a crate of sealed ice cubes, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands moved gentle now—peeling away your gore-covered jacket, undoing the shredded sleeve beneath. You winced when the cold hit the wound. The blood had slowed, drying like crust.

Mud hissed softly. “Looks rough. Forgot what it’s like to not heal up instantly. Does it hurt?.”

You nodded. You hadn’t realized how much until now.

He looked up, eyes narrowed. “Let me fix it.”

His fingers were surprisingly careful, fumbling with a stained rag, dousing it in liquor from the flask in his coat pocket. You hissed when the rag touched your skin

“It burns?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Good,” he muttered. “Means yer’ not losing your arm.”

At this you snorted. “It was just a scrape, I didn’t even get shot.”

He said nothing as he wrapped another rag around your arm, but the corner or his mouth twitched. It was good to hear your laughter again. He stayed kneeling when it was done. And for a moment, neither of you spoke. You just watched him. His gaze looked uncharacteristically concerned as he eyes your arm.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he finally said.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

He reached up then, ruffling your hair as he stood up

“Don’t keep this shit to yourself, alright? You tell me, and me only. No one else.” He said it in a warning, gesturing a bony finger at you.

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “Yeah yeah, I got it.” A moment of silence went by. You stood up, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. You heard him groan above you as you smiled against his jacket.

“Thanks for not being an asshole.”

He grunted, but placed his arms around you as well.

“Whatever makes ya’ happy.”

[badathumanemotions]

Out of Hand

Spencer Reid x Reader

MDNI Category: Smut CW: Fantasizing About a Co-Worker, Hand Kink, Finger Kink, Fingering, Light Nipple Play, Vague Reference to Masturbation. WC: 1,417

Reader is obsessed with Spencer's hands, so obsessed they can't stop fantasizing about how they'd feel. (Not Proof Read) It's been a really long time since I've written in 2nd person and it shows. Master List

You watch Spencer's fingers glide down the page as he reads. His eyes dart back and forth, absorbing the words of a book that has seen better days. Admire the way his brows furrow with intense concentration. You can't help but feel a little jealous of the ink and paper getting all of his attention.

Everyone else sees a sharp mind at work, but you see more. His hands are the real stars of the show. Long, slender, and graceful, they move with the delicate precision of a pianist. You find yourself lost in thought, picturing those same hands caressing your body.

You've never dared to let Spencer know about your secret fascination. It's not just his hands, it's the way he uses them— the way they gesture when he's explaining a complex theory, the gentle touch when they glide down pages, or the way they fidget when deep in thought.

It started out as just amusement watching his fingers danced wildly in the air while he spoke, mimicking the chaotic patterns of the synapses firing in his brain. The way his hands moved with such passion and conviction, as if conducting an invisible orchestra, was mesmerizing. You'd catch yourself smiling, lost in the rhythm of his gestures, until his words would snap you back to reality.

But then watching the way they could delicately touch, almost caress, the pages of his books shifted your thoughts to something less innocent. You found yourself wondering what those hands would feel like on your skin, tracing the contours of your body with the same tender precision they used to handle the smooth pages.

In the quiet of the night, you'd lay in your bed, heart racing, as you let your imagination wander. You'd imagine his fingers travelling down the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse quicken beneath them. Your breath would catch as you pictured them moving further, tracing the swells of your breasts with a touch so light it could barely be felt, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

Your mind's eye would follow his hand as it continued its journey, moving to the valley between your breasts, leaving a warmth that seemed to burn. His thumb would gently graze your sensitive peaks, eliciting a silent gasp from your lips. You'd arch your back, silently begging for more, as his fingers danced along the sensitive flesh, teasing and tormenting you with his touch.

Then, his hand would slip lower, tracing your soft stomach and swirling around your navel. His hand would linger there for a moment, as if he could feel the flutter of your stomach muscles, the desperate plea for him to explore further.

And then, the moment you've been imagining for so long would arrive. His fingers would dip into the warm, wet heat of your pussy, coating themselves in your arousal. You'd bite your lip to stifle a moan as you felt him gathering your slickness.

You could feel yourself growing wetter with every stroke, your body begging for more of his skilled touch. His thumb would find your clit, already swollen and begging for attention. You pictured his fingers, coated in your desire, bringing the slickness back up to your clit. He'd circle it gently, his touch feather-light, making you squirm with need.

As your arousal grew, so did the pressure of his touch. He'd be gentle at first, but you knew he'd know just when to get rough. You could almost feel the moment when his thumb would start to press down firmly, the pleasure building into a crescendo.

Your fantasy took you further, his fingers now pinching and rolling your nipples, tugging slightly, the sensation sending a shock through your body. You'd imagine the sharp intake of your breath as he twisted them, a silent scream of pleasure escaping your lips.

As the intensity grew, so did your desire to be filled by him. His long, graceful fingers would slip inside you, the sensation of his knuckles brushing against your inner walls making your eyes roll back. You longed to feel the stretch, the way his fingers would move in and out of you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of a climax.

And then, the whispers would start. The things you'd imagine coming out of his mouth would be downright filthy. "You're so wet for me," he'd murmur, his voice low and husky with lust. "You want it, don't you?" In your mind, his voice grew more demanding, more possessive, as his hands worked their magic. "Tell me how much you want it," he'd say, his breath hot against your neck.

But even in your fantasy, you'd blush at the thought of the obscene sounds your body would make. You'd be too embarrassed to admit how much you enjoyed the way his fingers filled you, how your pussy clenched around them. Yet, Spencer, ever the gentleman, even in your darkest desires, would be unfazed. He'd lean in closer, his mouth against your ear, and whisper, "Don't be shy. It's just us here." A gentle reminder that you didn't need to be embarrassed.

You'd feel a thrill at the thought of his eyes, so sharp and analytical, studying your reactions. Cataloguing every twitch, every gasp, every shiver of pleasure that ran through your body as his hands. His mind, so adept at solving the most complex equations, would be focused solely on bringing you to new heights of ecstasy.

As if reading your thoughts, his fingers would move inside you, curling slightly to find that perfect spot. The moment they grazed it, your body would jerk, and you'd hold your breath, waiting for the next touch. And then, at just the right moment, he'd zero in on your G-spot, stroking it relentlessly.

You could feel the pressure building, your toes curling into the sheets. Each stroke of his fingers was like a spark, setting off a chain reaction of pleasure that had you teetering on the edge. And just when you thought you couldn't handle anymore, he'd bring his mouth to your clit, his soft, warm lips taking it between them.

You imagined the sensation would overwhelming, like nothing you'd ever felt before. His tongue flicking against you, mimicking the dance of his fingers, and your body responding in kind. The muscles in your stomach tightening, your chest heaving with each breath.

In your fantasy, you'd cum in seconds, the orgasm ripping through, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. You'd imagine his smug smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched you fall apart under his touch. You'd want to look away, embarrassed by your own vulnerability, but you couldn't.

Those fantasies never failed to make you cum in no time, leaving the sheets drenched in your arousal. Each fantasy was more intense than the last, his hands more skilled, his mouth more demanding.

Coming back to reality with a jolt, you realize you've been zoning out again. You're at work, not in the privacy of your own home. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you realize you've been lost in thought, staring at Spencer for who knows how long. He looks up from his book, his eyes meeting yours, and you can't tell if he's noticed.

You give him an awkward smile, hoping to play off your momentary lapse of professionalism. His gaze lingers for a second, a question in his eyes, before he returns to his reading. You decide that now is as good a time as any to excuse yourself to the bathroom. You stand up quickly, your legs wobbly from the intense rush of blood to your core, and rush out of the room.

Once inside the sanctuary of the bathroom, you lock the door behind you and lean against it, trying to catch your breath. The tension in your body is palpable, your heart pounding in your chest. You're not sure if it's from the embarrassment of getting caught staring or from the vividness of your fantasy. You decide it's probably a bit of both.

You look at yourself in the mirror, noticing your flushed cheeks and the heavy-lidded gaze. You know you can't go back out there looking like this. Taking a deep breath, you force yourself to calm down. You splash cold water on your face, hoping it'll wash away the evidence of your desire. As you pat yourself dry with a paper towel, you can't help but feel ridiculous. This obsession was really getting out of hand.

[obeymeluv]

Octavinelle w a Southern!Reader? A lot of the pet names and the common phrases are pretty affectionate and soft, so I think seeing the more composed bunch get exposed to such a sweet reader would be cute!

Before we begin, two notes: 1) I will also be playing with the creature traits of the Octo Trio as I see fit. 2) I personally call the three "Corelians" because they're from the Coral Sea. I am from the South so hopefully I answer this to your liking, haha. Sweet is a loaded term to me. Sweet is both the first taste of wispy cotton candy dissolving on your tongue and the sugar-coated demise of 'Oh my god, this is so good! I should really stop. Ah, fuck it. I'll deal with it later,' knowing you're going to complain about the miserable overload in an hour. If you have any kind of serving/retail/waitressing experience (especially in the south), you'll also know that 'sweet' is kill them with kindness and scream in the walk-in when you can't kill them for real. As for the Octo Trio? Have some random blurbs :)

Two of Azul's three hearts are sent cartwheeling and quivering when you so much as look at him! He doesn't know what to do with you! You're...you're so nice! In truth, he doesn't get you because he can't seen an ulterior motive or an end game. Part of the reason he can't understand you is because there IS NO END GAME. How does that work? He doesn't understand it. The only thing he understands is that your many ludicrous pet names make him writhe and wiggle and question the efficacy of that damnable lander potion! Surely they wouldn't cheap out on quality and compromise the future of a bright, young entrepreneur, right? He can mock them all he wants, his face smushed into his hand, but it doesn't stop his cheeks from reddening. You made him disgustingly warm inside and he has to use short words before the ink starts to pool in his mouth (the tweels noticed that and take great joy in it). "Yes, they're all so terrible. Terrible enough to make you rant," Jade muses as they settle into a brief respite with tea before opening the Mostro Lounge for the afternoon. "Frequently." "More like say 'em in the mirror as a pep-talk," Floyd boots the door open with a mocking laugh, gold eye shining as he flops down on the couch. He effortlessly catches the spill, much like he'll flip an omelet without looking, and keeps his eyes trained on Azul like the prey he is. Azul felt the heat rise in his cheeks and his chest. His feet untangled themselves subconsciously as his reduced limb-brains tried to figure out which one was close enough to bop Floyd. Jade leaned forward and pressed the cup handle against his palm to quash the punching instinct and remind the limb it was full. He snorted, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. "Isn't that right, sugar dumplin'?" Floyd flashed a toothy smile at him as Jade stuck an empty pen in his mouth to stop him from drooling ink into his tea. Floyd knew that one was his favorite.

---

The Corelian-Land Exchange Program prepared him for a lot of unique human experiences but didn't prepare Floyd for you. But that's to be expected because there is no chapter on 'dimensional strangers' in the curriculum. He's constantly having to remind himself of things like less resistance on land so the fights are in his favor. Or that he's not as fluid when he turns and those pinky thingies hurt like a BITCH and he doesn't see why he can't just cut it off because it HOOKS ON EVERY FUCKING THING. He also has to remind himself that hunting instincts are rude here. You don't stalk people, you meet them. But you're just so nice and bob along! It almost seems wrong not to keep an eye on you, what with how small you are. That's what he tells himself, anyways. He doesn't know quite how to describe it but your sweet words are funny with their little dips and drawls. They call him like something shiny and give him this burst of energy that makes him want to fling his long limbs out and twirl like a whirlpool. You can tell when he needs encouragement and aren't afraid to clamp up and be cold when he doesn't deserve any coddling. You call yourself a southerner and he's not quite sure what you mean because you have no home here and no one knows what direction your home is in. You and the apple-toting Guppy are a lot alike but Floyd doesn't get the same kind of feelings out of following him or plopping an arm down on his head. Matter of fact, the last time he plopped an arm down on Guppy's head, Guppy put him between some tree roots with a fancy shoulder toss Beta Fish taught 'im.

But when he does it to you? It's always different--just like him. Some days it's linking your elbows together and joking that he's stuck with you now. Other days you just wrap an arm around his middle and hug him for a few seconds where his cold-blood self squirms in the warm casing being incubated by you. On the rare and very amusing occasion that you aren't in the mood when his arm touches your head, you give him a warning smile before nipping at him. It doesn't hurt, honestly. Hardly enough to feel through fabric. Nothing at all to a Corelian predator. Cute for trying, though. He doesn't dare tell you that his blood can make humans sick.

Floyd just leans down and grins at you, ignoring the bit of fabric in your teeth, and whispers 'My turn,' just enough to show you all his glistening, pointy teeth. You always let go and he always bites air, but his legs are damn near knotting themselves together in glee at the thought of you letting him mark you for real. You scurry down the hall as Jade weaves himself between the students, following the scent of his many emotions. Landers had a theory about twins being connected; that's one of the first things he learned about them. Jade didn't see the whole scene but seems to know enough.

"Morays are opportunistic cowards at best, my dear brother. Don't feel bad." Jade gives him a closed-lip and a closed-eyed smile. And just like that, like when they were elvers, he and his brother are tangled and biting.

----

Jade knows it's a baser instinct to keep an eye on someone not like him. Not only from a safety standpoint but in the vein of him being the perceived threat to your...benign. He can't help but laugh and see you as soft when you're trying to hide your ragged gasps for breath as he turns to observe your footing on the incline. He was more comfortable in his lander form now and thought this would be an easier trail for you to navigate, coming from a foreign land and all.

Perhaps he was wrong.

But still, to see you struggle and flush, to see your hair come undone just a touch as you begin to glisten is quite a sight. It reminds him all over again that you're human like these landers on Sage's Island but you're not one of these landers, exactly.

You're the only one of your kind. The rarest of rare specimen.

You push up the incline, fixing your hair as you breeze past, and excitedly point to a patch of greens Ruggie told you about before. They are edible and coming home with you! You know how to prepare them!

Something ugly and gnashing wells up in Jade. Makes him want to suck the little Savanaclaw mongrel up in his pharyngeal jaws but he doesn't have them in this form.

Mmm, but he's thinking about the wrong jaws, isn't he? A bit rude to be thinking about his. It's best to put nutrition in yours. Yes, yes, that's very good. Jade's smile almost twitches as his back spasms where one of his more active fins would be. "Greens are a bit of an insult compared to the bounty of the Mostro," he lets you slide down the incline with barely a pull as he grinds his walking stick into said patch of greens. "Though no less important. Come, I'll even make you tea." "But what about the hike? It's only been, like, thirty minutes!" Most of that was waiting on you to traverse the terrain, but still! Jade didn't even have a single mushroom to show for it! Jade prides himself on his composure and quick wit. Here lately he's been applauding himself for holding onto all of it--any of it--around you. You have no magic but seem to do something akin to his signature spell. "There's more moisture in the air," he grips his walking stick and surprises even himself with the smooth stumble of his words, "there's rain coming. I can smell it." That did sound plausible to your lander self. He could see you contemplating it. Was it really going to rain? Who knew. The weather on Sage's Island was as unique as it's occupants. Your relent is reluctant but Jade pays that no mind as he stamps down an errant root and taps your foot politely away from it. "What a gentleman!" you tease, kind needling almost costing you a face full of green leaf from a bent tree. He chuckles as you bat the leaves from your face in a fit of self-preservation.

The flailing really is quite adorable.

You huff at his laugh and stomp almost petulantly after him to the flat and familiar of Sage's Island, the impressive point of the college a mere smear in the distance. After a near twenty minute walk, you change generously in Mostro Lounge's bathrooms (as in: Floyd annoys Azul enough to keep him unaware) and clean up enough to meet dress code, cramming your hiking things under the table. Floyd catches you, you both know. He knows the deal. What you don't know is that he waits for you to bat your eyes at him like you'll inevitably do and he revels in it. Mostly because his mushroom-huffing brother doesn't know what to do when you do that, but he thinks your eyes are pretty too. Jade coughs into his hand.

When that doesn't get the desired result, he gently turns you into your side of the booth and seats himself. There's a bristling only known between brothers and those who have a territorial bone in them. Floyd smirks and checks his brother's fingers for signs of webbing or claws. "What're ya havin'?" Jade lets you order first, of course. He orders next, not even bothering to grab a menu Floyd didn't offer. "And for drinks?" "That's supposed to be first, brother dear." Jade smiles. "Actually, appetizers first." he snorts. "I'll be making her some tea, actually." Jade excuses himself and walks in-step with his brother to the kitchen. "Makin' time for tea but no time for truth, heh?" Floyd's eyes are suddenly sharp and Jade growls. Jade realizes this is an unsafe situation as there are many knives around them. He's just as keen with a pot if it's all the same. The thought crosses his mind. "Gonna feed her before ya confess? Seems I'm not the only one who does things out of order, huh?" "I am providing." Jade hisses, opening his mouth wide.

"Best remember to provide some dish pit time because you owe me." Floyd taunts. "I covered your tail and got your little lander love a table!" In that moment, Floyd doesn't know why he turned his back. It felt good, maybe? Felt right for the moment? All he knew is that one hand full of menus didn't do anything against a hefty grab to the back of his neck as he was almost shoved into the hot water part of said dish pit. "How much time would you like?" Jade mused, bracing one arm against the other as he leaned his weight into his brother.

"Ah shut up and go make your leaf juice!" Floyd tries to nip him as he wriggles beneath his brother, only one set of shoes fit for the kitchen. Satisfied, Jade relents. It may cost him somewhere down the line but in this moment he's happy. Happy and put together and providing. Just for you.

[thesassypadawan]

Make Them Blue (Sam x GFReader) *Blurb*

Summary: It’s No Nut November and your boyfriend was not only dumb enough to get roped into participating in the challenge.  He also stupidly decided to throw a belated Halloween party over the weekend…where you just so happen to bust out that sexy, little succubus outfit he’s been begging you for.  

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni), because all the lovely smut.  Slightly rough smex, cranky/pent up emo boy, slightly blue balls, and…Sam’s chubby, pierced dick.

Notes: Happy No Nut November all you, lovelies! 🤍💙

- “Just had to wear this fucking costume…”  Burying his face into your neck, nipping and sucking at your hickey-riddled skin.  Teeth tug at your cute, leather choker…roughly.  Probably trying to snap it in a form of revenge; like the salty, little brat he is.  “Couldn’t of been like a stupid pumpkin or something else…”

- Thrusting hard, you let out a shrill cry.  The sound bouncing off, echoing through the cramped closet.  Making your ears ring, heart leap into your throat.  Hoping that it was muffled or at least covered up by the loud, thumping outside the slatted door.  “I’m sorry, Sammy!  I-”

- “Shut up!”  Plunging deeper; his long length fills, stuffs you.  Thick base stretching out your poor, little cunny.  Gummy walls burning from the drag, puffy folds from the pleasurable ache.  “Ain’t talking your way out of this one!”

- Bucking up wildly, his sinewy hips ram into yours.  “Th-Thought you’d like it!”  Fat tip bullying, that stud of his brushing and scarping maddingly against your cervix.  With each sloppy, uncontrolled drive.  Forcing a string of pathetic whimpers and babbles to fall from your crimson painted lips.  “Said you al-always wanted to see m-me dressed-”

- “I don’t care!”  Inked hands grope hungrily at your plush curves; squeezing, kneading them.  Chipped black nails sinking in, tarnished rings leaving shallow indents in your supple flesh.  “Making me lose the damn bet!”

- Landing a solid smack on one of your handles, snapping a studded strap on the other.  Cause your body to ripples, tits jiggle.  High pitched squeal escaping you from the sting.  “Now you’re gonna get it!” 

- Nimble fingers grip your soft waist tightly, lifting you high enough.  For only his chubby head to stay wedged inside your trembling warmth…  “Take it!”  …before shoving you back down.  

- Holding onto firmly, moving you as he liked…what suits his needs.  “Let me use this pussy as a fucking cocksleeve!”  Forcing you to mewl and whine at his strong strokes, brutal pace. 

- “Til my balls are dry!”  Slamming you roughly one last time, sheathing himself completely.  Hot spurts of cum flood, coat…paint your gummy walls white.  Small paunch bulges slightly from his pent up load.

- Crashing your lips, tongues tangling together in a messy kiss.  Barely softening before starting to pump in and out again.  Sticky seed trickling out from your abused hole, from around his cock.  Splattering onto Sam’s forgotten ghostly mask, your impish wings.

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @laylaplease, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @jediavengers, @jameskellysgirl,  @xoxo-hayden-fangurl-xoxo, @laoif, @xhunnybeeex, @morganellison2007, @vaderswifey, @anisangeldust, @fredswrite, @fuckmyskywalker, @these-travels, @valyna27, @shadowycollectionpuppy-blr-blog, @paechyx, @bimbo-doll1206, @supernatural-lover, @bigaoibhe2024, @kllyslutz, @og-baby-ob14, @piastricentric, @elcaballerodragon, @byunnue, @doesntmattert, @soooooohyuk, @sassyenthusiastfart, @gaynslay, @abbygailparish08, @caro-pozos02, @marauder2sstuff, @cjlovesreadingxx, @ala2ilas-s, @rhiluvzani, @cocobear18, @pumpkinpiefilling, @polly-xo, @neymvrz, @jennasco, @lotte08, @roryheartz, @ahszcoven, @mrschristensen13,

@littlelamy, @khoatic-with-no-energy, @raiwpenl, @malinadbbdh, @strokingforyou26, @xspacexwitchx, @em-21, @hearts4sammonroe, @shouldbetakencareof2, @loxbbg, @supersoldatbarnesstuff, @thesilentreaderrrrr, @theoriginalsinner28, @dumb-slut-things, @indigoblues1207, @ald6518, @julxstrawberry, @nevaehthecreator1, @wh0sl0ttie, @tojis-missing-arm

[orphicsun]

hi chey! your fics are so good jfc. i would looove to see a fic with Vi where the reader really worships her and her body during sex, her tattoos and muscles everything! thank youuuuu <3

HIII SORRY FOR THE WAIT!! I had the first paragraph collecting dust in my drafts for a while. This is short but I'm so obsessed with Vi so I needed to put this out.

CONTENT: Oral sex (V! receiving isn't that crazy? reader isn't a pillow princess for once), biting, nipple play, worshipping Vi's body

Your fingertips, with much adoration, trace over every line of ink engraved into Vi's skin. It is much like a religious routine to caress each piece of artwork with already kiss-swollen lips, admire her naked, form, and bite into her muscles to earn yourself those sweet, sweet moans from her.

Your lips trail down her chest, taking each nipple in-between your teeth and giving it a soft nip. Vi gasps, her head falling back at the pleasure.

"Please, I need more." She begs, and you can only oblige.

Your lips are quick to leave her tits, tracing over her firm abdomen. You take your time with her navel and at the same time, your hands run over her back in soft, adoration-filled motions.

Her pussy is perhaps the sweetest thing you've ever been offered a taste of and you eat appropriately, letting her juices coat your chin shamelessly. Each drop tastes like a sample of heaven, and you fail to resist yourself from the temptation staring at you: her sopping-wet folds. You plunge your tongue between them and soon feel Vi's grip on your hair, her fingers guiding your motions.

"F-Fuck, yeah.. just like that, let me fuck you pretty face." Your pretty face? She should see her own. You still moan eagerly, nodding against her pussy. Her eyes almost roll back into her noggin upon each grind she delivers to your mouth because your nose nudges perfectly against her clit, sending shudders of pleasure throughout her.

She's almost riding your face now, shamelessly using it to get off. You don't even mind; you'll let her fuck your tongue for hours if it pleases her. She tastes too addicting to pull away from even if you needed a break.

Her orgasm hits you as hard as it hits her with a violent buck of her hips up into your face and a squeezing sensation of her thighs tightening against your cheeks. You can't help but moan against her pussy as she sporadically rides out her high, your tongue desperately trying to keep up with her movements. All you can even think about is her: the way her eyes flutter like butterfly wings, how her bottom lip is bitten down upon a multitude of times to handle her orgasm, the sensation of her release drenching your lower face and the urge to lick your hips after this. Vi is such a goddamn goddess.

When she finally loosens her stronghold on your head, her thighs parted now, you let out one final shaky breath and move up to lay on top of her. Now, this may be your favorite part. Her face is so satisfied, bliss written all over it. Her biceps have a sheen of sweat over them and you bet her back does, too. You lean down to kiss Vi, letting her taste her own nectar on your tongue. The kiss is so saccharine, you swear that it could give you a toothache. You whimper as she pulls away to stare down at your own body.

"My turn to worship you now?"

[the-kr8tor]

Hi pookie bear!!

Your girl here misses Ink and Bedrock so bad 😓

I was just thinking of maybe a lovestruck Ekko who just misses his darling so much he gets to dream of her. He's so, so in love and he carries saudade (if you guys don't know, it means a longing for someone but not the hurting type? it's a brazilian portuguese word that doesn't have a proper translation!) so deeply in his heart that he's not even mad after he wakes up. He's glad he got to see R again, even if it was inside of his mind. 🥹

I miss ink and bedrock so much! Thank you for requesting, bleaky!! I hope you like it ❤️❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.2k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), set in my series ink and bedrock, established relationship, noxian! Reader, lovestruck! Ekko, cw food mentions, fluff!

Ink and Bedrock

Navigation

Ekko opens his eyes to the sight of a sea of red and green flowers. Emerald grass kissing his legs, sunlight drenching him in warmth. The breeze dances around him, a flurry of leaves and red poppies. The place is pure paradise, soft and gentle to him, as if it’s pulling him into the grass so he could rest upon the caressing flora.

Just as he was about to succumb to its call, he sees a figure in the distance. Amidst the fluttering petals and sweet smelling air, he sees you just like how he last saw you before you got onto the blimp with a promise that you'll be back home before he knew it. You're in your signature crimson coat that drags along the blades of grass as you walk slowly towards him. An angel draped in red, smiling at him sweetly with those lips he still remembered the feel of upon his own.

“Hi, firefly.” You greet, head tilted as you look at him through your lashes. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hey, trouble.” Ekko breathlessly says, chest warm, hands already outstretched to meet with your own. “How?”

“Guess you missed me so much that you managed to conjure me.” Your hands intertwine with his own, fingers sewing together in a perfect pair. Your hands have ink stains dotted along your palms, it sticks to his own but he doesn't care when you're right there in front of him as real as the sky itself. “Come here, please.”

With your words, he lunges for you, chest to chest, face finding the crook of your neck as he sighs out. You're warm against him, and you smell just like how he remembered— vanilla and sea breeze. You still feel like home, as if you never left.

“Have you eaten yet?” You ask, arms enveloping around him as you gently guide him down on the grass with him still fully embracing and breathing you in.

“Of course that's the first thing you ask.” His words are muffled against your skin.

Chuckling, you trace your knuckles over his back, lazily dancing your fingers all over and drawing shapes. “Well I can't have you starving now just because I'm not home.”

Leaning away, Ekko wants to tell you so many things, stories that he needs you to know while you were gone. The two of you have been writing to each other almost everyday, but it doesn't compare to the real thing, it doesn't compare to him holding you, kissing you like it was the first time. And hearing your voice like it's the most beautiful ballad he has ever heard of. Missing you was an understatement, he felt like his heart was outside of his body, miles away from him while it still beats.

“I'm eating, don't worry. Are you okay? In Demacia?” Cupping your cheeks, you lean against his touch, eyes softening while his thumbs rub along your jaw. “No one's giving you trouble?”

Hands upon his chest, Ekko thinks that you can feel his quickening heartbeat beneath your palm. That confirms it when you beam at him with a light-hearted smile. “That's good, make sure you don't miss a meal, okay?” He nods along, “and I'm fine, like how I wrote to you, it's nothing I can't handle.” The sea glass bracelet he gave to you shines around your wrist, and you're the first one to make a move, leaning down to kiss the corner of his lips with a flutter of your lashes.

“I missed you…” he almost chokes on his words, eyes closed as he feels you pepper his face with slow saccharine kisses. “Zaun missed you.”

“Wow, the whole place did?” You sarcastically say, giggling atop his forehead while you smooch every bit of space on his face. He can't help but match your smile. “There hasn't been a single day that I didn't miss you, my firefly. We're doing good work here, and I'll be home soon, I promise.”

Ekko looks at you through half lidded eyes, “but you're already here?”

Hand splayed over his heart, you kiss him affectionately, like a flower petal brushing along his lips, brief yet he felt it through his bones. “I'm right here.” You poke his chest, “always.”

“And you say that I'm the romantic one.” Tugging you closer, he kisses you fully, he could feel your smile through the sweet kiss, your giggles ebbing through his rib cage and into his heart.

As he parts, he sees your tearful eyes smile at him. “You are the more romantic one, I'm just following your lead, Ekko.”

“We're both romantics then.”

“Oh we're so in love with each other it's sickening.” You utter with a grin, laughing as the sun shines behind you, bathing you with its glow.

He smiles, pulling you back against him until your head lays on his chest. Upon the dewy field of grass and flowers, he cradles you in place. Heart singing your name and hands holding you, caressing as he whispers stories into your ears. Stories that you missed but would gladly tell you to remind you that there are people waiting for you back home.

The last thing he heard was the chime of your laughter before he opened his eyes to the sight of the ceiling.

The morning breeze wafts past him, as if that was you saying hello. The other side of the bed has been cold ever since you left, but instead of feeling empty, he feels warmer, better, and feels closer to you than ever even though you're not near him.

Ekko longs for you, like a parched tree longing for rain. But he's proud of you too for leaving and doing good work outside of Zaun and Piltover like you were meant to be. He wants to be with you, wake up to your face and voice, but he can wait, he'll wait for you to come home. And when you're ready to fly back home, he'll greet you with open arms.

He had an abundance of dreams about you before, but this one felt different, like sunshine peeking through a tree’s branches after hours of rain. Maybe that dream was real, that he really did talk to you and held you in his arms for hours on end. Or maybe that was his mind's way of coping with missing you so bad that he could feel your lack of presence wherever he went. Either way, it made him feel lighter, happier, and ready to write you a letter like always with the main topic being the heavenly dream he had. Wishing that it could be real someday, maybe sooner.

As he gets on his board, the letter tucked inside his pockets, he hovers above the tree, watching as the sky glimmers with the same sunlight you're probably gazing upon right now. With a deep sigh, brown eyes filled with unshed tears, he pats the place where you poked— right atop his heart. Whispering your name so it could be carried by the wind to be brought over to your ears. He smiles, imagining the day when you finally step foot on the very same land he learned to love you in.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Ink & Needle // Chapter Twenty-Four

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): tattoo shop au, swearing, grief & difficult conversations, canon-typical violence, smoking, angst, all hurt no comfort

Word Count: 2.5k

Walsh leaves another note. Price might know your location. Simon prepares to leave.

Chapter Twenty-Three // Chapter Twenty-Five

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

It rained that night.

Simon turns his gaze upward into stunning light.

There is no rain. No boom of thunder. No flash of lightning.

I burned like the seed.

Price, Johnny, and Kyle stand behind Simon in a half-moon, watching on like observers at a burial, but not part of the procession.

The sky watered my skin.

Simon takes a step forward. Underneath his boots is cracked concrete. From the fissures sprout green. Not weeds. No. Those don’t belong in a garden.

I germinated. I flowered. I grew.

This is grass. Fresh grass. And perfectly green.

Veins. Veins of grass. A network. A web. Stretching outward from a bountiful source.

We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Simon.”

Price’s voice is gruff. A warning. ‘Danger ahead’ is the tone.

But Simon is steadfast and uncaring of what happens to him. He takes another step, crushing blades of grass beneath his boots as he heads for the epicenter of it all.

This building is a shell. A construction site long abandoned and used as one of many covert warehouses under Walsh’s hat. This place burned. Melted.

Simon remembers how the smoke burned his lungs. How it was Price and Johnny that dragged him out even as the fire blazed around him. The ride in the helicopter is still blurry even after all these years.

Afterward, Price told him how it took several days for the fire to eventually burn itself out. Chemicals caused it, and dumping water on it did nothing. The blaze was contained. And then it was left to fade out.

It did.

Eventually.

By that point, Simon was in the hospital thinking he’d never walk again without a prosthetic.

We are gardens now. The two of us.

Simon comes to a stop just shy of the garden. Because that is what it is. A garden.

This is where they found Walsh’s body. Burnt to a crisp with Simon’s blade still lodged in the chest cavity. The handle partially melted.

Simon understands why Price is urging cautiousness.

It’s valid. Truly.

Regardless of the garden surrounding him, in the center of it all is a body.

Not your body. And not a stranger’s either.

It’s a charred corpse. The corpse of Kit Walsh that isn’t Kit Walsh at all. The one discovered after the fire burned out. The one taken back to a lab somewhere for examination before they ruled the wanker dead.

How it’s here, Simon doesn’t know. But it’s preserved well, as if everything only happened yesterday.

The knife is gone.

But in its place is a tree. Not a towering tree, but a young one. Still growing toward the light that shines down from above. The tree, and all the surrounding plants come from fire-activated seeds.

Seeds that are coated in thick resin. Seeds that need that resin burned away before they can germinate and grow.

Simon clearly remembers telling Walsh about it, back when Simon was undercover and Walsh considered Simon a friend and confidant.

The two of them walked the streets of Manchester, lingering in a part of the city that few like to visit and only if they have to. A group of young boys no older than fifteen were slinging it out in an alley.

“They only use their fists now,” Walsh had said. “Back then we used our teeth.”

“Those boys are just seeds coated in resin,” Simon had replied.

Walsh had given him the strangest look. “Fucking what?”

“Some seeds can’t germinate unless they’re burned first.” Simon had nodded toward the group of raging boys. “They are the resin-coated seeds. Their violence is the fire. It’ll melt away the resin. Crack the shell. They will grow. Become a garden.”

“A garden?” Walsh had laughed. “You’re fucking hilarious, mate. A fucking garden? Like my mum’s flower bed?”

“No,” Simon had replied, knowing his own story. Knowing how his father and his bite was the flame that melted Simon’s resin. He had cracked. Grew. But not into his father. Not into that monster.

He germinated and followed a different story.

“A path. They’ll choose a path.”

Price comes up beside Simon, pausing just shy of his shoulder.

“I thought she’d be here,” murmurs Simon, staring at the burnt body of fake-Walsh.

“She might still be alive, Simon.”

“It still has the toe tag.”

Price sighs. “It does.”

Johnny and Kyle appear in Simon’s peripheral. They hover for a moment before coming into view. They walk the perimeter on the opposite side, gazes locked on the garden as if they might find a clue.

Could be that there is, but Simon doesn’t see it.

You are not here.

The note appeared on his front door and Simon knew exactly where when the words flowed off the page to burrow into his skull.

It rained that night.

It did rain that night. It fell in sheets. Soaked right through Simon’s clothes before the fire dried it all away.

“We’ll find her, Simon,” says Price, squeezing Simon’s shoulder before taking a step to the right.

They all stare at the garden. They all look for clues.

Simon’s mind is a cobweb. Dusty. Full of so much and yet unable to recall anything of note. Walsh’s actions have suctioned Simon’s resolve right out of his body like embalming tubes, filling him with a dullness that won’t abate.

Maybe it’s because you’re gone, and half of his purpose is missing.

Simon moves, but it is aimless. He tramples the garden. Steps all over the blooming buds. Crushed. Damaged. That is all he knows to do.

His gaze scans the flora. Examines the body. Its neck is bent backward, mouth open as if seeking falling rain.

Simon moves toward it. Notices a flash of white.

As if yanked from a trance, Simon lunges, falling to his knees, not caring that his bad leg cries out angrily in protest.

“What is it?” asks Johnny, dropping down beside him.

Another note. Another fucking note.

White envelope. No postage. Simon’s full name handwritten on the front.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home. A twin from the one attached to his front door.

This time, his fingers shake as he opens it up.

The small piece of paper is thin. Wispy. Translucent like the paper you might find in a wrapped gift.

Simon stares down at the ink. It is solid and bold. Not smoke-kissed like the last one. Here, it bleeds. Nearly illegible.

It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

“Simon?” comes Johnny’s voice, but it’s a distant thing.

Friend. Friend.

“I wasn’t your friend, Walsh,” whispers Simon.

“What is it, Simon?” It’s Johnny again, concern lacing his tone.

“I wasn’t your fucking friend!”

Johnny leans away from Simon as he staggers to his feet. Clutching the paper in his fist, raging anger blooms white hot in his chest.

Price approaches Simon, hands outstretched as if trying to calm an animal.

“Get the fuck away from me!” shouts Simon.

Johnny gets to his feet, moving backward. Kyle, Johnny, and Price all stare back at him. There is pity—so much of it. Simon hates it. He wants to rip it away. They look like they want to give Simon their condolences, as if you are already dead.

But there is no confirmation.

Walsh wouldn’t hold on to your corpse just to take the piss.

Would he?

Walsh stole the fake body. He held on to it. Grew a fucking tree in the chest cavity.

A tightness forms in Simon’s chest. It grows, and then he’s heaving, panic rising. He bends over, placing his hands on his knees as his body convulses, wanting air but not able to find it.

“Simon.”

It’s Price, but Simon turns away, stumbling forward. He moves out of the garden and then collapses to his knees. They strike grass-laced concrete.

No one comes near him. Not until it’s over and his breathing slows to something even and calm.

“We’re taking you home.”

“Captain—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Simon.” Price puts all his authority in it, and Simon’s training rises to the surface, silencing him. “We’re taking you home. And I will handle this.”

Simon turns his head just enough to look at Price. “I want in.”

“I know.”

“I want in. I’m not asking.”

Price nods. “I know you’re not.”

The man sighs, glancing back at Johnny and Kyle. They linger near the edge of the garden, standing close but not touching. Gaz has removed his hat, holding it by the lip, speaking softly to Soap. Simon cannot hear their conversation.

Price returns his attention to Simon. “I want you to go home, and live as normally as you can. Let me take a look at our options. I will call. We’ll find her.”

Instead of walking away, Price presents his hand. “I’ll take it.”

Simon offers up the note without hesitation. Keeping it won’t do anything. It’ll only hurt more. It’ll only be a reminder.

Price nods and folds it up, placing it in his jacket pocket. Pushing up to standing, Price addresses Johnny. “I want this place picked apart. Call in who you can. And get me Laswell. I want Walsh fucking found.”

Distantly, Simon hears Johnny talking into a phone. Price talks too but it’s not to Simon. They are already making plans. Already moving toward the goal.

He is staring ahead. Hardly blinking. All the energy has been sucked from him.

It not Price or Soap, but Gaz that steps into Simon’s line of sight. He bends at the knee. Gets to Simon’s level.

“Let’s go, mate.”

Kyle offers his hand. Simon takes it.

The walk to the car is slow. Foggy. Like the trip to the hospital on the helicopter, this too is completely blurry. He doesn’t remember the drive out of Manchester and back to London. He doesn’t recall arriving outside his flat or the walk up the stairs.

There is nothing.

Only blankness.

Until Simon wakes—and realizes that the exhaustion finally overtook him, plunging him down into a black sleep that took all thought and dream and memory.

Routine keeps him together. It is the only comfort. Simon sinks into it. A distraction from everything. And between it all, Simon fills it with cigarettes and his favorite bourbon. If he didn’t love you, he’d likely be scrolling through his contacts thinking about how he can get his dick wet.

That’s what he used to do after you ran from him at Riot Room. He’d think of you and remember how you were forever out of reach. He’d wank one out to that shredded piece of thong in his drawer and be completely unsatisfied after.

From there, he’d find someone willing and warm. And that simmered the need. At least for a bit.

But he has you now. He loves you. Wants no one else.

The bourbon will do.

But it is a bloody shite substitute.

A day passes.

Then two. Then three.

After a week of radio silence, Simon feels the edges of madness closing in.

Evie calls, but Simon ignores her. She comes to the shop, and with hardened shame, Simon turns her away. It’s cruel. Completely fucking cruel.

But Simon cannot face her or anyone else. Not until he has an answer.

Whether you’re alive or dead, Simon will bring you home.

Amelia even comes—trying to talk sense. And yet Simon hardly cares. He stares blankly like he’s observing a wall. He says nothing. Doesn’t react.

Amelia eventually leaves. Clearly defeated.

A second week passes.

A third.

Simon is a zombie. He is decaying.

Lighting a cigarette, Simon takes up post on his balcony. It’s fucking cold. Winter is in full swing. Christmas has already come and gone. Simon didn’t go to Johnny’s family farm. Soap’s mum rang him just to check in. Apparently, Johnny was there. So was, Gaz.

Simon should have been there. You should have been there. He was so excited to bring you along, to introduce you to the two people in his life he can call parental figures.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette. Simon’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Though time has passed, Simon is still eager with each vibration of his phone. Every time it goes off, Simon reaches for it—lunges.

He does it now, expecting something yet knowing that it’s unlikely.

Think we found her.

Simon’s heart stops. Drops into his stomach before returning to his chest to thud loudly until it’s all he can hear.

Before Simon types out a response, Johnny sends coordinates.

Meet us here. Three days.

Three days. In three fucking days he’ll be closer to finding you.

Urgency tells Simon to just go—to just fucking leave.

Three days.

Three. Days.

Simon puts out the cigarette and heads inside. Clearing the kitchen table of takeout boxes and empty bourbon bottles, Simon opens up the scheduling planner with all his upcoming appointments. He sets to work, making calls, rearranging fucking everything.

He rebooks until his schedule is clear for two months out. Finding and returning home with you is not nearly enough. Simon has no idea what state you’ll be in when he finds you. If you are alive, you might not be whole, and Simon doesn’t want to dive into work again. You will need all his love and attention.

You deserve it. And he wants to give all that he has.

From there, Simon packs a duffle. Bravo watches on, padding nervously around the bedroom as Simon shoves things inside the bag.

“We’re going on a walk, Bravo,” says Simon, snagging the German Shepard’s leash from off its hook by the front door.

Stopping at Dancing Faun, Simon drops off an extra set of keys to 141 Ink for Ben. After, Simon walks Bravo to the one place he’s been avoiding for weeks.

He hesitates before knocking.

“Finally ready to talk?” asks Amelia, her arms crossed over her chest after she answers the door.

She might be short but her energy isn’t.

“I’m leaving for a bit,” replies Simon.

Amelia shrugs. “And?”

She’s irritated, but that’s understandable. Simon hasn’t exactly been polite to her.

“I’m leaving to bring her home.”

Amelia’s visible irritation melts away. Her arms slowly uncross, dropping to her sides. Eyes widening, she opens her mouth to speak, hesitating at the last second.

“Can you take care of Bravo?” asks Simon before Amelia has a chance to say anything.

She nods quickly, taking the offered leash, holding it against her chest as if she cradles something precious.

“You sure?” she asks, voice shaking slightly. “Are you absolutely sure, Simon?”

There are no details. Nothing to guide him. It is a blank canvas. A deep gash in his understanding. Too many variables bounce around, and Simon cannot seem to grab one out of the air. They slip through his fingers.

Too much uncertainty dwells within him.

“I’m sure,” he lies.

[ya-zz]

Extra Credit

Teacher!Ramattra x Reader NSFW

Word count: 5448 Notes: No mention of pronouns, but mentions of female genitalia I had no idea what to title this so I put it as the most obvious title ever for a teacher fic... Whew, it is done. A full fic before his bday is over! Enjoy!

Ramattra heard the knock at the door but didn’t pull away from his work. The seemingly endless swarm of submitted assignments continued to scroll on the screen as he worked his way down to mark the next one on the list.

“Come in.” 

He opens the next assignment in line as the door to his office followed suit. You appear, laptop hugged against your chest as you step into the cosy room. It was small, cluttered with files and stray papers. The sofa was pushed back against the wall, his coat thrown upon it without a care and the two cushions haphazardly placed. The bookcase situated at either side of the sofa were filled to the brim with books and folders, the shelves bending due to the weight of the papers. The wall opposite held cabinets (also littered with files and books), a whiteboard above that had his weekly class schedule written in black and red ink. 

His desk was slightly more coherent, though, it still held mess. On one side of the desk stood a stack of assignments, graded, ready to be given back to his students. Next to that, a slightly smaller stack, ones that were awaiting their grade, or lack thereof. The omnics fingers tap at the keyboard with precision, no backspace necessary. Beside his computer was a small photo frame, the image hidden from your sight. A cup of assorted pens sit next to that and also a small potted plant. Sticky notes litter the desk and monitor, notes in a language you didn’t understand.

The window behind him was covered with slatted blinds, closed, only two small beams of the evening sunset filtered through the gaps at the side. The light above you hums quietly, the room illuminated in a soft glow. Needs a new bulb, you think to yourself. The chair opposite his desk sat empty, hardly used despite his many years of teaching.

Looks like he rarely got visitors. That didn’t surprise you, however. Nobody likes him. Sure, he is practically perfect at his job, but, he was harsh. There was no room for error with him, his turnaround was high – perhaps that was due to him dropping students who couldn’t handle the work. Either way, his office was a mess, a startling contrast to the usual meticulous teacher that enters the classroom each day. 

“Come, take a seat.” He finally speaks, bringing you out of your wandering gaze. The omnics tone was light as he continues to type. His optics were glued onto the screen in front of him, but his sensors pick up on your cautious movements. 

Approaching the chair, you take a seat, dropping your bag on the floor with a gentle thump. The chair was surprisingly comfortable. Your coat slips off of your shoulders, draping over the back of the chair. You stay silent, not wanting to disturb the quietness. 

After a few tense minutes, the omnic signs off the assignment, closing the browser and then turning to you. His hands clasp together, resting against the wooden desk. He watches as you set the laptop down on your lap, the anxiousness rising within you.

Suddenly being summoned to his office usually meant one thing. You were in trouble. At least, that’s what you thought. You’ve heard the stories that those who leave his office often come back out with tears and a recommendation to another course. 

And, here you sat. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you speak meekly. 

“You wanted to see me?” 

“Yes.” Ramattra replies instantly, leaning forward slightly to move the stacks of papers over to the one empty cabinet behind him. 

“Am… Am I in trouble?” 

The omnic hesitates, his left hand hovering over the right one before they’re clasped back together. “What makes you think that?” 

You shrug, the nervousness still bubbling inside of you and slowly breaking free as your leg starts jittering. “I’ve heard the stories.” 

Ramattra chuckles. “Ah. Of course.” He shakes his head as he stands, walking around the desk to one of the filing cabinets behind you. There was nothing else spoken, keeping you on an edge you did not like.

As he moves, you can’t help but watch him. Clad in a deep red turtle-neck sweater and black slacks, it striked professionalism mixed with comfort. Black dress shoes adorn his feet, finishing the look. At least he looks tidy unlike his office. The cables that make his hair clack together with each step, half up in a bun as the loose cables rest against his upper back. You were always curious why there was one red wire among the sea of black, but that was a question that may never get an answer. 

Your fingers tap at the edge of your laptop as Ramattra walks back around to his desk, taking a seat in the chair and placing a small stack of papers down in front of him. The formatting looks familiar to you and thats when it clicks. They’re your previous assignments. 

“Do you know how many credits you need to achieve to get onto the final year of my course?” He asks, flipping through your assignments, mentally calculating your current credits. 

Too many, you think to yourself. “Your syllabus is different to other courses.” 

“Yes, I am aware of that.” The omnics tone grows cold. “You need one-fifty.” 

There was a tense silence that follows, his fingers lacing together on top of the papers. “You have seventy-five. The final two assignments, thirty credits each, will cause you to fall short of that criteria, I am afraid.” 

It hits you like a punch in the gut. You were fifteen short of getting onto the final year. It was the one module you failed to submit at the start of the academic year, the one that would’ve pushed you over the threshold. There was a tightness that gripped your chest and your teacher caught onto the sudden change. 

“Rest assured.” He starts. “Your work has been some of the most intriguing pieces of writing I have read within your class. I do not make this decision lightly, you have remarkable insight, and I would like you to stay on this course. You have potential.” 

“What about the missing credits?” 

His optics are glued onto you, watching for your reaction at his following words. “I will give you two options. Either you complete that missing assignment,” he sees the way your body shifts, the thought of the double workload already weighing on your shoulders, “or, you can make up the credits right now in this office.”

He catches the way your breath hitches in your throat, your eyes snapping to the dark slits of his faceplate. The heat rises in your cheeks, his sensors picking up on that, too. Ramattra had to hold back a chuckle. 

“If you choose to do the assignment, then we can forget that this conversation ever happened.” His head cocks to the side. “But, I have seen the way you look at me in class. You think you are subtle, but it is clear.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You try to speak firmly, but there is a slight quiver in your voice.

If the omnic could raise an eyebrow, he would be doing just that. “Is that so?” He finally lets out that chuckle. “You are a bad liar. Tell me, [y/n], did you think I would not notice the way your legs cross whenever I walked past you?” He cocks his head to the side, the smirk evident in his tone. “Or the way your cheeks flushed when I get close to help you with your work? The rise in heartbeat?”

Your grip tightens on your laptop. He’s caught you and there was no escape. He wasn’t wrong, though. Every time your teacher walked past you, or even when he was walking the front of the classroom, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. Something about the way he held himself together made your body tingle, but now, knowing that he had noticed your gaze and the growing heat that consumed your body each day in the classroom, it made you nervous. 

You were a mouse caught in a trap. 

Ramattra stands from his chair and walks around you with calculated steps. He knows that you have made your mind up, you were just too afraid to admit it. His fingers trail your shoulder, ghosting over the exposed skin on your neck. The whirring of his inner workings grows louder in your ear as he leans down, his head pressing against your own. His tone was low, hushed, a soft vibration against your neck.

“Last chance, pet. If you stay, there is no backing out.” 

When you don’t move, Ramattra trails his hand down your arm, taking your laptop and putting it to one side. “Stand up for me.” There was a slight commanding nature to his voice, vocaliser humming deep. 

As you stood, he walks back around his desk, taking a seat in the leather chair and gesturing for you to stand the same side. He watches the way you approach, optics never leaving your body, your cheeks flushed hot at the thought of what’s about to happen. 

Ramattra leans forward slightly, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer, making you stand between his legs. Your hands instinctively grab onto his shoulders and a small gasp escapes you. 

He doesn’t wait a moment longer as one hand begins to trail under your shirt and up your back, the exposed skin getting hit with the cold air of the room. His touch was light, fingers dragging up the dip in your back before slowly moving around to your side. Your skin was soft under the pads of his fingers, which in turn sends a small spark through his systems. 

“What plays in that pretty head of yours during class, hm?” Ramattra hums, his hands pulling your shirt off of your body, letting it pool on the floor. “Do you think of this? My hands caressing your body?” 

You inhale sharply as you become more exposed to the omnic. Your skin prickles with excitement but there was that underlying fear of what’s happening. This is your teacher. You are his student. You’d only ever heard stories of this happening to other people, seen the porn of this exact scenario, but to have it actually happen… 

His hands cup your breasts, thumbs pressing against the sensitive buds through the fabric of your bra. It elicits a small whimper from you, your hands gripping his shirt just that little bit tighter as you try to ground yourself, but the heat begins to burn between your thighs. 

“What would your dear classmates say if they saw you being handled like this, hm?” Ramattra couldn’t help but tease you, his optics never once leaving your face as he watches your expressions – the slight furrowing of your brow, the twitch at the corner of your lips. One hand skillfully moves to your back, unclasping the bra with ease. His head tilts upwards, leaning back in his chair as he drags his hands down your arms, pulling the fabric along with him. 

Your bra joins your shirt on the floor, your skin tingling from the slight cold before his hands come up and paw at your exposed breasts. Soft mewls escape you as you stare down at your teacher, your cheeks flushing hot with both excitement and embarrassment. He’s testing the waters, slowly massaging your breasts, thumbs gliding over your raised peaks before gently pinching them. The hitch in breath, the slightly parted lips, it was all he needed to continue going. 

“On your knees.” Ramattra commands, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. 

There was a subtle hesitation as you slowly sunk down onto your knees, your hands grabbing onto the omnics thighs for support. 

“Look at you, pet.” Ramattra coos. He leans down, one hand gripping your jaw and forcing you to look at him. His hold is firm, thumb and forefinger pressing hard against your bone as his other hand fumbles on the buckle of his pants. The anticipation rises within you as the omnic towering over you frees his cock from behind both pants and pelvic plate. 

He moves one hand to gently stroke along his length and you can’t help but watch him. The black ridged silicone was tinted purple and there were a series of small red lights on the underside. Ramattra was thick and you had to swallow the lump in your throat. 

The hand that rests on your jaw slowly lets go before tangling in your hair. He sure as hell wasn’t being subtle about what he wants as he pulls your head towards his cock. He almost chuckles when you eagerly open your mouth, pressing your lips against the head, tongue licking up the shaft. It has a distinct metallic tang to it, but it wasn’t unpleasant. 

A guttural groan escapes the omnic from the small sensation, his sensitivity levels slightly higher than normal. His optics remain locked onto your face, watching the way your eyes soften as you slowly take him into your mouth, tongue pressing against the light nodes. 

It takes what little restraint he has left to not force you down completely. Ramattra knows that should he be caught that this would be the end of his career but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to break you. You were the one student he had his optics on for a variety of reasons and now, here you were, on your knees before him. 

Ramattra grips your hair a little tighter as his other hand rests on the arm of the chair. He slouches as you continue to push past your limits, your face pressing against the harsh metal of his body as his cock rests deep in your throat. You stay there for a few seconds, choking on his length before pulling back, using your hand to stroke the spit all over his member as you gasp for air. 

The omnic goes to speak out but it cut short by your mouth enveloping him in warmness once more. His vocaliser stutters a moan, his hand tightening in your hair in response. Ramattra tilts his head back against the chair, cables clacking as they fall from his shoulders whilst his body begins to tremble from your motions. He can’t contain himself, his fans whirring louder as his cooling system works to reduce the ever rising heat that’s contained within his chassis. There was no turning back now. This was really happening. 

His cock hits the back of your throat again and this time, Ramattra holds you down with both hands on the back of your head. 

“Look at me.” He commands, looking back down at you. When your eyes meet his optics from behind his faceplate, he burns the image into his memory. With tears pricking your eyes, spit dribbling down your chin and your cheeks flushed hot, you’re a pretty sight to behold. As you choke on his cock, struggling to intake even the smallest bit of air, he pulls back to let you breathe for a second before shoving you back down. 

A muffled whimper escapes you, your eyes rolling back as you sputter and gag. 

“Hands on your lap.” Ramattra growls.

You comply, hands slowly dragging down his thighs before they finally rest on your lap as commanded. Ramattra was in control, the power held strongly over you. He moves your head back, letting you catch your breath. 

“Keep quiet, pet. We do not want others to hear what is happening.” He mocks as he begins to fuck your mouth, his hands gripping your scalp tightly. Soft mewls and whimpers escape between each thrust, his cock repeatedly hitting the back of your throat. You look up at him and oh, how he felt his circuits flare with lust, systems beginning to overheat. Ramattra curses silently as he can't help but push you back down, feeling his tip touch the back of your throat once more. 

Ramattra enjoys the way you accommodate his length, your cheeks hollowing as he pulls your head back, the way your eyes water and tears fall, burning against the flushed flesh. He can’t get enough of your sounds or the spit bubbling at the corners of your lips as he holds you there for a moment before pulling you back, an audible pop as he holds your head away from his aching member. The silicone shimmers with your spit, purple and black shining in the dim light of his office. Ramattra puts his thumb into your mouth, pushing down on your tongue, letting your fluids trickle into his joints. You look a mess and he wasn't finished just yet. He's just toying with you. Just like before, he burns the image into his system, one to look back on when you leave his sight. 

He had never been stimulated in such a way before, at least, not as good as this. Perhaps it was the potential chance of being caught that put him further on the edge. The door to his office was unlocked, anyone could just walk in and catch him in the act with his student, whether it was another faculty member or another student – either way, if he’s caught, it’ll be the end of his career. 

The omnic continues to fuck your mouth, feeling the swirl of your tongue over each ridge and sensitive node of his cock. His own release was bubbling as his system brings up overheating errors, his hips jerking violently which only causes you to whimper. You could feel the bruise already beginning to form at the back of your throat, his movements becoming more aggressive as he slams into your mouth. Tears fall down your cheeks and Ramattra moves one hand to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the tears away. 

“You are doing so well.” He coos, his voice soft. Ramattra brings his hand back, tangling it within your hair and gripping it at the scalp before he pushes you back down. He can see how badly you want to move your hands and hold onto him for support, but you don’t, not wanting to face his punishment should there be one in store. You needed these credits, you needed to pass this course, and you were willing to do anything your teacher says. 

Your throat hurt and your cheeks were burning as the tears fell from your glazed eyes, drunk on the feeling of his cock. You wonder just how much longer you could hold out before you eventually pass out from the assault on your throat, but it wasn’t long until you could feel your teacher chasing his high. 

Low grunts of pleasure filter through the static of his vocaliser as he forces himself deep inside of your throat for one final time. You can feel the wire on your tongue pulse before hot ropes of what you presume was artificial cum, coats the back of your throat. As he pulls you back, thumb entering your mouth again, he watches as you swallow, ingraining the image into his systems. He's careful, gentle, as he wipes away the tears from your cheeks. 

Ramattra couldn't wait any longer as he threw his lanyard onto his desk and rose from his chair, pulling you up with him. The omnic grabs your hips, turning you around before forcing you over his desk with one hand at the back of your neck.

"It is not over just yet, my little pet."

Your body was bent over the wooden desktop, bare chest pressing against the cold surface as you feel his hands begin to trail down your sides. Your breath hitches, the pads of his fingers tickling you before they toy with the waistband of your pants. You were at his mercy.

Ramattra watches as you grip the edge of the desk, your anticipation rising and he can’t help the chuckle that escapes his vocaliser. His hands move with ease, slipping underneath you to undo the button of your pants, thumbs gently teasing your skin as he pulls them and your underwear down together. He allows you to step out of them before he pushes your legs apart further with his feet. 

The sight alone makes his cock ache and twitch, wanting nothing more than to be buried deep inside of you. Ramattra drags his hands up your thighs before they gently squeeze the supple flesh of your ass. He notes how soft your skin feels to touch, the way you quietly whimper with each squeeze and pinch, oh, how he wished he could mark your skin with bites and hickeys to claim you as his. 

His hands grab your wrists before holding them against your back in one firm grip. Your body shivers from the coldness of the room, or perhaps it was the excitement coursing through your blood. The omnic could feel your quickening pulse against his palm as he tightened his grip on your wrists while his other hand ghosts over the small of your back. 

“Look at you.” Ramattra coos once more, a teasing tint to his voice. “Dripping already.” He didn’t wait for a response as his finger slides over your slit, your wetness soaking his digit within seconds. You gasp, biting down on your lower lip, silently begging for him to touch you again. 

Ramattra rubs his finger up and down your folds before he sinks a finger inside of you. The welcome intrusion draws out a small whine from you and the omnic can feel himself wanting to give in. With skilled motions, he slowly begins to pump his finger in and out of your cunt, his thumb pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

Soft mewls and whimpers spill from your lips, the pleasure building in the pit of your stomach as you try to stay quiet. When a second finger joins the first, a jolt of pleasure shoots up your back, your hands curling into fists despite the tight grip your teacher had on your wrists. The omnic chuckles lowly, curling his fingers and drawing out strangled moans from your lips. He can tell that your resolve is wavering, your gummy walls fluttering around his fingers as he continues to thrust his fingers against your most sensitive spot. 

His thumb rubs small and tantalisingly slow circles over your clit, the spark making your legs shake as you struggle to remain composed. He notes the rise in heartbeat, his sensors picking up on the flush becoming more prominent in your cheeks and neck. Ramattra feels you clench around his fingers, a silent smirk in his mind as he know you’re close. 

“Beg for me.” He whispers, leaning down slightly towards your ear. He keeps his fingers pumping in and out of you, watching the way you tremble from his touch. 

“Please… I’m so close…” You whine out quietly, biting down hard on your bottom lip. The coil was only tightening with every passing second, threatening to snap but Ramattra was careful. He knew you were close and he was keeping you on the edge until you satisfied him. 

“Hm…” His head cocks to the side, his fingers slowing down and drawing out a desperate mewl from your lips. 

“Please, sir, Ramattra… Please…” You almost cry out. “Please, please let me cum… Please…”

Oh, how could he resist such sweet sounds. Your desperate pleas mixed with the whimpers and moans made his cock ache. He needed to bury himself inside of you. His fingers picked up speed, curling and pressing into the sensitive spot. The noises of his fingers pumping in and out of you almost echo in the room, your juices dripping onto the floor. 

With one final flick of his thumb, it tips you over the edge. Your muscles spasm around his fingers, clenching down onto his digits as he fucks you through your orgasm, stars blurring your vision. When your body begins to pull away from the oversensitivity, he finally slows down and pulls his fingers from inside of you.

Your head almost slams onto to desk from the pleasure whilst you try to catch your breath. Ramattra tugs on your wrists, pulling you up and forcing those fingers into your mouth. 

“Clean them.” He demands and you comply without hesitation, taking his fingers into your mouth and sucking on them. One he has deemed them clean, he pulls away from you, his hand taking a hold of his cock and lining it up with your entrance whilst his other hand still holds that firm grip on your wrists. 

He doesn’t wait for a plea as he pushes himself inside of you, his cock easing in with little resistance. Ramattra buries himself inside of you, feeling his tip hit your cervix as his hips are flush against your ass. 

Your mewls grow quiet, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Your teacher pulls back and slides back in, setting a slow and steady pace as he draws out soft moans from you. He loves the way you feel around him, how pliable and submissive you are under his touch. 

His groans mix with your whimpers as his thrusts slowly become more aggressive. With his one hand securing your wrists, his other grips the soft flesh of your hips. His fingers press against the bone, the feeling of the bruises already beginning to form as he handles you. 

“You are so good for me, pet.” Ramattra coos, trailing his hand up your side to grab at your neck, pulling you up and against his chest. The new position only makes him drive his cock deeper into you as he keeps his brutal pace. The slapping of metal and skin rings out in the room and both of you pray that nobody is passing by the office anytime soon. 

He releases his grip on your wrists, allowing you to stabilise yourself on the desk as he snakes that same hand around your torso, grabbing and pawing at your breasts. His thumb and forefinger tweak the sensitive nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp and quiet whimper from your throat. 

“You like this, hm?” Ramattra growls next to your ear, using his hand to tilt your head back. “Do you know how bad this will look if someone were to walk in right now?” But that doesn’t stop him from pounding into your sensitive cunt. 

The omnic squeezes your neck a little tighter, not yet cutting off your airflow but theres enough pressure there to make you feel dizzy. His hips continue to slam into you, your ass slowly turning red from the force behind each thrust. It’s taking all of your strength right now to not whine out from the sheer amount of pleasure that’s rocking your body. Each time his cock hits deep, you swear your breath gets knocked out of you and there’s only a split second before he pulls back and fucks you deeper. 

The room is practically spinning as his grip remains tight on your throat but your teacher wasn’t done just yet. Drawing out another muffled moan from your lips as he finally relents his grip on your chest, he roughly moves down to your cunt, fingers rubbing against the oversensitive bundle of nerves. He quickly moves his hand from your neck to your mouth, keeping you quiet as you almost cry out. 

Ramattra feels your body shaking under his touch and he can’t help but chuckle, pressing his faceplate against the side of your neck. A soft vibration is only just felt and you come to realise through the sex haze that he was kissing you. 

You can’t help but smile through the pleasure at the thought of such a tender moment before all too suddenly, that coil in your stomach begins to burn. Your moans become more frequent, your body jerking at his touch as he fucks you deep. 

“Ramattra… Sir… Please…” You mewl against his fingers, glancing up at the black slits of his faceplate. You had to be quiet, one loud moan or whimper will alert anyone walking past the office. 

“Wait, pet. Not yet.” Your teacher hums into your ear. “You want to be good, right? Be a good little pet for me and wait.” 

“Yes, sir…” Your words are almost slurred, the pleasure becoming too much to handle as Ramattra thrusts deep inside of you. His grip on your jaw stays tight as his fingers begin to stroke your sensitive bundle of nerves firmer and more quickly. He can’t help but be proud of himself for how quickly you unravel in his touch. 

Ramattra presses his faceplate against your neck again, his systems flaring in errors as he chases his second high of the evening, bringing you to the brink just as quick. All too suddenly, the coil snaps, your head tilting back as you silently cry out. The omnic feels your walls spasm around him and that only draws out his own orgasm. 

Your grip is tight on the desk, your vision clouding with stars as the pleasure ripples throughout your body. Ramattra bucks his hips further against you, his cock hitting deep as he paints your insides with that same synthetic cum. 

The omnic groans pushing you against the desk with one final thrust as his system overloads with errors. His fans momentarily stop whirring, the heat struggling to escape from under his sweater and those lights on his forehead flicker before finally staying red. Ramattra lets his systems reboot before he pulls back, his grip loosening on your jaw as he trails his hands down your hips. 

“You are lucky that I am in a good mood otherwise I would have deducted credits for not waiting, pet.” He mocks, taking a step back as he works on cleaning himself up. He helps you, too, not wanting you to move until you’re properly wiped down. 

“For a ravager unit, you sure are gentle.” You joke, pulling your clothes over your body. 

“Ah, so you know of my model? Impressive.” Ramattra chuckles, his optics watching your every move. He’s enjoying the show. 

You shrug nonchalantly, straightening your shirt. “It’s hard not to know when half the class are talking about you.” 

A small scoff escapes the omnic. “Of course. I am no longer surprised by the chatter.” 

“What made you become a teacher in the first place?” The question catches Ramattra off guard. 

“Perhaps that would be a story to tell when you have graduated, yes?” There was something about his tone that made you question whether there was more to the story or not. “For now, focus on passing the final year.” 

It took you a moment to remember that the entire reason you were here in his office was because of the lack of credits. Your cheeks burn and the omnic picks up on it, refraining from commenting. 

“I will adjust your current credits, do not worry.” Ramattra chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he watches you walk back around his desk to the chair opposite. 

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” You mumble. 

“Of course.” He sits up straighter, his arms resting on the desk. “Do not make this a habit.”

You shake your head, laptop and coat back in your hands and bag on your shoulder. There was also that slight ache between your legs, one that felt pleasant, an evening to remember for sure. 

“It won’t, Ramattra.” A smile appears on your face but Ramattra catches the glint within your eyes. He knows you will be back, regardless on if you’re passing or not.

“Good. I will see you Tuesday.”

And just like that, he returns to his work as you leave his office with a little more than you had expected. The omnic looks at his computer screen, unable to type or finish off the grading he had left to do. You were there at the back of his mind, the look on your face as you took his cock and the sounds you made were on a constant loop within his mind. 

Ramattra knew that this wasn’t the end. He even hoped that there might be something after you had graduated. He had the feeling that you saw him as more than just your teacher, just like he saw you as more than just his student. 

His optics glance at your file, an amused hum escaping him as he flicks through the paperwork and mumbles to himself. 

“What is going on inside of that pretty head of yours outside of my classroom…”