#Threaded Bar Anchors

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

👍 Wedge anchor All production processes are inside our factory

[synity]

Us, Under One Moon

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Slice-of-Life, Domestic Fluff, Girl Dad Woozi, Found-Family Warmth*

Lee Jihoon didn’t know he could cry that fast.

He hadn’t cried when he debuted. Not when he won his first award. Not even when he broke down from overwork behind the locked doors of a studio. But the second his daughter arrived into the world eight pounds of perfection, lungs strong, fists tiny his composure shattered like poorly tightened drum strings.

He stood beside Y/N, his wife, her forehead dewed with sweat, exhaustion painting shadows beneath her eyes, and yet, still glowing. Her hand gripped his weakly, but it was her eyes that anchored him eyes that silently said, This is ours.

And so he looked at his daughter. Her name would be Areum meaning beautiful, fitting for someone born with the moonlight resting on her skin and a soul that made the sterile hospital room feel like home.

Seoul, 6:04 a.m. Sunlight seeped through the gauzy curtains and stretched across the king‑size bed like warm honey. Somewhere outside, a sparrow chirped an over‑enthusiastic scale almost as if auditioning for SEVENTEEN. Inside, the master bedroom of the Lee household was quiet… until a five‑year‑old whirlwind padded in on sock‑clad feet.

“Appa…” The whisper was soft but determined. Tiny palms pressed against Lee Jihoon’s cheeks, squishing them together so his lips puckered like a goldfish. “Wake up, you promised heart pancakes.”

Jihoon’s eyes cracked open; the night’s leftover exhaustion evaporated at the sight of his daughter’s bed‑head curls. “Morning already?” he croaked. His voice a producer’s prized instrument sounded more like crumpled sheet music.

From the other side of the bed, Y/N shifted, a sleepy smile curving her lips. “Your turn, superstar. My stage call isn’t until eight.” She reached out and brushed a stray curl from Areum’s forehead. “Mommy will taste‑test later.”

Areum’s face lit up, cheeks dimpling. “Appa, pancakes. With strawberry sprinkles. And chocolate eyes so they can see us eat them.”

Jihoon surrendered, sitting up in a tangle of blankets. His daughter squealed triumphantly and launched herself into his arms. The oversize T‑shirt he wore as pajamas sported a faded Going Seventeen logo; Areum fiddled with the hem as he scooped her close.

“How about a grand entrée?” he suggested, carrying her princess‑style toward the kitchen. “Heart‑shaped pancakes, blueberry smile, chocolate‑chip freckles, and a syrup moat.”

“Don’t forget the whipped‑cream mountain,” Areum added. “Mount Whipmore!”

Behind them, Y/N laughed into her pillow. “Remind me to trademark that.”

The Lee kitchen was equal parts homey and high‑tech: an espresso machine that hissed like a cymbal, a refrigerator plastered with preschool art, and a magnetic whiteboard where Woozi’s to‑do list battled stickers of cartoon tigers.

Areum wiggled onto her step stool painted lavender with silver stars, courtesy of Uncle Hoshi and donned a child‑sized apron. Jihoon tied the strings and grabbed the mixing bowl.

“Flour,” he announced, sliding the container over. “Half a cup careful.”

A puff of white dust clouded the air as Areum over‑enthusiastically dumped the flour. “Oops.”

“Creative expression,” Jihoon said, scooping the excess back in. “Next: milk, eggs, vanilla.”

As they whisked, Jihoon hummed a simple melody four bars looping like sunlight on parquet flooring. Areum matched pitch, her tiny voice threading through his bass notes.

Y/N appeared in the doorway, phone camera rolling. “Your morning duet is going to break Twitter,” she teased.

“Exclusive pre‑release,” Jihoon joked, flipping the first pancake with a practiced wrist. It landed perfectly; Areum clapped like it was a magic trick.

They decorated: strawberry‑slice hearts, chocolate‑chip eyes, whipped‑cream mountains so tall they threatened avalanche. Areum drizzled syrup until rivers formed around each cake. Jihoon pretended to launch tiny gummy‑bear boats down the syrup streams; Areum’s giggles filled the kitchen like cymbal crashes.

They plated three masterpieces. Jihoon carried the tray back to the bedroom where Y/N sat cross‑legged, laptop open, reviewing fabric swatches for SEVENTEEN’s next concept. She closed it at once, face lighting up at the spectacle.

“Mount Whipmore in all its glory,” Jihoon proclaimed.

The family tucked in. Syrup stuck to Areum’s chin; Y/N dabbed it away with a napkin. Jihoon cut bite‑sized pieces for them both before eating his own.

Between mouthfuls, Areum launched rapid‑fire questions: “Appa, why is a piano called a piano? Umma, can we visit the Han River today? Does whipped cream melt in space?”

Jihoon fielded each inquiry with professor‑level seriousness, eyes twinkling. Y/N chimed in dramatizing every answer.

By the end, pancakes were gone, plates licked clean, laughter echoing off the walls. Jihoon pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple, another to Areum’s syrupy cheek.

“Best breakfast concert I’ve ever headlined,” he declared.

Areum threw her arms around his neck. "tomorrow again?”

“Every day, Moonie my life’s favorite encore.”

And as the family shuffled toward the living room Jihoon to the piano, Areum to her crayon kingdom, Y/N trailing with her sketchbook the sparrow’s song outside seemed to harmonize, as if the whole neighborhood had tuned in for the next movement of the Morning Symphony.

Jihoon’s studio had evolved with the seasons of his life. What was once a solitary space for instruments and stress was now a shared sanctuary.

There was a low corner table with chunky crayons and pink post-it notes, some scribbled with Areum’s critiques:

"Appa, this one made me sleepy, good sleepy"

"More sparkle sounds please."

Y/N had claimed a shelf near the window for her brushes and fabric samples. She’d design mock outfits for comebacks right next to her daughter’s Lego cities.

Sometimes, while Jihoon layered chords, Y/N would be painting the concept poster for a new Seventeen unit. Areum, meanwhile, orchestrated her stuffed animals into a chorus line.

“Appa, make the teddy bear sing!”

“You’re the composer, Moon. You show me.”

She’d tap random keys until a melody emerged, laughing when Jihoon would nod and say, “We have a hit.”

Every Sunday was sacred.

Matching outfits hand-sewn by Y/N. They wore pastels or neutrals depending on Moonie’s mood. Today, lilac hoodies with tiny crescent moons stitched over the heart.

They picnicked near Han River. Jihoon’s old guitar in tow, their portable speaker playing soft ballads, Areum racing between trees with a disposable camera. Y/N sprawled on the mat sketching them both.

After eating, Jihoon sang. His guitar gentle, voice lower than stage level, private.

Areum twirled beside him, feet bare in the grass. Y/N harmonized with soft hums.

A security guard walked by, recognized them, but simply tipped his hat and walked on. Even idols deserved to be Appa, Umma, and Moon.

They stayed until the sun kissed the skyline and Areum yawned against Y/N’s lap.

Woozi could produce a ten-layer synth harmony but braiding hair? That took dedication.

He’d practiced with a doll Y/N bought him until he got it right.

Now, every school morning he braided Areum’s hair into twin plaits. She sat on the bathroom stool, chattering about her day ahead.

“Appa, we have to bring a family photo. Which one should I use?”

“Let’s take a new one,” he said. “Today. Just us three.”

That night, after brushing her teeth and jumping under her space-themed blanket, Areum held out a book.

“This one, Appa. The one where the bear finds home.”

Jihoon read with one arm around her, the other hand in Y/N’s. He gave every character a different voice. When Areum finally drifted off, he didn’t move.

“She’s growing so fast,” he whispered.

Y/N kissed his shoulder. “She’ll always need her Appa, no matter how tall she gets.”

On tour, Jihoon missed them like oxygen.

Time zones couldn’t stop them, though.

Every day, Y/N and Areum sent voice notes. Jihoon responded with lullabies recorded backstage. He wore a charm bracelet with three beads A, Y, and J.

After his solo stage, the staff handed him an envelope. Inside: a crayon drawing of him on stage, a crowd of hearts, and a stick-figure Areum holding a mic beside him.

“So I can sing next time too.”

He cried in the dressing room. Again.

Ten years old.

Y/N decorated the house with moon motifs. Jihoon wrote a song just for her, layered with lullaby melodies and harmonies in the background. They recorded it secretly for weeks.

They premiered it at her birthday party in the living room. Lights dimmed, projector on.

Areum’s eyes filled with tears by the second verse.

“Appa, Umma... this is my favorite song. Forever.”

He held her tightly.

Y/N rested her head on his shoulder.

And the music played on.

Now 16, Areum was taller. Her hair now dyed a soft rose gold. She danced like her uncles, wrote music like her Appa, and had her Umma’s eye for detail.

One evening, Jihoon passed her studio room and paused.

She was recording.

The melody was familiar. The same one he wrote years ago.

“Appa,” she called softly. “Come sing with me?”

He entered, heart full, and sat beside her. She passed him a mic.

And just like that, the lullaby became a duet.

Areum, Jihoon, and Y/N still orbiting, still in harmony.

Under one moon.

Forever.

[bearforcecaptions]

"If you're going to go through with this, can you at least make me forget?"

Evan’s voice cracked as he stood in Jonah’s dim, incense-clouded apartment, his borrowed body hunched awkwardly under the low ceiling. It had been two weeks. Two weeks since the mirror ritual. Two weeks since the spell that was never meant to end like this.

Jonah didn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t. He just kept busy at the altar in the corner—brass bowls, crystals, burnt herbs. All useless now.

“It wasn’t supposed to be permanent,” Jonah muttered, voice tight. “You were just supposed to—wear the disguise. Blend in. Gather info. Infiltrate that council cell and extract the identity key. You were supposed to come back.”

Evan laughed—dry and joyless. “Yeah? Tell that to my reflection.”

He gestured toward the cracked mirror propped up by duct tape and hope. The reflection that stared back was alien, and yet achingly familiar now. The greasy curls slicked back by habit. The deeply etched lines along a jaw that now bristled with five o’clock shadow twenty-four-seven. The monstrous, impossible mustache that twitched whenever he clenched his jaw, which was often these days.

His shirt—a permanent fixture, mustard yellow, slightly damp with sweat—gaped open halfway down his chest, where thick curls of hair spilled over like creeping vines. His eyes—once light, alert—were now deep-set, shadowed, and, worst of all, tired.

He'd done everything he could to reverse it. Followed every incantation Jonah scrawled for him. Drank teas. Meditated. Cleansed. But the magical threads of the transformation had fused too deeply.

“I don’t know what went wrong,” Jonah admitted finally. “The spell should have unraveled when you left the target zone. When the energy signature faded. But it’s... like the body anchored itself. And now it won’t let you go.”

Evan sat down hard on Jonah’s stained couch, rubbing his temples with trembling, calloused fingers.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he whispered. “I’m losing track of when I showered last. I stink, Jonah. My neighbors flinch when they see me. The mail carrier avoids eye contact. I found a sticky note on my door that said ‘KEEP YOUR EYES TO YOURSELF.’”

He shuddered. “I’m becoming him. And the worst part is... he didn’t even exist before. This sleazy creep—Salvatore Ferrini—was conjured up by the spell. And now everyone just knows him. Like he’s been here for years. People wave. Girls give dirty looks. Some guy at the bar said ‘Hey Sal, you still owe me for that poker game.’”

Evan leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t even know what that means. I don’t know how to be him. But I can’t keep being me in this nightmare.”

Silence fell.

Jonah finally turned to face him. “You really want to forget? To stop fighting it?”

Evan nodded slowly. “I’d rather be a full creep than half of one.”

Jonah hesitated, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a small vial. Glowing blue. Cool to the touch. “This won’t turn you back. But it’ll finish what started. It’ll seal the identity. You’ll forget Evan. I’ll forget Evan. Sal will be all that’s left.”

Evan took it without hesitation. He unscrewed the lid, sniffed once. Peppermint and rot.

Then he drank.

It started slow.

Evan blinked once. His spine slackened. His breathing deepened. A layer of tension peeled away from his bones like dead skin. His jaw unclenched and then slowly began to jut forward, his lips pushing out slightly as his face settled into a more slouched, slack expression. He scratched under his collar, letting out a soft grunt of discomfort as he tugged at the sweat sticking his mustard shirt to his now-hairier chest.

Another blink.

Time stuttered.

His fingers thickened where they rested in his lap. The air in the apartment shifted, blurred—like a dream disintegrating at the edges. Jonah felt the change too—though he couldn’t say what was changing. Something in the room grew older, more cramped, as if gravity itself weighed heavier.

Evan blinked again. And didn’t come back.

The man in the room hunched forward with a grunt and scratched under his massive, bristling black mustache. His mouth hung half-open in thought, then curled into a smirk as he spoke:

“Eh... right. The drill. You said I could borrow it, yeah? Mine’s crapped out. Got a leak under the sink won’t fix itself.”

Jonah’s brow furrowed. He rubbed his temples, confused by the sudden wave of disorientation washing through his head.

Where was—

Sal Ferrini stood up, one hand on his lower back, groaning as he stretched his broad, unkempt shoulders beneath the stained yellow shirt. He wiped his fingers down the front, leaving faint smears of grease from somewhere unseen.

“Y’know, you should really do something about that stress, kid. I got a girl I call when the pipes get too tight—heh.” He winked, his mustache twitching as he chuckled at his own innuendo. “You want her number? Works cheap. Very... enthusiastic.”

Jonah grimaced automatically, taking a step back without thinking. His nose wrinkled—Sal always had this sweaty cologne and old tobacco aura around him. The man’s presence lingered in the room like a spill that wouldn’t wipe clean.

“No thanks, Sal,” Jonah muttered, already regretting answering the door a few minutes ago.

“Suit yourself,” Sal shrugged. “Don’t say I never offered.”

He turned toward the hallway, hand already reaching for the doorknob, but paused just before exiting. “Buzz me if you find that drill, huh? Doorbell’s busted, as usual.”

And with that, Sal Ferrini lumbered out, leaving behind a faint trail of body heat and something vaguely resembling cheap cologne.

Jonah stood in the center of the apartment for a long moment, rubbing his face like he could wipe off the lingering presence of his neighbor. The door clicked shut behind Sal with a final, unpleasant sound, leaving a stale silence in its wake.

He muttered to himself, “Why do I keep agreeing to help that guy?” though he couldn’t quite remember the first time Sal had ever come by. It felt like he’d always lived down the hall, always been that persistent, sleazy nuisance—a fixture of the building, like the broken buzzer and the weird stain in the lobby carpet.

--

Down in 3B, Sal Ferrini whistled a low, tuneless melody as he fiddled with the leaky pipe under his sink. Shirt open wide, he scratched his chest with a plumber’s wrench and sighed.

Something about today felt good.

Like he was finally himself.

[chanelgrll]

Make out headcanons with the Killer Chat Li's please?

A/N: Hiii ofc!! (I didn't know what to do for v </3) Ronin

Would be slow on purpose, he'd kiss you so slowly and so deeply that your knees go weak before you even realize he’s taken control. He kisses like he’s got nowhere else to be

has a habit of catching your bottom lip between his teeth at the end of a kiss, sometimes sharply, just enough to make you gasp. He loves that reaction. You pulling back with your lip swollen and your breath hitched? Music to his ears.

If you’re the type to act like kissing him isn’t a big deal, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed, he’ll up the ante immediately. He’ll whisper things against your mouth just to make you flustered

Hands. everywhere. They're always busy and somewhere on you, holding your jaw, waist, etc!

Would make out with you in semi-public places. Dark alleys, quiet corners at bars, back seats of cars, just risky enough to make your pulse spike. He loves how your hands fist in his shirt when someone walks by too close, and how you don’t push him away. That little thrill that you might get caught, even though no one else sees how wrecked you are under his mouth? Delicious. Angel

If you’re the one to initiate, to kiss them mid-sentence, to take control, Angel completely short-circuits. Her hands grip your waist like they’re anchoring themselves. She'll chase your lips, leaning in like they’re starving.

Gentle and loving, you can feel her affection and adoration through the way she kisses you, leaning back slightly to whisper sweet nothings to you

Would cup your cheek with her hand or wrap her arms around your neck. One hand on your cheek, thumb stroking the curve of your jaw; the other hovering at your hip, unsure whether to pull you closer or just hold you still and soak it in.

EYE CONTACT, she'd lean in looking right into your eyes . Her gaze lingers on your mouth, then meets your eyes—asking permission, and something deeper

She can start gentle, but Angel has a switch. When it flips, she deepens the kiss. The desperation creeps in, and suddenly her hands are everywhere, clutching your waist, threading into your hair, cupping your face like you’re about to vanish.

Misaki

would laugh against your mouth, especially if they randomly think of something funny randomly (come on it's misaki)

Surprises you, they'd contemplate suddenly kissing you mid convo and pounce like a cat

Holds your hand, if you're taller they'd place one hand on your shoulder, if you're taller they'd cup your face in their hands

Slowly for sure, very gentle and would definitely ask if they're doing a good job or if they're too rough , when you give the okay they waste no time getting right back to it

Easily embarrassed afterwards especially if they get realllyyyy into it like they got possessed

Praises you throughout! Hugs you and kisses all over your face and neck in between V

probably has no idea how to kiss (sorry v)

very very gentle and slow, takes his time and savors every second of it, would keep asking if he's doing too much

Would only make out with you in private spaces, but would kiss you in public

Holds your face, waist, hip, etc

Would say words of endearment throughout, kissing your face and holding your hand while making out with you

[spitefulsatanfics]

𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞...

— by little devil 🕯️

pairing: sam winchester x she/her reader

tone: soft angst, domestic fluff, soulbond-core tenderness, supernatural vibes

genre: canon-compliant headcanon list told through mini fanfiction scenes

rating: pg-13 for language, emotional content, and yearning synopsis: falling in love with Sam Winchester is quiet at first. And then it's everything.

📖 Waking Up to the Sound of Pages Turning

Sam doesn’t sleep much—not deeply, anyway. But when he does, it’s always with his hand on your hip and his brow still slightly furrowed, like even in his dreams he’s working something out.

When you wake, it’s to the sound of gentle page-flipping and the steam of early morning coffee. He’s at the table, glasses low on his nose, wearing the flannel you slept in last week.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still sleep-warmed. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shuffle over and drop into his lap. He doesn’t even blink—just adjusts his book so you can read too.

🌧️ Rainy Day Research Dates in Crappy Motels

You're both cross-legged on the bed, books open, laptops glowing.

“So I’m thinking maybe it’s a Mayan vengeance spirit,” you say, frowning. “Or a Cihuateteo,” he offers. “They target families—specifically mothers.”

Outside, rain patters against the window like a lullaby. Inside, Sam passes you half a granola bar and smiles like it’s a gift from the gods.

You lean your shoulder into his. He leans back. It’s the simplest form of intimacy, but it anchors you both like magic could never do.

🐺 Sam’s Protective Streak is Quiet but Deadly

“He was looking at you weird,” Sam says after the hunt, jaw clenched. “He was the bartender, Sam.” “Still.”

He doesn’t snap or growl or flex. He just goes still—that eerie, watchful calm that only Sam Winchester can pull off. But when someone threatens you? That calm becomes a calculated, terrifying storm.

“Touch her again,” he says to the creature in the alley, “and you’ll never see daylight again.”

You’ve never seen anything die so fast.

🌌 Midnight Talks That Spiral Into Existential Philosophy and Hand-Holding

You’re lying on your backs in a field post-hunt. The stars are out in full force, and you both smell like sulfur and smoke and victory.

“Do you ever think about fate?” you ask. “Every day,” he replies, voice low. “Especially since I met you.”

You turn to look at him. He’s already watching you.

Your pinkies brush. Then your hands thread together like you’ve always known how.

🥣 Surprise Domesticity That Feels Like a Lifetime in a Moment

You come back from the laundromat and Sam’s in the tiny kitchenette making soup. The kind with real vegetables, not just noodles and hope.

He looks up, sheepish.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

You stare at him in his hoodie and bare feet, stirring soup like some impossibly tall dream. Something about the whole thing hits you like a truck.

“Marry me.” “What?” he laughs, blinking. “Nothing. Just—thank you.”

You’ll ask him for real someday. Probably. Maybe.

📚 Reading You to Sleep Because He Absolutely Does That

He picks out classics and mythologies—stuff he knows you like. Sometimes it’s lore, sometimes it’s poetry, sometimes it's just his voice.

“And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting—” “—on the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,” you murmur sleepily.

He smiles and closes the book, letting his fingers brush your hair back.

“Goodnight, Poe girl.”

🧃 Remembering the Smallest, Strangest Details About You

You once mentioned you liked grape juice. Like... once. In passing. Six towns and three hunts later, he places one beside your coffee.

“They had it at the gas station,” he shrugs, eyes gleaming. “Thought of you.”

Sam Winchester doesn’t just remember anniversaries. He remembers the way your nose scrunches when you’re concentrating, the time you cried during that one commercial, and the exact brand of pens you like.

🩹 Tending to Your Wounds With Holy Water and Shaking Hands

He’s patching you up. Again. You’re making jokes to distract him, but his eyes are locked on the wound and his jaw is tight.

“Sam, I’m fine—” “You almost weren’t.”

His hands pause. His voice breaks.

“I—I can’t lose you, Y/N. I won’t. I won’t survive it.”

You take his hand, press it to your ribs where your heart still beats. He closes his eyes like it’s the only sound keeping him sane.

✍🏻 Writing in His Journal About You (Even If He’ll Never Admit It)

There’s a page with your name on it. You catch a glimpse once when you’re looking for lore on a curse. Just your name. A few bullet points. Little things.

Makes really good coffee when she tries

Calls me out when I overwork myself

Laughs in her sleep

Beautiful even when she’s pissed at me

Might be it for me

You don’t say anything. Just press a kiss to his shoulder and pretend you never saw it.

🕯️ The Quiet Kind of Love That Fills the Cracks in Your Soul

Sam Winchester won’t shout it from the rooftops. He doesn’t need to. His love is in the way he double-checks your seatbelt, the way he hands you the good pillow, the way he says your name like it’s a prayer.

“You’re it for me,” he whispers one night, voice barely there. “If I get to keep one thing, just one… I want it to be you.”

And you know—no matter how dark the road gets, how bloody the work becomes—his hand will find yours in the dark. Every time.

𓆩📖𓆪 Loving Sam Winchester feels like ancient poetry, like library dust on fingertips, like firelight and absolution.

He doesn’t just love you. He believes in you. In your goodness. In your strength. In the fact that maybe—just maybe—you’re the only light worth following.

𓆩📖𓆪

[theonottsbxtch]

CHICAGO PT.1 | OP81

an: i already know the girlies are going to hate me for this, i made oscar go through it this series ahhhhhhhhhhh im sorry

summary: he met her in chicago, she told him she didn't have a man, he got hooked.

wc: 4k

Oscar had met her in Chicago, of all places. The city sprawled beneath a sky that never seemed to settle, constantly shifting between grey and gold, as though unsure of its own identity. He hadn’t wanted to be there. Chicago was a detour, a necessary stop in a life too full of places he didn’t want to go. PR had dragged him into its windswept streets, ushering him toward events and dinners that blurred into a dull hum of names he would never remember.

But then there was her.

It happened at a cocktail event in some opulent hotel, a place where chandeliers dangled like stars over a sea of perfectly curated faces. The room was filled with a low murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, the thin veneer of sophistication that never quite reached beyond the surface. Oscar stood near the bar, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as his thoughts drifted. He was already planning his escape when she appeared.

Not entered the room—appeared, as though the air had conjured her from nothingness. A figure dressed in shadows and light, with red lips like the first drop of blood on fresh snow, and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the very space around her. She moved like silk caught in a breeze—fluid, graceful, with a purpose that was almost predatory, though there was nothing menacing in her gaze. No, she was hunting something, but it was subtle, wrapped in a smile that promised a thousand secrets.

“Do you mind?” she asked, her voice soft, lilting, a melody that barely stirred the air. She gestured to the empty stool beside him.

Oscar blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the smoothness of her arrival. It was as though she had been meant to be there all along, the final piece of a puzzle he hadn’t even realised was missing. Without a word, he motioned for her to sit, his whiskey forgotten, the glass now an anchor in his hand rather than a comfort.

Her name was imprinted into his mind. Her voice curled around the syllables, a name that felt like it should belong to someone in a faded photograph, or a character in a half-forgotten dream. When she smiled, it was the kind of smile that didn’t ask to be trusted, but made you want to trust it anyway. There was something so effortless in the way she carried herself, in the way she tilted her head just so, her hair brushing against her cheek as she spoke.

They began to talk, though talk wasn’t quite the right word. She led the conversation with a gentle ease, guiding it as if she were navigating a river, never pushing too hard, never revealing more than she wanted. Her voice wove stories of her life in Chicago, like threads pulled from a tapestry woven just for him. Her work as a designer, her life as a single mother—it was all laid out before him, but in pieces, fragments of a larger picture he couldn’t yet see, but wanted desperately to complete.

Then, she mentioned her daughter, and the mask shifted, just slightly. There, in her eyes he saw a softness, a flicker of something real, or at least something that felt real.

“She’s seven,” she said, her smile now tinged with a kind of wistfulness that made Oscar’s chest tighten. “Her name’s Lila. Smart as a whip. It’s just me and her, though. Doing it on my own.”

The words hung in the air between them, and for the briefest of moments, Oscar felt as though he were standing on the edge of something he couldn’t quite name. A single mother, raising her daughter in a city that never stopped moving, never stopped demanding more—it struck a chord in him, deep and resonant. There was something in her story that tugged at him, an invisible thread that wound tighter with every word she spoke.

She glanced up at him, her eyes catching the light in a way that made them seem endless, like dark pools that promised a depth he wasn’t sure he could navigate. But he wanted to. He wanted to know everything about her, to uncover the layers she kept just out of reach, to be the one who could offer her something more. More than just conversation. More than just sympathy.

“Must be tough,” Oscar murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. There was something sacred in the way she spoke of her daughter, as if Lila was the only thing tethering her to the world, the anchor in her otherwise untethered existence.

She sighed, but it wasn’t the kind of sigh that begged for attention. It was subtle, almost delicate, the kind of resignation that comes from a practised weariness. The weight of her words was perfectly measured, enough to evoke sympathy, but never pity. She wasn’t asking for anything, not outright, and yet her silence spoke louder than anything else could.

“You get used to it,” she said, her voice like a thread pulled tight, thin but unbreaking. “But, yeah... sometimes it is.”

The way she said it, as though it were an afterthought, made Oscar’s heart twist. It was the kind of struggle that sounded too familiar, too real, and before he knew it, something had shifted in him. Something protective, something foolishly eager to offer help, to be the one who could ease that burden, even if only a little.

And that’s how she hooked him. Not with grand gestures or overt requests, but with the smallest, most intimate revelations. A look here, a sigh there. Each one perfectly placed, perfectly timed. She never needed to ask, because he offered before the words could form on her lips. And every time she smiled that secretive, knowing smile, he found himself falling deeper, wanting to believe that maybe—just maybe—he was the one who could change things for her.

Days slipped into weeks like sand through an hourglass, each encounter with her deepening the spell she cast over him. Chicago began to feel like a dreamscape where their paths intertwined, a place where his mundane existence blurred into a tapestry woven with her laughter and soft whispers.

They met in the city’s hidden corners—a quiet café tucked away from the bustling streets, a dimly lit bar where jazz music wrapped around them like a warm embrace. Each time Oscar saw her, the ache of attraction blossomed, rich and vibrant, filling him with a heady mixture of hope and longing. He often found himself stealing glances, wondering if she felt the same gravity toward him that he felt toward her.

But the deeper he fell, the more he sensed an undercurrent of mystery beneath her charm. It was subtle, a flicker in her gaze whenever her phone buzzed with a text she wouldn’t show him. Sometimes, he’d catch her staring out the window, her thoughts drifting away to somewhere he couldn’t follow.

One evening, they were at a secluded rooftop bar, the city sprawling below them like a sea of twinkling lights. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused just for them. Oscar had just shared a joke, one that made her laugh—a sound so genuine, it sent warmth coursing through him.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asked, his curiosity spilling over as they leaned closer, the space between them charged with something electric. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a spell.

“Every day,” she replied, her eyes locking onto his, dark and mysterious. “But it’s hard to dream when you’re so busy living.”

Oscar studied her, captivated by the glimmer of vulnerability beneath her poised exterior. “What do you dream of?” he probed, leaning in, their faces inches apart, the world around them fading into a blur.

“I dream of freedom,” she confessed, a faint tremor in her voice. “The freedom to choose… to be whoever I want.” There was a momentary flicker in her eyes, an openness that invited him in, only to pull back just as quickly, like a candle’s flame flickering in the wind.

He couldn’t believe a woman like her was really into him. His mind raced, battling with the part of him that wanted to dismiss the notion. She was enchanting, sophisticated, everything he had ever wanted but never thought he could attain. In this moment, he felt like a moth drawn to a flame, unable to resist the allure, even as it threatened to consume him.

As if sensing his turmoil, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand, a fleeting touch that ignited the air between them. “You’re a good man, Oscar,” she whispered, her voice sultry, each word curling around him like smoke. “You make me feel… alive.”

That’s when he leaned in, the space between them collapsing into something more intimate. Their lips met, tentatively at first, the kiss igniting a spark that coursed through him like fire. She tasted like whiskey and wildflowers, sweet and intoxicating, and Oscar lost himself in the moment. Every worry, every doubt faded away as he kissed her deeper, his hands finding their way to her waist, pulling her closer as if to shield her from the world outside.

But in the back of his mind, a nagging voice whispered warnings he didn’t want to hear. He wondered if he was the only one, she never mentioned her daughter’s father but that wasn’t something he was sure he wanted to know. He didn’t want to spend his days comparing himself to the man that she loved. Sometimes he caught himself wondering what he was like, was he a friend? Was he carefree and cool? Was he everything that he wasn’t? Or was he just like him? The thought made him pull back, his heart pounding not just from desire but from confusion and fear.

“Is it just me?” he asked before he could stop himself, breathless, searching her eyes for a hint of truth.

Her smile faltered for just a moment, and in that instant, he saw the cracks in her facade. But then it was gone, replaced by that intoxicating allure. “You know it’s complicated, Osc. But I like being with you. You make me feel… special.”

The way she said it drew him in again, like a moth irresistibly fluttering toward the flame, unable to see the danger. Yet the ghost of uncertainty lingered, an unsettling reminder that she might not be who she appeared to be.

“Sometimes, it feels like there’s more,” he murmured, almost to himself, but she caught his gaze, holding it like a secret, her expression unreadable.

“Don’t think too much,” she said, her tone playful but layered with something else—something deeper. “Just enjoy what we have. It’s beautiful in its own way.”

As the night wore on and the stars blinked into existence above them, Oscar found himself caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The intoxicating rush of her presence, the warmth of her body so close to his, overshadowed the haunting doubts that flickered in the recesses of his mind.

The days after that rooftop kiss blurred together into a fever dream, a haze of her touch, her scent, the way her lips felt against his skin. Oscar found himself thinking about her constantly, her name echoing in his mind like a mantra. He checked his phone compulsively, waiting for her messages, craving her presence. Each time she called or texted, his heart leapt in a way that both excited and terrified him.

He couldn’t focus on work. Off season meetings passed by in a fog of half-formed strategies and distracted nods while he was still away from the city he was meant to be in. His mind was always elsewhere—trapped in the memory of her smile, the feel of her fingers brushing against his arm, the way she whispered his name late at night, in that low, intimate voice that sent shivers down his spine.

By the time she invited him over to her apartment, it felt like an invitation to a sanctuary. His heart raced as he climbed the stairs, each step heavy with anticipation. When she opened the door, it was like the world outside ceased to exist. She stood there, bathed in the dim light of her living room, wearing a simple black dress that clung to her in all the right places. Her eyes gleamed as she smiled at him, a smile that was more dangerous than any warning.

"Come in," she murmured, stepping back to let him inside.

Oscar didn’t need to be asked twice. He crossed the threshold and found himself in a space that smelled faintly of vanilla and something warm, something that reminded him of her. The apartment was quiet, cosy, but he barely noticed the surroundings. All he could see was her.

They sat on the couch, glasses of wine in hand, but conversation quickly slipped away. She leaned in, her body inches from his, and it took everything in him not to close the gap. He could feel the heat of her skin, the soft exhale of her breath against his neck as she leaned even closer, her lips brushing his ear.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, the words sending a jolt of electricity through him.

Oscar turned to her, his pulse quickening as their eyes met. Her face was inches from his, lips parted just slightly, as if daring him to close the distance. And he did. In one swift motion, his hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her toward him.

Their lips collided with a force that startled him, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. The kiss was deep, hungry, the pent-up tension of weeks of longing spilling over all at once. Her hands slid up his chest, nails grazing his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and he groaned softly, losing himself in the feel of her. Every touch, every movement seemed to ignite something primal in him, something he hadn’t known existed until she had awakened it.

She straddled him, her thighs pressing against his hips as she deepened the kiss, her body moulding to his in a way that made him dizzy. Oscar’s hands roamed over her back, her waist, pulling her closer, needing her closer. He kissed her like he was starved for her, and in a way, he was—starved for the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she seemed to fill every space inside him that had once been hollow.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire, his breath shallow. “I can’t stop thinking about you, angel.”

Because that was what she was, an angel, sent from heaven. Just for him.

Her lips curled into a smile as she nipped at his bottom lip, a soft, teasing bite that made him moan. “Good,” she whispered, her voice sultry, her fingers trailing down his chest, over the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing them, one by one. “I like knowing I’m always on your mind.”

“You are,” Oscar breathed, his hands gripping her hips as she pressed against him, the heat of her body making it impossible to think of anything else. His heart pounded in his chest, drowning out all reason, all sense of reality. There was only her. Only this.

He leaned back, his head resting against the couch as she kissed along his jawline, down his neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His breath hitched as she bit softly at the sensitive spot just below his ear, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, nails raking lightly against his skin. He could barely speak, the words thick on his tongue, but they tumbled out before he could stop them.

“I’d leave everything for you, you know that?” he said, half-laughing, half-serious, the thought slipping out like a confession. “I’d quit my job—hell, I’d move to this shitty city for you.”

She paused, pulling back just enough to look at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. For a split second, Oscar saw something flicker in her gaze—surprise, amusement, maybe even guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. She tilted her head, her fingers trailing down his chest again, this time slower, more deliberate.

“Would you really?” she asked, her voice a soft purr, her lips curling into a playful smile that sent his heart racing.

Oscar swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d do anything for you.”

She smiled, that dangerous smile again, and leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss that made his entire body tremble. Her hands slid around his neck, pulling him closer, and for a moment, Oscar forgot everything—his job, his life, even his own name. There was only her. Only the way she made him feel, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

But as the kiss deepened, as his mind spun with desire and longing, that nagging doubt crept back in. The flicker of uncertainty that had been lingering at the edge of his thoughts ever since that night on the rooftop. He pushed it down, pushed it away, not wanting to spoil the moment, but it was there—like a shadow, haunting the edges of his euphoria.

Oscar’s words hung in the air, a half-breathed promise laced with both desperation and devotion. The world outside, his career, his obligations—they seemed like distant echoes now, fading in the intensity of her presence. Every nerve in his body was attuned to her, to the subtle shift of her weight as she pressed closer, the heat of her body melding with his. The temptation, the desire, was overwhelming.

Her lips brushed against his in a whisper of a kiss, slow and deliberate, her breath warm as it mingled with his. Each kiss she planted was softer, more intimate than the last, trailing back from his mouth down to his neck, as if she was marking him as hers. She moved with a purpose, her hands sliding under his shirt, fingertips exploring his skin with a tantalising slowness that made Oscar’s breath hitch. Every touch was electric, sending shivers coursing down his spine.

“What would you do for me?” she murmured, her voice like velvet, the words teasing and yet dripping with seductive power. Her lips moved against his collarbone as she spoke, making it harder for him to focus on anything but the feel of her, the warmth of her breath, the way she said his name like it was something sacred.

Oscar could barely speak, barely breathe. He nodded, his fingers gripping her hips tighter, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. "Anything," he whispered, his voice raw and honest, his eyes searching hers for some sign that she might feel the same way, that this wasn’t all one-sided.

Her lips found his again, but this time the kiss was deeper, more consuming. It wasn’t just passion—it was possession. She kissed him as though she were claiming every part of him, and Oscar surrendered willingly, his mind lost in the sensation of her lips, the softness of her skin against his. Her body shifted, pressing fully against him, and he could feel the thrum of her heartbeat, could hear the soft, breathy moans that escaped her lips as they moved together.

His hands wandered up her back, fingers tracing the line of her spine before finding their way into her hair, tangling in the dark, silken strands. He tugged gently, pulling her head back just enough to expose her neck, and kissed the hollow of her throat, his lips trailing down to her shoulder. The scent of her perfume was intoxicating—something sweet and dangerous, like a promise that could never be kept.

She gasped softly, her fingers tightening in his hair, and he could feel her smile against his skin. “You’re so sweet, Oscar,” she whispered, her voice husky, dripping with allure. She shifted in his lap, grinding slowly against him in a way that made his breath catch, his heart pound in his chest. "So eager to please."

Her words were both a praise and a tease, and Oscar could feel his resolve melting, every coherent thought slipping away under the weight of his desire for her. He kissed her again, harder this time, a rush of emotion flooding through him as he poured everything he couldn’t say into the kiss. His hands roamed over her body, feeling the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the heat of her pressing against him. It was as though she had become the centre of his universe, everything else falling away, and he wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment, lost in her.

She responded with equal fervour, her fingers pulling at his shirt, sliding it over his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands explored the bare skin of his chest, nails dragging lightly across his muscles, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Oscar groaned softly, his lips moving to the curve of her jaw, kissing along the line until he reached her ear. He could feel her tremble slightly against him, a subtle shudder that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He pulled back for a moment, just enough to look at her—her flushed cheeks, the way her lips were swollen from his kisses, the way her eyes glistened in the low light of the room. She was breathtaking, and for a moment, Oscar couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his thumb brushing gently across her lower lip. She captured it between her teeth for just a second, her eyes gleaming with mischief, before releasing it with a slow, seductive smile.

“And you’re mine,” she whispered back, her voice a promise and a command all at once. She kissed him again, slow and deep, her hips rolling against his in a way that made him lose all sense of control. “Mine to keep, mine to own, mine to use.”

The words flew over Oscar’s head as he slid his hands beneath the hem of her dress, fingers tracing the smooth skin of her thighs, pulling her even closer. He wanted her—needed her—and every touch, every kiss, only made him more desperate. She moaned softly against his lips, a sound that sent heat rushing through his veins, making his heart race, making him weak for her in ways he never thought possible.

“I’d leave everything for you,” he repeated, his voice hoarse as he kissed the side of her neck, his hands tightening on her waist, wanting her closer, needing her closer. "My job, the city, everything. Just say the word, angel."

For a moment, she paused, her fingers stilling against his skin. Her eyes met his, and there was something in her gaze—something unreadable, something that flickered and then disappeared before he could grasp it. But then she smiled, that slow, dangerous smile that made his heart ache with both longing and uncertainty.

“I know you would,” she whispered, her voice like honey, thick and sweet. Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, and she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “But for now, just stay here… with me. Be mine.”

And with that, she kissed him again, deeper this time, pulling him back into the heat of the moment, into her, until all he could think about was the way she felt against him, the way she tasted, the way she made him forget everything else.

Oscar was completely, utterly hooked. He knew he was falling, deeper and deeper, blinded by the enchantment she wove around him, not realising that the threads were spun from illusions. While he yearned to be the hero in her story, she was crafting her own tale.

part two

[bananasplit133]

Dial T for Tenna (PART 7)

Part 1 -- Ao3

Summary: Wandering halls reveal more than corridors—friendship deepens in quiet steps and shared silence. :D

-----

The hallways had started to blur again.

You’d been working here long enough to know the general shape of the studio. At least, you thought you had. After a week or so of crisscrossing these corridors—dodging light rigs, crew carts, runaway props—you’d started to convince yourself that you had a decent internal map. Left at the sound stage with the busted vending machine. Right past the hall that always smelled like dry ice and wet carpet. But today… the shape was gone.

The rhythm was off. Nothing felt where it was supposed to be. Every turn led to a familiar wrong place. The beige walls closed in with that dreamlike sameness, as though the studio was folding in on itself, reshuffling behind your back every time you blinked. Even the air buzzed differently. You felt like you were walking through a TV set left on loop, drifting between scenes that refused to cut.

You rounded another corner, one hand on your phone, the other brushing the edge of the wall like it might anchor you. No windows. No signage that made sense. Just more coils of cable, forgotten tripods, and a stack of folding chairs arranged like someone had given up halfway through their job. Your breath left in a sigh. You weren’t even frustrated anymore. Just… resigned.

Then, finally, something moved.

A Pippins stood a few feet down the hall, nose practically pressed to a clipboard the size of a cafeteria tray. They looked like they'd been rooted there for hours—eye narrowed in scholarly frustration. You made a beeline toward them, relief bubbling up.

“Hey!” Your voice echoed a little louder than you meant it to. “Sorry—hi. I’m looking for the Green Room?”

The Pippins didn’t answer at first, still flipping through pages like they were deciphering cursed instructions. You waited, watching their eye trace something incomprehensible before they finally blinked and looked up, bleary and unfocused.

“Green Room,” they echoed, like the phrase had been said in a foreign language. “Right. That’s in 17B. You’re in hallway 13C. So—take a left, then another left. Then a right. Left again. Then right, right, left, left, another right… wait, sorry—two rights, then one left, then straight until you see the podcast mural.”

You blinked slowly. “Podcast mural. Right.”

“If you see the vending machines with the bad peanut bars, you’ve gone too far.”

“Got it,” you said, your brain already starting to melt. “Thanks.”

But they weren’t finished.

“Alternatively,” they added, “you could take the elevator behind the supply closet near hallway sixteen. But only if the light above it is red. If it’s green, it’s in Studio Sync Mode and you’ll be rerouted to the third floor. Happens a lot.”

You stared at them.

“...Studio Sync Mode. Got it.”

They nodded solemnly like they’d just imparted some ancient wisdom. You opened your mouth to thank them, or at least make a noise that sounded polite, when your phone buzzed in your hand. You looked down. The name on the screen made something in your chest soften and jolt at the same time.

Tenna.

You answered quickly. “Hello—?”

There was a crash. Not dramatic. Just enough to make you flinch. Then silence.

A moment later, his voice came through, smooth and deliberate, like a host introducing the next act in a late-night segment.

“Are you not coming into work today?”

There was something in the way he said it—still coated in his usual flair, but laced with a quieter thread of tension. His tone didn’t rise, didn’t bristle, but it hesitated. You heard it in the space between syllables. The question wasn’t a reprimand. It was a check-in.

“I’m here,” you said with a tired laugh. “Just…lost.”

A pause.

Then—“Oh. Oh! Errm... where exactly are you?”

You looked around. Beige hallway. Plastic cones stacked beside a prop bin. A flickering sign above a door that looked like it hadn’t opened in a while.

“I…” You laughed again, softer this time. “I have no idea.”

Tenna exhaled through the line—short, almost a scoff, but not sharp. “Ask someone.”

You turned back toward the Pippins. “Sorry—what hallway is this?”

“13C.” they said without looking up.

You relayed it. There was a quiet groan from the other side of the call, followed by a small shuffling noise.

“I’ll come get you,” Tenna said, and this time, his voice softened around the edges. Just a little. A crack in the polished tone. “Stay where you are.”

“See ya in a bit!” you said with a smile.

The line went dead. You stared at your phone for a second longer than necessary.

The Pippins had already retreated into their clipboard. But the hallway had grown quiet again, and something in your chest was starting to loosen.

“He’s changed..” you said, voice soft and thoughtful.

The Pippins made a noncommittal noise, eyes still scanning. “Mm. Noticed that.”

You glanced at them. “How?”

They paused, finally looking at you. “He used to bark orders like he was trying to win an argument with the building. Every sentence was a threat with jazz hands. ‘Do it now or you’re fired.’ That kind of thing.”

You nodded. “And now?”

They shrugged slowly. “Now he waits. Not for long—but he waits. Still gets twitchy if things go off-script, still stares through walls like he’s seeing ratings graphs. But there’s… space in him now. Space between the yelling and the thinking. Like he’s trying to learn what happens if he doesn’t default to shouting.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let that sit.

Because it was true. You’d seen it too. In the way his mouth sometimes tensed before he spoke. The way his antennae flicked instead of flaring when someone made a mistake. The way he turned toward you during meetings—not for approval, but to check in. Quietly. Subtly. Like he was trying to ground himself.

It wasn’t perfect. God, no. There were still times when he unraveled, when he clutched his head like the air itself was too loud, when his voice shook and he hid it behind volume. But he was trying. And something about knowing that you weren’t the only one who saw it—that someone else noticed the difference—that made it feel real in a new way.

You were proud of him.

Not in a possessive way. Not even in a “job well done” kind of way. Just… in that rare, aching way where you saw someone trying to stitch themselves back together with thread they’d never used before. And you knew how much it cost.

There was still so much he hadn’t said. You knew that. The self-worth buried under the grin. The fear curled beneath every “ratings report” he pretended not to care about. The lingering silence when the audience didn’t laugh. The flicker in his screen when things got too quiet.

But all in good time.

You heard the doors before you saw him.

A slam—loud and unapologetic—as the studio hallway doors burst open like a curtain on cue. He filled the frame like a headliner, one hand on the doorframe as if he’d just made a heroic entrance in an entirely different genre of show. His coat flared behind him, half caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. His tie was off-center. His mouth pulled into a smirk—not smug, but placed, like it was part of a bit he’d rehearsed on the way over.

His screen glowed soft white. No flicker. Just bright and steady. His antennae stood tall, the tips curling just slightly, like he’d tried to make himself look composed and gotten halfway there.

“Ah! Patch!” he called out, like he was announcing your name for the final round of a game show. Then, with a flourishing gesture, he added, “And…Um.. another valuable employee!”

The Pippins didn’t look up.

You stared at him, lips twitching into something between amusement and affection. “Nice entrance.”

“Only the best.” he replied, stepping forward with a theatrical strut that softened into something less exaggerated the closer he got. His antennae twitched once, then settled. His mouth relaxed a little, not quite a smile now—just there, easy.

He stopped beside you, glancing around briefly. “You weren’t even five feet from the elevator.”

“Then why didn’t you say that on the phone?”

He placed a hand over his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Because it would’ve ruined the comedy!”

You laughed—genuinely. His screen pulsed with the faintest glow, not brighter, but warmer.

“Besides,” he added, voice dropping a touch as he turned beside you, “now you’ve got a story. Lost in the labyrinth. Rescued by your dashing TV-host.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Dashing, huh.”

He gave a shrug, casual and cocky, but his mouth betrayed him—a small twitch at the corner. Flustered, just a touch.

You fell into step beside him as he turned, and for a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But his shoulder brushed against yours as you walked. Light. Intentional.

That wasn’t an accident.

That was something else.

The walk back toward the Green Room was slow, but not aimless. Tenna moved beside you with long, careful strides, his coat brushing against your sleeve every so often. He wasn’t speaking, and neither were you, but the silence felt... comfortable, for once. No cameras. No crew. Just the steady rhythm of your footsteps echoing through the concrete halls. You noticed the way his antennae stayed at half-mast—relaxed, but still alert. The tips flicked every so often, like he was reading invisible airwaves only he could hear.

His mouth was neutral, not pulled into one of those usual smirks or showy grimaces—just gently set, like he wasn’t sure what expression to wear now that there was no script to perform. And you watched him in that quiet, thinking—not for the first time—how strange it was to see him unlit. Not off. Just… dimmed down to something real.

Then, as you rounded a corner and the door to the Green Room finally came into view at the far end of the hall, he spoke.

“You had me wondering if you were skipping today.” he said, like the thought had been bothering him and he was only just now letting it out. It was quiet. Not accusatory. Almost hesitant.

You smiled before he could finish the thought. “So what? Were you gonna miss me if I did?”

It was playful. A tease. But you meant it. And maybe that was why it landed differently.

He didn’t answer.

His mouth tensed, just slightly. Then softened. Then tensed again, like it couldn’t decide which reaction would give less away. His antennae twitched upward, quick and nervous, then dropped low again. And he turned his head—not sharply, not dramatically—but just enough to angle his screen away from you. It wasn’t rejection, but it wasn’t denial either. Just… retreat.

You watched his expression shift, his mouth pressed into a line he couldn’t quite hold still. The air between you flickered with something unspoken. Something warm, and a little raw.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept walking.

You let the silence stretch for a beat, then two, before gently nudging his arm with your shoulder.

“Hey,” you said, tone softer now. “I’m not gonna bail. It’s okay. That’s what I’m here for, right? Emotional liaison and all.”

His response came slow. Too slow.

“...Uh,” he muttered, voice barely above his usual stage register. “Yeah. Right. That.”

There was a tightness in his voice now, subtle but unmistakable. You knew that sound. It was the kind of tension that snuck in when something stung a little deeper than expected. His antennae flattened slightly, and his mouth didn’t move again. He just kept his gaze forward—if you could call it a gaze at all. But even without eyes, you could feel it. The way he’d turned inward.

And suddenly, you realized what you’d said. That’s what I’m here for. A joke, sure. But also not. Because it was true. You had been assigned to him. Your title—your job—was the only reason you were here in the first place. And he knew that. Of course he did. But still… something in the way he reacted made you feel like the reminder had hit harder than it should’ve.

Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded.

Maybe he didn’t like the idea that the comfort you gave him wasn’t given freely, but assigned. That the quiet between you wasn’t something earned, but something scheduled. And maybe—maybe that was what the flinch was. Not rejection. Not embarrassment. Just… fear. The kind that crawled into your gut when you start to wonder if the person you’re beginning to trust is only here because they’re being paid to stay.

You looked over at him. He still wasn’t looking back. Just walking, jaw set, screen slightly dimmer than before. Not glitched. Not spiraling. Just distant. Like he was buffering something he didn’t have the words for yet.

You slowed your steps.

And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

You let the silence last.

Not because you wanted to. But because you knew that pushing him right now would only make the distance worse. The rest of the walk passed in quiet beats—his coat still brushing your side now and then, his footsteps unusually measured, antennae stiff in that way you’d come to recognize as guarded. He didn’t make a show of it. 

That would’ve been too easy to counter. Instead, he just withdrew a little. Not all the way. Just enough to make you feel like a line had been drawn. Not by you. But around him. Subtle. Barely there. Like the kind of glass you don’t see until your breath fogs it up.

The Green Room passed by without comment. He didn’t usher you in. Didn’t turn and ask if you were coming. He just kept walking. You followed, unsure if this quiet retreat meant he didn’t want company… or if he was too afraid to ask for it.

Eventually, the corridor turned sharp and familiar. His office.

He opened the door without flair this time, no dramatic hand flourish, no muttered one-liner. Just the soft creak of hinges and the whir of the old door motor pulling shut behind you. You stepped into the space that had become oddly familiar—its soft, strange lighting, the faded posters on the walls, the coffee mugs that seemed to migrate places with no logic. It still felt like a performance space, but only just. More lived-in than it had been a few days ago. Warmer, somehow.

Tenna walked toward his desk but didn’t sit. Just stood there with his hands at his sides, screen dimmed low in a way that suggested he was lost in thought. His antennae were dipped, not flat, but low enough to be telling. And you realized, then, how rare it was for him not to fill the room with his voice.

You gave him another moment.

Then you stepped closer, careful with your steps, your tone, your everything. “Tenna.”

He looked up, mouth drawing into a soft line—not defensive, but unreadable. Quiet. Cautious.

You exhaled, more to steady yourself than anything. “About what I said earlier. You know, the whole ‘emotional liaison’ thing.”

He didn’t speak. But he didn’t look away either. His screen pulsed once, faint white. Listening.

“I… I didn’t mean it like that,” you said. You kept your voice level, sincere, like you were offering something he could take or leave. “I am here because of the job. I won’t pretend that’s not how this all started. But it’s not why I’m still here. Not really...”

His posture shifted slightly. You noticed the way his shoulders dropped—barely—but enough to catch. The way his mouth parted just a little like he was holding a breath that didn’t want to be seen.

You stepped closer.

“I like being around you, Tenna,” you said, plain and simple. “Not because I’m assigned to. Not because I’m paid to. Just because… I do. You make things interesting. You make me laugh. You care more than you want people to realize. And I’ve seen how hard you’re trying. Not for the show. For you. And that means something.”

He looked away again, just for a second—like the weight of hearing that full-on was too much. His screen dimmed slightly, but not in a spiral—just that soft, overcast tone it took when he was flustered. His antennae had gone stiff again. Upright. Bracing.

You waited.

“I think of you as a friend,” you said. The words landed gently, no strings attached. “And I care about you. Not because of the job. But because…you’re you.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. His fingers flexed against the sides of his coat. His mouth pressed together, unsure of what expression to settle on. There was something there—something pulled tight between embarrassment and relief, like he didn’t know how to hold both at once.

When he finally replied, it came slow. Soft. Almost careful.

“Oh.”

You almost laughed, but you didn’t. Not yet.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes not there to meet yours, antennae twitching in quiet indecision. Then, after a long pause, he said, more quietly this time – “I… didn’t want to assume.”

You smiled. “Well, you don’t have to. I just told you.”

That earned the smallest movement from his mouth—half a smile, crooked and twitchy, like he hadn’t done it on instinct in a while and it didn’t know where to land. He didn’t look directly at you, but his screen brightened a little, and one of his antennae dipped lower than the other in a way you’d started to recognize as shy.

“You’re a strange liaison.” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said. “But I’m your strange liaison.” You added the last part with a teasing smile, eyes watching him closely for the inevitable reaction.

That made him chuckle—quiet, low, like a breath catching on something lighter than fear.

He finally sat down.

It was hesitant at first. Not his usual lounge—no confident lean, no practiced sprawl of limbs like he was claiming the space. Just the soft creak of his chair as he settled into it slowly, carefully, his posture tight and a little stiff, like he hadn’t yet decided if he was allowed to relax. One elbow hooked loosely on the armrest, the other brushing a pile of misaligned cue cards as he adjusted his balance, more tense than casual.

His screen glowed low—not dim in a spiraling way, but soft, unfocused, like a spotlight left on after the cameras stopped rolling. You watched him as he sat there, quiet and unreadable, antennae gently curled forward with a kind of quiet attention. Listening, maybe. Or just bracing.

You stood for a beat longer, unsure whether to close the distance. Then you did, walking over and perching on the edge of his desk—not too close, not crowding him, but enough to be present. Enough that he’d know you weren’t going anywhere. The silence between you was thinner now, but not strained. Just filled with things unsaid.

You tilted your head and let the quiet stretch before you spoke again. “You know,” you said slowly, like the thought was still forming as you spoke it, “I never really expected a job like this to feel… so not like a job.”

Tenna’s screen brightened by a fraction—only slightly. His mouth shifted, not into a smile yet, but into something quizzical. Curious.

You shrugged a little, still watching him. “I don’t mean the work part. That’s definitely work. There’s scheduling, lighting failures, crying interns. Very job-like.” You gestured loosely at the cluttered desk, the files, the control panel still blinking with half-resolved notes. “But… when I’m around you? It doesn’t always feel like I’m working. Most of the time it feels like I’m just… hanging out. With a friend. An odd one. But still.”

Now his mouth twitched. Just faintly. His antennae perked.

“I think what I mean,” you continued, quieter now, “is that I didn’t know a job could turn into something like this. I didn’t know you could show up to something for a paycheck and end up… actually caring about the person you're assigned to. Not just in the way you’re supposed to, you know? Not professionally. But really caring. Because you want to.”

He was still looking at you, though the weight of his gaze didn’t feel heavy—it felt… attentive. Focused. Like he was cataloging your words and trying to hold onto them carefully, even if they made something twist up inside him. His antennae were still now, lowered but not tense. His mouth pressed into a thin line—not guarded, not shut off. Just unreadable. Like he was trying to hold back the flicker of something more.

You gave a small smile. “It mostly just feels like I’m spending time with someone I like. Someone I enjoy being around. That’s what I meant. The ‘non-job-y’ thing.”

Tenna finally looked away—not sharply, not like he was retreating, but like the eye contact, even without eyes, had suddenly become too much. His screen flickered, not in static, but with a faint shift in brightness, like he was thinking too hard and didn’t want to admit it. He adjusted his tie. His mouth stayed closed for a long moment, pressed flat in a way that made him look oddly younger, smaller, like he’d stumbled into a sentence he didn’t know how to finish.

You tilted your head. “Tenna?”

He let out a short breath, a huff really, and then—delayed, awkward—“I… probably would’ve fired you by now. If this were anyone else.”

You blinked. “Wow. That’s… friendly.”

He groaned and dropped his head back into the chair, arms flopping dramatically to the sides. “I meant—! Ugh. Never mind.”

You smirked, leaning forward just slightly. “No, no, keep going. You were clearly building up to something incredibly heartfelt and deeply professional.”

He made a noise that could only be described as a strangled wheeze, faceplate glowing slightly warmer as he tilted his screen away from you. “I was not. I was stating a fact.”

“Oh, sure,” you said, drawing out the words. “A very sweet, borderline sentimental fact, but a fact.”

He fidgeted with the nearest pen, twirling it between his fingers like it could distract from the way his antennae were doing a slow, self-conscious twitch.

You decided to press, gently. “So, what makes me the exception?”

He glanced at you sideways—only briefly—then looked away again just as fast. “Because you…” He hesitated, licking his bottom lip with a flicker of frustration. “You’re just… You make the room feel different. When you’re in it. Better. Or something.”

You blinked. Your heart flickered in your chest like something kicked it. “Tenna…”

He straightened suddenly, clearing his throat. “Forget I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Definitely won’t.”

He groaned again, half-choking on his own flustered breath, and turned toward his console as if it might save him. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re blushing.”

There was a slight pause.

“I don’t blush, Patch, I don’t have blood.” he said quickly—like it was more of an excuse than a defense

“You’re emitting warm tones from your faceplate, don’t make me get scientific.”

He huffed, muttering something about “irreparable levels of sass” and “insubordination,” but his mouth was twitching again, clearly biting back a smile. One of his antennae gave the smallest, most embarrassed waggle.

And then—finally—he laughed. Quiet, breathy, a soft exhale of sound that wasn’t rehearsed or performative or anything except real. His shoulders relaxed just enough to notice. His screen brightened. And when he looked back at you this time, he didn’t flinch away.

You met his gaze, your smile gentler now.

Neither of you spoke. Not right away. You just… sat there. Let the air settle. His screen wasn’t glowing too bright, his shoulders had eased, and his antennae weren’t twitching like they were about to bolt. He looked at you, and this time, didn’t look away.

Then, after a bit, he muttered, like it slipped out before he could catch it—

“…You’re not bad company either.”

You raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

He huffed. Rolled his eyes—not that he had any. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You didn’t reply. Just leaned back a little in your seat and let the silence stretch again—not awkward, not heavy. He turned slightly toward the stack of papers on his desk, rifling through them like he’d just remembered something important. But his movements were slow, almost aimless. He picked up a pen, started scribbling in the margins of a printout—something to keep his hands busy more than anything else. He didn’t stand. Didn’t ask you to leave.

So you didn’t. You stayed.

---

TAGLIST: @fallendove @theilluminatidragonqueen @sacru-tainted @thefiasco-onyourblock @aroura-yuh @good-person-reblogs @driedhuman

[angelicbrats]

just a little something ive been writing. not proof read, please ignore any mistakes <3

cw: spreader bar, shibari, remote control vibrator, denial / edging

this is about lesbian sex ౨ৎ men and minors dni

“Tsk, sweet girl… You were doing so well.” Her voice curls around your ears like silk, low, warm, and soaked in hunger. “Now you’ve gone and made me stop.” She speaks from her spot beside you, eyes fixed on the way your body trembles under her gaze. Despite the raw, aching desire threading through every syllable, she’s grounded, always watching, always present. Every note in her voice is specific, laced with the kind of sweetness that draws you deeper, deeper into that heavy, floaty place she loves to keep you in.

She shifts slightly, one shoulder tucked comfortably against the headboard, so close you can feel the heat of her body even if she’s barely touching you. Your arms are raised and bound—soft ropes looped in elegant rose knots, wrists pinned together and anchored to the bedframe she leans against. Every twitch or instinctive pull makes the rope bite just enough to make you gasp, the sharp edge of pleasure teasing the edge of pain in a way that makes your toes curl.

Your legs are spread wide, held in place by the cool metal spreader bar that leaves you open, helplessly vulnerable, just the way she likes you. Just the way you need to be for her. Every breath makes you aware of how exposed you are to her. How easily she could reach out and stroke, spank, kiss, or touch any part of you she wishes.

“Colour, princess?” Her voice is lower now, serious and soft as her fingers trail slowly down your inner thigh. The contrast of her cool skin against your flushed heat sends another shiver racing up your spine. You nearly jump at the touch, hips twitching automatically toward her hand even as you know, you’re not supposed to move.

You answer without hesitation, your voice laced with need. “Green, Mommy.”

She hums, pleased, and the toy buried inside you flares to life again, dual vibrations that make your back arch disobediently and a whimper escape your lips. That toy. God. A wicked rhythm designed to break your composure.

But she’s given you one single rule.

Stay still.

That’s all you have to do.

Stay. Still.

“I don't care about your whines and whimpers and begging. Mommy needs you to focus. Focus only on staying still" Her voice had been low, steady, unwavering. The kind of tone that didn't ask for your sole obedience, she expected it. Her thumb rested firmly on your tongue as you sucked gently, eyes wide and needy, locked on hers with a devotion so strong.

You knew. Deep down, you knew this was going to push you. Test you. Stretch every fiber of control you had until it trembled at the edges and fell over, just for her. You were a naturally wiggly thing, fidgety, eager, desperate to please, but not always still. And she knew that.

She'd always known. That was precisely why this rule existed tonight in this space.

This wasn't punishment. It had purpose. A quiet, deliberate challenge.

She wanted to see just how far she could take you before your body gave in. How long you'd fight your own instincts-your desperate need to move, to please her.

Fighting against every desperate urge to buck your hips, wiggle, or move, you press your head back against the pillow, a soft whimper of pleasure escaping your lips. Your knees draw tighter, toes curling involuntarily as waves of pure, burning pleasure course relentlessly through your body. Each breath comes faster, ragged and shallow, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. The sensation swells inside you, building, climbing higher and higher, until you can no longer take it. Your hips jerk upward, a small, involuntary motion, but enough. Enough for her to stop. Withdraw the touch of her hand on your inner thigh, and turn the toy down to a ridiculously low point.

She’s held you on this edge for nearly an hour, skillfully controlling every flicker of pleasure you feel, and tearing away the pleasure the instant your body betrays you with even the slightest movement. Your trembling form is bound by her will, her power to keep you suspended in this delicious moment, wanting more, aching for the moment she finally lets you fall.

Letting go, your body wiggles against the binds, your knees trying to bend but unable to, and just as the pleasure gets oh so good.. Close to the edge, you need another moment of the buzzing between your thighs, and.. she stops. Seconds after you move, the pleasure dies down and she releases a faux disappointed sigh. You know that she isn’t truly disappointed, but tsk’s as if she is.

“Oh little.. I thought you knew better hm? What did mommy say?” Her voice is stern, your eyes locked on hers and she cocks her head incuriosity. She keeps her hands on you, playing with your hardened nipple as you whimper. Panting, your eyes search hers. You find no disappointment there. Her beautiful eyes swim with excitement, lust, obsession with you.

“What did mommy ask of you, my love?” She questions the woman. She asks twice only because she can see how far gone you are. Your head is overcome with her presence, the captivating submission surrounding you like a fog. Stammering an answer, you speak.

“To.. to stay still.” You gasp out a quiet response, still panting and struggling to keep yourself still. Little jolts and twists of your hips and tugs of your wrist against the binds that carry the weight of her power over you.

“Then… why the fuck are you moving, sweet girl?” Her voice drops low, thick with hunger and something darker. Possessive, demanding, dripping with raw need. This was exactly what she wanted: your struggle, your defiance wrapped in desperate submission, desperation to please her. The way you fought for control only made her crave you more.

Her fingers tighten just slightly on your nipple, a reminder of who was in charge, while her eyes stared into yours, blazing with an intoxicating mix of desire.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs, voice rough but tender beneath the edge of her voice. “And you will stay still for me.”

[s4kura-tr3]

An: sorry for disappearing..I recently got into a relationship so I’ve been busy but here a little Nanami Drabble

The music was deafening, the bass thumping through the floor beneath your heels as you wove your way through the crowded bar. The haze of alcohol was starting to blur the edges of your thoughts, and the weight of the night was pressing down on you more than you’d anticipated. You weren’t sure how many drinks you’d had, but the empty glass in your hand and the warmth in your cheeks suggested it was enough.

You stumbled slightly, your hand reaching out to the bar for support. The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as you pushed the glass toward him with a shaky hand.

“I think I’m done,” you mumbled, voice barely audible over the pounding music. Your head felt light, your balance precarious, and a nagging discomfort settled in your chest. You shouldn’t have come here alone.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked, calm and smooth, cutting through the noise like a knife.

Your heart stuttered at the familiarity of it. You turned toward the sound and found him — Nanami Kento. His tall frame was impossible to miss, his blond hair slightly disheveled from running his hand through it. He wasn’t dressed for a night out — dark slacks, a crisp button-up, his tie slightly loosened — but somehow he fit into the chaos effortlessly.

You blinked up at him, your vision swimming slightly. “Nanami?”

His gaze softened, but his mouth remained in its usual firm line. “You’re drunk.”

“Mm… maybe,” you admitted, swaying toward him. His hands were on you before you could tip over, steadying you with a firm grip on your waist.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, his voice low, close to your ear. His hand brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“I didn’t plan on drinking this much,” you muttered.

Nanami sighed, his brows furrowing in that subtle but familiar way. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Before you could protest, he was easing your arm over his shoulder and guiding you toward the exit. You could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt, the steady rise and fall of his breathing anchoring you as you leaned against him. He was so steady — so Nanami — that the haze in your mind started to clear just from his presence.

Once outside, the cool night air hit your flushed skin. Nanami adjusted his hold on you, his hand sliding down to your lower back as he guided you toward the curb.

“Do you have your phone?”

You shook your head. “Battery’s dead.”

Nanami sighed again, but it wasn’t in frustration. It was that fond kind of exasperation he seemed to reserve just for you. “Of course it is.”

He pulled his own phone from his pocket and tapped a few buttons. A few minutes later, a sleek black car rolled up to the curb.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He helped you into the backseat, his hand lingering on your knee as he settled beside you. The driver pulled away from the curb, the hum of the engine soothing. You let your head fall against Nanami’s shoulder, too tired — or maybe too comfortable — to care.

“You didn’t have to come get me,” you murmured.

“You texted me,” Nanami replied.

Your eyes fluttered open. “I did?”

“You wrote: ‘Help. Drunk. Alone.’” His lips curved into the smallest smile. “I don’t take those messages lightly.”

Your chest warmed despite the lingering alcohol in your veins. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Nanami’s hand slid from your knee to your hand, his fingers threading between yours. “Get some rest. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

You squeezed his hand, your eyes slipping shut as the steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you into sleep. And for the first time that night, you felt completely safe.

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

💎No low-price competition, focus on fastener quality💎

[florencemtrash]

Flame, Shadow, Beast : Shadow

Azriel x Reader x Eris

Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.

Warnings: Angst (specifically a very angsty Azriel)

Flame, Shadow, Beast: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Azriel gripped his glass so tightly in his fist he wondered if it would shatter. 

Another year gone. Another year without you. Another year where the guilt ate at his stomach and heart so fiercely he wondered if he was hollow on the inside. 

Azriel! WAIT! No! Please, no! AZ! HELP ME!

“Azriel.” Cassian’s voice brought him back to reality, a reality where he sat at an empty booth looking murderous as he tried to drown out the past with his ninth drink of the night.

“Cass.” He said stiffly. His voice was as steady and clear as if he hadn’t drank at all. Cassian could never tell if it was because the alcohol didn’t affect him, or because he was incredible at faking sobriety - either was possible when it came to Az.

“This is the fourth night in a row.”

“You’re perceptive. You should take my job.” Azriel’s voice was so dead and emotionless it frightened him.

“Stop this and come home.” Cassian said, almost begging. 

Azriel grit his teeth and said nothing, downing the rest of his drink and silently gesturing to the bar for another one. When the drink came, Cassian snatched it up first. Maybe the drinks had affected him, because on any other day, Azriel could strike faster than lightning.

“Rhysand has a job for you.” He said, pulling on the small collection of words guaranteed to bring some life to his brother.

Azriel’s spine snapped straight and Cassian flinched at how quickly his brother - brooding and sarcastic as he may be - was replaced by The Shadowsinger. 

“What’s the job?”

Find Bryaxis. Those were the two words that had sent Azriel flying into the night sky and across all of Prythian, chasing after the demon that had eluded them since the end of the war against Hybern.

For over a decade they’d all held their breath when it came to the ancient creature. For over a decade they’d been plagued by more pressing matters than a beast who seemed content to remain hidden and out of mind. Still, Azriel hadn’t forgotten about him. No, he was like a loose thread on a piece of clothing - forever destined to tug and unravel at Azriel’s shortening patience and sanity. 

Nesta had felt something. Something she wasn’t sure of - Bryaxis looming over all of Prythian like a shadow before curling up into a sliver of smoke and disappearing for good. 

They’d written to Elain to see if she had seen anything through her Eye, but she’d also been experiencing blind spots in her vision. The future was always full of events, some malleable and some concrete, but it was more unclear than ever before - like someone had shattered a mirror and she was left to string the pieces back together.

Azriel shook his head, emptying his mind of thoughts of Elain. It would do him no good. Thoughts concerning Elain were painful enough now that she’d left the Night Court… they were made even worse because they always traced their way back to you. Like how rivers must always find their way back to the sea, Azriel found himself drawn back to memories of you, so bright and full of heat they blinded and burned him. Your smile, your laugh, the grim determination on your face as you stared him down during sparring matches. You’d been his anchor without him even knowing it. 

And now you were gone. And it was all his fault.

Stupid, stupid fool. He hissed at himself.

Threads of information concerning Bryaxis were sparse and limited, but Azriel chased after them all, finding himself deep within the gleaming workshops of Dawn, the silent and cherished libraries of Day, and the sea-whipped bellies of Summer Court ships before finally tracing Bryaxis to the Autumn Court.

This has to be handled delicately. It is imperative that no one discovers you. 

Azriel saw Rhysand’s familiar graceful penmanship, read the words, and immediately crushed the note in his hand, casting it into the dying fire. The paper folded and crumpled from the heat before turning to ash.

He huddled down in the mountains that crossed the line between Winter and Autumn, grateful to be free from the cutting winds. Beyond the frozen lake were rolling hills of bejeweled forest. He wouldn’t risk flying now. From here he’d travel through shadows and by foot, getting as close to the Forest House as he dared.

If his intuition was right (and it so often was), if Eris knew Bryaxis was within the borders of his court, he would keep him close. Close enough to monitor, close enough to kill if need be. But what The High Lord of Autumn would want with Bryaxis, Azriel had no idea.

With the issue of succession dealt with and Eris planted on the High Lord’s seat, there came less and less of a need to continue relations between Autumn and Night, at least between Autumn and the Court of Dreams. After the war and until a month ago, nearly all of Eris’s dealings had been with Keir and the Court of Nightmares. Rhysand wanted to change that, and that meant if Azriel wanted to search for Bryaxis in Autumn, he would have to do it in secret. Eris would sooner pluck out his eyes than let any member of the Inner Circle scour his lands voluntarily.

Azriel traveled from town to town, inching ever closer to the Forest House, which curled up beneath the earth like a sleeping giant. That was the issue with the Forest House - hardly anyone knew the size of it, and that meant Azriel could be walking above a watchguard stronghold and not realize until it was too late. 

Something stirred within him when he reached one of the Forest House border towns. Everywhere people seemed brighter, livelier than when Beron had been alive, but this place… this place was filled with an uncharacteristic casualness and joy. The marketplace bustled with activity even in the early morning. Plump fruits, freshly baked bread, and sticky treacle candies wrapped in wax paper were laid out with care on hand-built carts decorated with golden chrysanthemums and sunflowers. 

You would have loved this place.

No. This wasn’t what he’d come for. He’d come to distract himself with work and to find Bryaxis.

Azriel slipped up the trees and settled in between two arching branches, straining his ears to hear the talk that went on below. His shadows slithered out to gather information his senses couldn’t reach.

“Faula’s with child, can you imagine! After so-”

“Thirty?! Why, how could you charge so much! The High Lo-”

“Four dozen eggs, two pounds of flour, six slabs of butter, and-”

“Will Our Lady be coming?” 

Azriel’s ears pricked up, blocking out the hushed conversation that went on around the pair of females who sat on milk crates and peeled apples under the cover of a thatched roof. The crisp sound of a knife sliding between fruit and peel followed by the thunk of a cored apple dropping into a barrel was a soft rhythm to Azriel’s ears.

“To ours?! Good gods, Rebessa, to think that she’d spend the harvest here.”

“She lives close by. It’s not as though we’re strangers to her and she’s wonderfully kind!”

“I hear she’s been invited elsewhere.”

The female gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. “Elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere.” 

“Do you think he’ll-”

“Shhhhh. You mustn’t say anything. I’m not even supposed to know.” 

“Well how’d you find out?”

“Syndra says he’s been visiting jewelers and carpenters every week. He could be preparing a new room… or a bridal chest.”

“About time! And will he be going with her?”

“He follows wherever Our Lady goes.”

“Shame. He was unnerving, but welcome. Haven’t lost a sheep or hen in ages.” 

They continued on, whispering between their bowed heads of matching ruby-colored hair. Autumn Court members were crafty and secretive by nature, an unfortunate byproduct of existing beneath the thumbs of one brutal and cunning High Lord after another. But it would seem their tongues had loosened in the years since Eris had come into his power.

Our Lady. 

Elsewhere. 

He.

Azriel rolled the words around in his mind like a rough-cut stone in a tumbler, then set off to find the “he” who followed this Lady wherever she went.

As he slipped through the village, searching for a home that would be fit enough for a Lady of Autumn, there were two things he noticed. First, the stirring in his chest had grown stronger, like the pulling of the sea as it went out with the tide or the beating of a firefly’s wings against glass. Second, for a town of this size, even one that lay so close to the Forest House, there were only a handful of guards left to trot around atop their horses and an additional handful that patrolled the paths to the fields on foot. Whoever this Lady was, she offered them enough protection and power that Eris would willingly leave it vulnerable - at least in appearance.

Azriel’s nerves sparked with interest, his heart thrumming with the adrenaline that came with staying hidden. It was like a game of sorts. A game of how far he could go, how deep into a court could he burrow, how many secrets he could steal from tight lips without getting caught. 

When he came across the cottage beyond the borders of town, nothing but the faint trail made by footsteps and horse hooves hinting at its existence through the break in the treeline, he was unimpressed. No wave of power rushed over him. No hunting dogs or other monsters were posted at the door. The only thing that strengthened, and had continued to strengthen as he neared this place, was that fluttering tightness in his chest. 

He couldn’t tell if it was his instincts on edge or a bad omen of what was to come. 

There was a flat, empty stretch of land from the treeline to the front door. He called upon his shadows, drawing his power over himself to hide as he slinked across the grass soundlessly. His feet knew where to step, his lungs knew when to take breath, until suddenly he was at the side door. A peek in through the window confirmed his suspicions. 

There was no one here. 

He pressed his fingertips to the walls of the house, feeling the magic splinter outward like a ripple on a still lake. It was an unassuming, but powerful spell that wrapped around the house like a second skin. But Azriel was craftier than that, poking for weak spots in the magic and finding an opening in the chimney. 

He broke through the veil of magic, slipped into the darkness, and emerged on the other side inside the house. 

It was the smell that dropped him to his knees, the scent of witch hazel, rosemary oil, and oranges, clean and bright and warm all at the same time. 

It smelled like you. 

All thoughts of his mission and staying hidden at all costs were wiped from his mind. Now he searched for you.

He walked as if in a trance, finding pieces of you everywhere. He found you in the half-drunken mug of tea sweetened with honey and lavender syrup on the kitchen counter. He found you in the embroidery on the curtains - dainty flowers and vines used to patch up the holes and scratches with a personal touch. He found you in the fingerprints that stained the outer leaves of the books on the table. 

All these small things spoke a truth he hadn’t dared hope for in over a decade.

You were still alive.

He whirled around, searching the space with desperation for any further signs of you. But the house was empty and still, pieces of furniture missing like you’d been preparing to leave.

You slipped into your house, pressing a finger against your lips in warning to Bryaxis.

Stay silent. 

The monster obeyed, his neck twisting to the side at an unnatural angle as his body grew in size, shadowy flesh warping and stretching until he’d taken the form of a bear. 

Your eyes turned black. Power whispering at the edges of your mind just waiting to be called upon. You flexed your hands, calling your sword from the ether and feeling its familiar weight drop into your palm. 

There was a stranger in your home. A male from the looks of his build and height. He rummaged through the drawers by the door, deft fingers pulling out letters and keys while his other hand gripped his weapon.

You aimed the sword in the center of their back, tracing their spine with your eyes and pressing it against the space between two vertebrae, right at the root of their lungs.

“Drop the sword.” You commanded, pressing harder. The blade sliced through the layers of leather armor with ease. A wrong move, too deep a breath, and you’d slice through their spinal cord and leave them paralyzed on the floor.

Azriel’s heart hammered away in his chest and the feeling there twisted and ate away at him. Turn around. The voice commanded. Look at her.

His hold on his sword went slack, the metal singing before it clattered onto the floor. Without being asked, he unsheathed Truth-Teller, dropped it to the floor and slid the weapon back towards you, holding his breath as your boot stopped the ancient blade in its tracks with a solid thump.

You hadn’t recognized him. How could you? It was unnatural to see him in undyed leather armor and his raven black hair was tucked beneath a matching hood. The rich browns of the amour whispered of Autumn. He must have stolen it shortly after crossing the border into your court. But Truth-Teller? There was no mistaking it.

You grabbed him by the back of his jacket, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall before ripping off the hood with a snarl. The cool touch of your blade against his throat and between the slats of his ribs couldn’t stop what he knew was coming. 

The bond burst to life and burned within his chest, swooping and singing like a bird off a cliffside. It was a breath of fresh air. An answer to all his maddening questions.

“Hello Y/n.” His voice rang out in the house, deep and dark and all too familiar. 

You froze, eyes blowing wide open as you tightened your hold on the knife and sword until your knuckles turned white. 

Aside from the clothes he didn’t look any different from the last time you’d seen him. Same black hair, same hazel eyes that shone a million different colors, same beautiful, sculpted face spoiled by an uncharacteristic look of shock and awe. 

He looked the same as he did on the day he handed you over to Beron. 

You for Elain. 

You in exchange for the female he loved.

The betrayal still stung like salt rubbed into a fresh wound. 

Fury set your blood boiling and you answered its call, drawing back and slamming your fist into the side of his jaw so hard you felt something crack and split.

Azriel fell to the ground, catching himself on one hand as the other flew up to his jaw. 

Dislocated. 

He popped it back into place, wiping his mouth and seeing his hand come away red with blood. 

Azriel’s heart threatened to stop in his chest. His eyes crawled over the sight of you, hungry and desperate for every inch of proof that you stood before him. Your eyes were alight, brighter than any fire the world could set ablaze. Everything about you was wide and full of feeling as you stood above him, 

Inside his chest, the mate bond continued to purr happily, refusing to be silenced.

“Y/n.” He said again. The words fell like a prayer from his lips. “You’re alive.” 

“No thanks to you.” 

Bryaxis growled in agreement from your side, lips pulling back to expose teeth stronger than metal and smooth as porcelain. Azriel’s eyes flickered down to him in surprise before going back to you. 

“Bryaxis. You’re his master now.” A flash of pride warmed his chest. Leave it to you to take control of one of the most dangerous monsters in existence. Cassian would lose his mind when he found out.

Again, the creature growled, this time in disgust.

At the mention of the creature you’d come to consider a worthy friend you snapped out of your stupor and pointed the sword at his chest, just beneath his sternum, pressing down. Any more force and you’d break skin. Angle it upwards and push and you’d reach his heart.

“Y/n, please.” He begged. It was another shock to your system. You’d never heard him beg for anything. 

“What do you want?” The words came out hard and trembling.

“I came to find Bryaxis and bring him back to the Night Court. I… I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” 

“Obviously. And yet you’re in my house. Uninvited, might I add.” There was an edge to your voice that hadn’t been there before, a harder gleam to your eyes despite everything else remaining the same. There were some scars that did not write themselves onto skin.

“I… How did you survive?” 

Your lips tightened and turned pale, “Are you shocked? Disappointed?”

Azriel flinched. Your words may as well have been another blow to his face. The flesh around his jaw was beginning to bruise, shifting from an inflamed red to a mottled purple. 

“No!” Azriel lifted his hands up in surrender. “We searched for you. We searched for you for weeks… You have to believe me.” You searched his eyes for an answer, expecting to be met with his usual unreadable expression. But you found the exact opposite. He seemed… lost. Like he didn’t know what to do with himself. If you didn’t know better you would say the Shadowsinger looked frightened.

“I’m sorry.” he gasped, “For everything.” 

It was too late for apologies. Far too late. You told him as much.

“I know,” Azriel swallowed thickly, “I know.” He said again, quieter this time. Something within him dimmed.

“Bryaxis isn’t coming with you.” You said, breaking the silence and finally taking the pressure of your sword off his chest. Azriel moved back onto his feet as swift and strong as a river. “Now get out.” 

You turned your back to him, shrugging off the uncomfortable feelings that weighed on your shoulders. You’d be happier when he was long gone.

“You can run back to Rhys and tell him you failed.”

“Y/n-” His hand brushed against your arm, willing you to look at him again. And you did. You whirled on him in an instant, shoving him back with the hilt of your sword.

“Don’t touch me.” You growled. He flinched again like he’d been burned. 

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I-” He scrambled for words that wouldn’t come. Anything to hold on to you for a little while longer, “Why didn’t you come back to the Night Court? Why didn’t you come home?”

A stupid question to which he already knew the answer.

“That was never my home and there’s nothing left for me there.”

Azriel shook his head, hair shining like a raven’s wing in flight, “That’s not true.” 

I’m there. He sent his pleas through the bond. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been waiting for you for years… for my whole life. 

“It is true.”

“And there’s more for you here?” Azriel asked quietly. “You live here on your own, no friends, no family.” 

“I didn’t have friends or family in the Night Court either.” You weren’t going to tell him about Eris or Halvor or the others. He didn’t have any right to that knowledge, “You proved that when you traded me away to Beron.” 

Azriel tipped his head forward, closing his eyes to the feeling of shame that weighed him down.

Azriel! WAIT! No! Please, no! AZ! HELP ME! 

“It was Rhys and I who made the decision. The others didn’t know. Don’t hate them for what we did.” 

Your laugh came out like a sharp bark, “I have a hard time believing that.” 

If the circumstances were different, he might have pulled down the neck of his shirt and shown you the thin scar on his shoulder, courtesy of Nesta stabbing him with a kitchen knife after she’d learned what he’d done. She would have gone for a second attempt if it hadn’t been for Cassian. He’d dragged her away screaming and crying. 

“It’s true. I swear it.” Azriel whispered.

You didn’t say more, didn’t give him the satisfaction of continuing the conversation. His eyes burned into you, moving across your body with a lover’s touch like you were a well and he was looking to drown.

Before you would have melted under his gaze. Before you’d wanted nothing more than to see him look at you this intently. Things had changed.

“I’ll give you an hour to leave these lands. If you’re not long gone by then, I’ll send Bryaxis after you.” 

The creature bristled with excitement, teeth bared in a terrifying smile.

“Y/n-” Azriel begged. “Please. The others-”

“I don’t care about the others.” Your voice cracked and you hated yourself for it. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe.”

“Y/n…” He knew you were serious about your threat and that time was ticking, but he needed to see you again. He needed it like flame needs oxygen. “The others didn’t know…” 

To your surprise he dropped down to one knee in front of you, eyes tilted towards the ground.

“I hate what I did to you. I hate that I hurt you and.. And I know…” He swallowed thickly, “I know I don’t deserve any kindness or forgiveness, but at least let the others see you… Let them visit,” He added after a short pause, “In Autumn, if that’s what you want.”

“Get out, Azriel.” 

To hear you say his name broke the dam on old memories, painful and numerous. Memories of you screaming out for him to help you when Beron’s men strapped the ashwood chains around your wrists and ankles. Screams begging him to take you home. Anywhere other than Autumn. Anywhere other than under Beron’s thumb.

Azriel! WAIT! No! No, no, no, no, no. Please, no! AZ! HELP ME! 

“Please. Consider it.” Azriel murmured. You turned away from him, looking at the engraved clock on the wall. Every tick tock of its hands felt like a death knell. 

“They’ll be glad to know you’re alive and safe… more than you know.” 

You said nothing, heard nothing as he took his things and slipped out of your house. But you felt his absence like a stone in your stomach. It wasn’t until Bryaxis nudged your waist that all the anger, sadness, and longing crashed in around you. You broke down on the floor, and began to sob into Bryaxis’s side.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______

Author's note:

Yeahhhhhh, Azriel fucked up. But I feel like this would be in character for him? He gets fixated on the people in his life that he's able to 'save' (i.e., Mor and Elain) and especially because of the whole '3 sisters for 3 brothers' thing, I think he would be willing to make big sacrifices to save Elain if it came down to it... but perhaps I'm wrong. I would be curious to hear other people's opinions on it.

Anyhow, sorry for the sad and angsty chapter.

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @nightless @mmb-09 @thesnugglingduck @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @logankemaek @the-sweet-psycho @a-frog-with-a-laptop @flameandshadowx @applerubyy @esposadomd @imma-too-many-fandoms @bubybubsters

[delicious-in-imagines]

Hello!! Could I request some nsfw headcanons for Kabru and Mithrun?

Of course, love! Requests are OPEN!

NSFW will be below the cut! Spoilers for Mithrun!

Kabru of Utaya

This man is going to eat you alive. I said it before, and I'll say it until I'm blue in the face - there is nothing that is going to escape his notice. Every single weakness is going to be carefully catalogued until he knows just how to take you apart bit by bit.

This is a man who lives on his knees. He'll usually start by slowly disrobing you, turning each shed layer into an act of devotion. The languid way he trails his lips up your skin, inch by inch revealed and scorch with the warmth of each kiss that he gives. There will be no hiding from him, settling his hands on your hips as he rests his head along your knee, staring up at you with lidded eyes and a knowing smile.

He doesn't really do quickies - I'd say the opposite, slowies, even. With lips and tongue and teeth, prying and pulling with the calloused surfaces of his hands, he'll tear you apart to the very core. I see him as someone who loves to indulge in overstimulation, taking and taking as much as you'll give, until you're begging for mercy at his wicked tongue.

He gives as good as he takes, so if you want to take the reigns to give him a taste of his medicine, he's more than willing to lie back and allow you to have your wicked way with him. His face and chest will flush as you chart your own path across the smattering of scars and blemishes across the dusk of his skin.

His eyes will flutter shut, lips parted in soft moans with every sensitive spot that you discover and ruthlessly tease, paying him back for the same behavior. He'll grit his teeth with his brow furrowed the closer and closer he gets, until his body draws taut, crying out your name - though it's drowned out by the sounds of the bar above his room.

Mithrun of the House of Kerensil

As each new desire begins to slowly but surely take root and unfurl, those inklings of his past self begin to filter through - as well as echoes of the man he once was. To put it short, he is a possessive lover. He wants everything that you're willing to give and more, you've stuck with him so far. A lot of feelings from the past were consumed, shame being among them. He's indulging these new desires as they crop up, and pairing those two together... he doesn't care where the two of you are.

He's absolutely the person to pull you just around the corner for a quickie, grappling at your heated flesh and sinking into you with lips and teeth anchored at your neck and shoulders. There is not an ounce of shame in his body, and when you're done, he'll spare a moment to make you look presentable - though he looks completely unbothered by your barely private tryst.

He loves to have you on your knees, lavishing his skin in attention and praise, threading his fingers through your hair and looking down at you as you service him. He's a stoic man, even in these situations - to the point you may think that he isn't enjoying himself. His pleasure shows, it doesn't tell - in the way his brow furrows, biting at his lips, and staring down at you through lidded eyes. He doesn't moan or gasp, and it's only the slight hitch or heave in his breath that tells you just how much he's enjoying your mouth around him.

Any position that he can grab at your body under him is his favorite, being able to bend and twist your limbs while he shares this newfound pleasure with you. I like to think that he doesn't last long when the two of you first become intimate on account of just how long it's been - but he's absolutely going to go as many rounds as his body is willing to give him.

The afterglow is probably the softest point that you'll get him, when the two of you are basking in the remnants of pleasure, and he curls around you. His fingers will play across your skin, indulging in the closeness and brushing gentle, chapped lips across your skin. He'll murmur out nonsense against your skin, and is one of the few times that he'll vocally express his love for you.

[the-winter-spider]

Red | One Shot

Bucky x reader AU

Word count: 9.4k

Warnings: Angst sorta

A/N: Just was hanging around in my docs

Purple

The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle by the time the bartender placed another drink in front of you, unasked but not unwelcome. You curled your fingers around the glass, watching the condensation bead and trickle down to the counter. In the corner of your vision, he was still there, watching—not in a way that felt predatory, but in a way that made you hyperaware of everything. The tilt of your head. The way your fingers trembled slightly on the glass. The flutter of your scarf in the breeze sneaking through the cracked door.

“Another round?” the bartender asked, jerking his thumb toward your almost-empty glass.

You nodded, grateful for the distraction, but when the man in the corner stood, your breath caught.

The sound of his boots against the wooden floor carried through the room like a countdown, slow and deliberate. You kept your gaze locked on your hands, trying to steady your nerves, until he was there. Beside you.

“You look like you could use better company than that drink,” he said, the roughness of his voice softened by something faintly teasing.

You glanced up, and there it was again—that pull, that undeniable gravity. “And you think you’re better company?” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to pretend his presence wasn’t unraveling you thread by thread.

He slid onto the stool beside you, leaning back like he’d been sitting there all along. “You tell me.”

The ice in your glass melted as the conversation deepened, its edges smooth and warm, much like his voice. He asked simple questions at first—the easy kind, the kind that let you pretend this was just another stranger making small talk. But as the minutes passed, the space between you seemed to shrink, the questions becoming sharper, more pointed.

“Why here?” he asked after a while, motioning to the bar around you.

You glanced around, taking in the dim lights and peeling wallpaper, the faint hum of music struggling against the noise of the room. “The rain,” you admitted. “I wasn’t planning on stopping. This just…happened.”

He nodded slowly, his fingers drumming softly against the counter. “Funny how things happen, isn’t it?”

“And you?” you asked, your curiosity finally outweighing your nerves. “What’s your excuse for being here?”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t planning on stopping either.”

What struck you most about him wasn’t what he said, but the way he didn’t speak. The moments of silence between his words were heavy, charged with something unspoken but palpable.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that made you feel like you needed to fill it. It was the kind of silence that made you want to stay.

“People don’t usually stick around when I stop talking,” he said after one of those silences stretched long enough to make the bartender glance over.

You smiled faintly. “Maybe I’m not most people.”

His eyes flicked to yours then, sharp and piercing, and for the first time, you thought you saw something crack in the façade he carried so carefully. Something vulnerable. “No,” he said softly. “You’re not.”

The red scarf had become your anchor, your fingers twisting and untwisting it like a lifeline. When he noticed, his gaze softened, and he leaned in just slightly.

“Nervous?” he asked.

You laughed softly, though your chest felt tight. “Should I be?”

“Probably.” The word was heavy, weighted with something unspoken, but his tone was lighter—almost teasing. “But you don’t scare easy, do you?”

You hesitated, unsure of how much of yourself to reveal to someone who already seemed to see too much. “Maybe I’m just good at pretending,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was studying you. “Or maybe you’re braver than you think.”

The words shouldn’t have affected you the way they did, but they hit like a fist to the chest, leaving you breathless.

Time moved strangely when you were with him. Minutes stretched and contracted, the room around you fading into a blur until it was just the two of you, caught in the strange, magnetic pull that had brought you together.

The rain had stopped by the time you noticed how late it had gotten, the room quieter now as patrons trickled out into the damp night. You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck, reluctant to leave but knowing you couldn’t stay.

He stood when you did, his presence a shadow behind you as you moved toward the door.

“Be careful out there,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

You turned to face him, the red scarf catching the faint breeze sneaking in from outside. “I could say the same to you.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. And then he nodded, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said, though it didn’t sound like a promise.

You stood there for a long moment, your heart racing as the distance between you grew. And when he stepped back into the shadows of the bar, disappearing as quietly as he’d appeared, you felt like you’d lost something you hadn’t even known you were looking for.

You stepped out into the damp night, the world strangely quiet around you. The red neon of The Red Star Lounge flickered behind you, its glow painting the pavement like blood.

You walked slowly, the chill creeping back into your skin despite the warmth of your scarf. And as you turned the corner, the realization settled deep in your chest.

Whatever had started tonight, it wouldn’t end well.

But maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

Green

The days after your first time meeting Bucky were a blur of stolen moments and quiet intensity. He was everywhere—every corner you turned, every crowded space you slipped into. He’d somehow become woven into the fabric of your days, and time itself seemed to shift around him.

You caught his glances in places you hadn’t expected to see him, like the coffee shop down the street or the bookstore you thought no one but you ever visited. His presence lingered, felt before seen, heavy and magnetic in a way that made your pulse quicken.

It wasn’t love—not yet. It couldn’t be. You’d only just met him. But it was something wild and unstoppable, like a spark catching dry kindling. The kind of connection that was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

You hadn’t planned on running into him again so soon. The market was bustling, filled with the warmth of laughter, the clink of cups from a nearby café, and the chatter of vendors calling out deals. You’d come to escape the growing restlessness inside you, hoping to lose yourself in the ordinary rhythm of the crowd. But then, as if summoned by your thoughts, there he was.

“Hi,” came the familiar, gravelly voice from behind you.

You turned, your breath catching for just a moment. There he stood, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his steel-blue eyes fixed on you in a way that made the bustling market fade into the background.

“Hi,” you replied, the word softer than you intended, like a whisper carried on the breeze.

A small smirk tugged at his lips, and for a moment, you could swear the space between you felt electric. “We keep running into each other,” he said, his tone teasing, but there was something deeper beneath it—something unspoken.

“You’re everywhere,” you said, almost accusing, though your lips curved into a faint smile.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Is that a bad thing?”

You hesitated, the playful edge in his voice sending a flutter through your chest. “You tell me,” you said, your voice steadier now, though your heart was racing.

His smirk widened just enough to make your stomach flip. “I think it depends,” he said, stepping just a fraction closer, his presence filling the space around you. “Do I bother you?”

“Should you?” you shot back, meeting his gaze evenly despite the way he made your pulse race.

“Guess that’s up to you.” His voice was low, steady, but there was a challenge in it, the kind that made you want to stay in this moment longer than you should.

The crowd around you moved on, the noise of the market dulling as the two of you stood there, caught in the pull that seemed to draw you together no matter where you were.

The moment stretched, the world around you blurring as the tension between you thickened. It was maddening, this pull, this constant feeling that he was both a mystery you wanted to solve and a danger you weren’t sure you should touch.

“Are you always this… persistent?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He laughed softly, the sound warm and rough, settling somewhere deep in your chest. “Only when I’ve got a reason to be.”

“And do you?”

His smile faded, replaced by something softer, something that made your breath catch. “Maybe.”

The honesty in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you weren’t sure what to say, weren’t sure you could say anything at all without betraying the way he was already getting under your skin.

Before either of you could say more, someone jostled past you, breaking the moment like a stone dropped in still water. You took a step back, breaking his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of the world around you again.

“Well,” you said, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck, the movement more of a reflex than a necessity. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Guess so,” he replied, his voice softer now, but still carrying that magnetic pull that made it hard to leave.

You turned before you could change your mind, slipping back into the crowd, but you could feel his eyes on you long after you’d disappeared from view.

That night, as you sat by your window, the red scarf still warm against your neck, you couldn’t shake the feeling of him—the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to linger in your thoughts long after he was gone.

Orange

The first time he took your hand, it was under the cover of night. The two of you had wandered out of town, the air crisp and the moon high above, lighting the fields with silver. You’d teased him into leaving the bar, insisting there was more to life than whiskey and dark corners. To your surprise, he followed.

“You’re relentless, you know that?” he muttered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket as you walked side by side down the quiet road.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” you shot back, glancing over your shoulder with a grin.

When the road opened into a clearing, the moonlight spilling across the grass like liquid silver, you stopped. “Dance with me,” you said suddenly.

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might refuse. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t dance.”

“Everyone dances.” You grabbed his hand before he could protest further, your fingers tangling with his. “You just haven’t tried with the right partner.”

At first, he was stiff, awkward, his steps uncertain. But you laughed, the sound soft and free, and something in him loosened. His hands found your waist, tentative but firm, and together you moved under the open sky, your red scarf trailing in the breeze like a streak of fire against the night.

His grin was shy but genuine, his guard slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man hidden beneath the rough edges.

The air around you seemed to hum, the crisp night wrapping you both in a cocoon of stillness, as if the world had paused just for this moment. The stars twinkled overhead, scattered across the velvet sky, and the quiet rustle of grass beneath your feet served as the only soundtrack to your impromptu dance.

His hand on your waist was steady now, the earlier awkwardness fading as he settled into the rhythm of your movements. You could feel his warmth even through the layers of fabric between you, grounding and electric all at once.

“You’re full of surprises,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. The moonlight illuminated his features in a way that made him seem both sharper and softer all at once—the hard lines of his jaw, the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he smiled.

“Don’t get used to it,” he teased, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

“Oh, I already am,” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips. “You’re stuck with me now.”

His laugh was quiet, almost a hum, and you caught a flicker of something in his expression—hesitation, maybe, or disbelief. Like he wasn’t used to this kind of lightness, this kind of joy.

“You really do this to everyone?” he asked, tilting his head as he studied you, his tone carrying a mix of curiosity and playfulness.

“Do what?”

“Drag them out into fields, make them dance under the stars, make them feel like…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “Like this.”

Your smile faltered, but only slightly. “Like what?”

“Like there’s still something good in the world.” His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, and the words felt like they carried more weight than you expected.

Your breath caught in your chest, and for a moment, the flirty banter dissolved into something deeper, something raw. You didn’t look away, though, even as his gaze burned into yours. “Maybe I just have good instincts,” you said softly. “Maybe I knew you needed this and maybe you're not just anyone.."

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw tightening as he seemed to wrestle with whatever storm was brewing inside him. But then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe.”

You continued to sway, the tension between you softening but not disappearing. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, not possessive but steady, anchoring you to the moment.

“You’re not bad at this, you know,” you said, breaking the silence. “For someone who doesn’t dance.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, but there was no hiding the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Too late.”

You laughed, and the sound seemed to draw something out of him—a quiet chuckle, his guard slipping even further. He spun you then, a move so unexpected and unpolished that you nearly stumbled, but his hand caught yours, pulling you back to him with ease.

“Show-off,” you teased, breathless from the movement and his proximity.

“You asked for a dance,” he replied, his grin widening. “Don’t complain when I deliver.”

After a while, your movements slowed, the dance turning into little more than a quiet sway. The night had grown colder, the stars above brighter, and the world around you quieter.

His hands lingered on your waist longer than they needed to as you pulled back slightly, your red scarf brushing against his arm.

“You’re not as bad at this as you think,” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough warmth to take the sting out of the teasing.

“Guess I had the right partner,” he replied, his tone quieter now, almost serious.

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you smiled, your fingers brushing his briefly before you stepped back fully.

“Thank you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if you meant for the dance, for following you out here, or for letting you see this softer side of him.

He nodded, his eyes meeting yours one last time before he stepped back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “You’re trouble,” he repeated, the faintest trace of a smile still on his lips.

“And don’t you forget it,” you replied, your grin returning as you adjusted your scarf, the red fabric catching the breeze.

As the two of you made your way back to the bar in comfortable silence, you couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of your eye. There was something about the way he walked beside you, the way he seemed both cautious and unflinchingly present, that made you wonder what was hiding behind those sharp eyes and soft smiles.

Grey

It started with something small. It always did.

The two of you had been in his apartment, a quiet night derailed by the weight of unspoken things. You’d made a joke—a harmless, casual jab at the way he always seemed to know what was happening before you did, like he had a sixth sense for trouble. But instead of laughing, his jaw tightened, and his response came sharp and clipped.

“Maybe you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” he muttered, his voice low, his eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “Excuse me?”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair as if to push the thought away. “Forget it.”

But you couldn’t. You hated when he did this—when he locked you out, pulling the shutters down on a window you’d thought was finally open.

“Bucky, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” you asked, your voice rising despite your best efforts to stay calm.

“It means I’ve got enough going on without you digging into things that don’t concern you,” he snapped, his frustration spilling over.

“Things that don’t concern me?” You took a step closer, your chest tight with a mix of anger and hurt. “How can you say that? You’re the one who pulled me into this—into you. Don’t tell me I don’t get to care about what’s going on in your head.”

His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and guarded, like he was debating whether to fight or retreat. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less biting. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry the kind of shit I do.”

You stared at him, the words hitting you like a blow. “You’re right,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t know. Because you won’t let me!”

The room fell silent, the tension crackling like a live wire between you.

“Maybe it’s better that way,” he said after a long pause, his voice cold and distant.

The words sliced through you, sharp and unforgiving. You turned away, grabbing your coat and scarf, your movements jerky and frantic.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice rising as you stormed toward the door.

“Somewhere I don’t feel like a burden!” you shot back, the words raw and cutting as they left your lips.

The rain started just as you stepped outside, a steady downpour that soaked through your clothes within minutes. You didn’t care. Your feet carried you forward, one step after another, until you were too far from his building to hear his voice if he called after you.

But he did call.

“Y/N!”

You stopped, the sound of his voice slicing through the rain and your resolve. You turned slowly, the water streaming down your face, mingling with the tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

Bucky stood a few feet away, his hair plastered to his forehead, his jacket already drenched. He looked as wrecked as you felt.

“Why are you here, Bucky?” you shouted, your voice shaking with anger and something far more dangerous—hope. “Why do you care?”

Red

“Because I can’t not care!” he shouted back, the words breaking open something in both of you.

He took a step closer, his boots splashing in the puddles, his gaze locking onto yours. “You think I don’t know what this is doing to you? To us? I’m trying, baby. I just—”

His voice cracked, the raw emotion in it making your breath hitch. “I just don’t know how to be the person you think I am,” he finished, his shoulders slumping.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your chest heaving with the force of everything you felt. You wanted to yell, to cry, to pull him closer and push him away all at once. But before you could do anything, he moved.

His hands cupped your face, his touch firm but trembling, his palms warm against your rain-chilled skin. And then his lips were on yours, urgent and unyielding, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the kiss.

The rain poured harder, cold and relentless, but you didn’t feel it. All you felt was him—his hands in your hair, his body pressed against yours, the heat of his kiss erasing every other thought in your mind.

Your hands found their way to his jacket, gripping the wet leather as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His lips moved against yours, fierce and desperate, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

The rain poured around you, cold and relentless, but his kiss was all heat. It stole your breath, your anger, your fears—leaving nothing but the raw, unshakable truth of how deeply he’d gotten under your skin.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and ragged against your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the rain. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

Your hands loosened their grip on his jacket, falling to your sides as you searched his eyes. “Then stop pushing me away,” you said, your voice trembling. “Stop making me feel like I’m not enough.”

His eyes closed briefly, his jaw tightening as he nodded. “I’m trying,” he said, his voice raw. “I swear I’m trying.”

You exhaled shakily, the weight of his words pressing against your chest. “Then let me help you,” you said softly. “Whatever it is, Bucky, i can take it….But you have to let me in.”

His hands dropped from your face, his gaze falling to the ground. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence filled only by the sound of the rain.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice hoarse but steady. “Okay.”

The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time you made your way back to his apartment, walking side by side in silence. His hand brushed against yours once, then again, before he finally took it, his grip firm and grounding.

Neither of you spoke as you stepped inside, the warmth of the room wrapping around you as you shed your soaked coats and shoes.

“I’ll make some tea,” he said quietly, his voice still rough around the edges.

You nodded, watching as he moved to the kitchen, his shoulders still tense but lighter somehow. The storm wasn’t over—not completely.

White

It didn’t take long for you to realize that Bucky wasn’t like anyone else you’d ever loved. He carried his past like a weight around his neck, a shadow that followed him even in his brightest moments. He never talked about it—not in words, at least. But it was there, in the tension that gripped his shoulders when he thought no one was watching, in the way his eyes sometimes drifted to the distance, as if he could still see ghosts in the corners of his mind.

One night, as you traced the faded scars on his knuckles, the storm of his silence felt unbearable.

“Where did these come from?” you asked softly, your thumb brushing over the jagged lines etched into his skin.

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Bar fights,” he said, his voice laced with forced nonchalance.

“Must’ve been some fight,” you murmured, your fingers lingering on the edges of his scars like you could smooth them away.

He shrugged, but the movement was tight, deliberate, like he was trying to shrug off more than the question. His smirk faded, replaced by something far heavier. “I wasn’t always… the guy you see now,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost hollow.

The air in the room shifted, the words lingering between you like smoke, impossible to clear. You didn’t press him. You’d learned by now that he wasn’t the type to offer up pieces of himself freely. He kept his pain buried deep, beneath layers of charm and bravado, but in the quiet moments—when the walls came down—you could feel it.

The silence stretched, heavy but not empty. You studied his face, the hard lines of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his lips pressed into a thin line like he was holding back words he didn’t trust himself to say. His eyes, always so sharp and clear, seemed distant, as if he wasn’t in the room with you anymore but somewhere else entirely.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you said softly, your fingers still resting against his hand. “But you don’t have to carry it alone, either.”

His gaze snapped back to you then, sharp and searching, like he was trying to decide whether you meant it.

“Some things aren’t worth sharing,” he said after a long moment, his tone guarded but not unkind. “They don’t make anything better.”

“Maybe not,” you said carefully, leaning back slightly to give him space. “But sometimes saying it out loud makes it hurt a little less.”

He laughed softly, but it wasn’t a laugh meant to comfort—it was bitter, self-deprecating, the sound of someone who didn’t believe a word you’d said.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Then tell me,” you challenged, your voice steady even as your heart pounded. “Show me.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, his expression a mix of disbelief and something darker—fear, maybe, or anger. For a moment, you thought he might snap, might push you away entirely. But instead, he let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of whatever he was holding.

“I’ve done things,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Things I can’t take back. Things I don’t want to take back because… because I thought I deserved them.”

The confession hit you like a punch to the chest, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed where you were, your hand still resting on his, grounding him in a way you hoped was enough.

He looked down, his jaw tight, his voice rough as he continued. “You want to know where these scars came from? Fine. Some are bar fights. Most of them are from being too drunk to care what happened to me. Or too angry to stop swinging when I should’ve walked away.” He paused, his eyes flicking back to yours. “And some of them are from people who thought I deserved worse.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t speak. This wasn’t the time to offer reassurances he wouldn’t believe. This was the time to let him speak, to let the floodgates open.

“I wasn’t a good person, darlin’,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “I was reckless. Selfish. I burned bridges with everyone who ever gave a damn about me, because it was easier to burn them than to admit I needed them.”

He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You look at me like I’m someone worth saving, but you don’t know what you’re saving me from. And I don’t know if I want you to.”

Your hand tightened on his instinctively, and he looked at you like he was waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned forward, your voice quiet but firm.

“You’re not that person anymore, Bucky.”

His laugh was bitter, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I know you,” you said, your words steady even as your chest ached with the weight of what he’d shared. “I know the man you are now. The man who stands up when he’d rather run. The man who cares about the people in his life even when he’s scared he’ll lose them. The man who looks at me like… like I’m more than just another person passing through his life.”

His breath hitched, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart pound. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he murmured, his voice low and broken.

“Don’t I?” you replied, leaning closer, your hand still on his. “You think I don’t see the cracks in you? The scars you’re trying to hide? I see them, Bucky. I see you. And I’m still here.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his chest rising and falling with the force of his emotions. And then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Maybe not,” you said softly, leaning into his touch. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Pink

Not everything was heavy. There were moments of lightness, too—moments when the weight he carried seemed to lift, revealing the boy he must’ve been before life carved him into the man he’d become.

Like the time you convinced him to teach you how to ride his motorcycle.

“This is a terrible idea,” he said, his hands firm on your shoulders as you perched awkwardly on the seat. His jacket was slung over the handlebars, leaving him in a worn t-shirt that clung to his frame in the afternoon heat.

“You’re just saying that because you’re scared I’ll be better at it than you,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a grin.

He rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “No, I’m saying it because I like this bike, and I’d rather not see it flipped into a ditch.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” you said, sticking your tongue out at him before turning your attention back to the bike. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Fine,” he relented, stepping around to stand beside you, one hand resting on the handlebar. “First rule: don’t panic. Second rule: listen to me.”

“Was that not the first rule?”

He smirked. “It’s the first and second rule. You like to improvise, and I’m not interested in seeing where that gets us today.”

You weren’t good at it—not at first. Your balance was all wrong, your movements jerky as you tried to adjust to the unfamiliar weight of the bike beneath you. The engine purred, vibrating against your thighs as you gripped the handlebars too tightly.

“Loosen up,” Bucky said, his voice even as he kept one hand on the back of the seat to steady you. “You’re not wrestling it into submission.”

“Easy for you to say!” you snapped, your voice high-pitched with nerves as the bike wobbled forward.

His laugh was low and infuriatingly calm. “Relax, you’re not going to die. I’ve got you.”

“You better,” you muttered, biting your lip as you tried to focus on his instructions.

By the time you’d tipped the bike over for the second time—mercifully without actually crashing—your cheeks were flushed, half from embarrassment and half from the adrenaline coursing through you.

“Alright, maybe this was a terrible idea,” you admitted, throwing him an exasperated look as you struggled to right the bike again.

He was already laughing, the sound deep and unrestrained as he grabbed the handlebars to help. “Told you,” he said, grinning wide enough to show his teeth.

“Don’t gloat,” you shot back, but your own laughter bubbled up before you could stop it.

By the time you got the hang of it—coasting in a slow, wobbly circle while he watched from a few feet away, arms crossed and smirking like he was witnessing a miracle—you were both laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

“Look at me!” you shouted, your voice triumphant. “I’m doing it!”

“Don’t get cocky,” he warned, though his tone was light. “You’re still going about five miles an hour.”

“That’s five more miles an hour than you thought I’d manage,” you called back, steering carefully toward him.

When you finally stopped, dismounting with all the grace of a baby giraffe, you stumbled into his arms, laughing uncontrollably.

“Okay, okay,” you gasped, your forehead resting against his chest as you tried to catch your breath. “Maybe you’re the expert.”

“Told you,” he said, his laugh rumbling against your ear. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, holding you steady as your knees threatened to buckle.

“You know,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, “you’re kind of a good teacher. Strict, but effective.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he replied, though there was a softness in his eyes that made your heart flip.

In those moments, you forgot about the shadows lurking at the edges of your relationship. You forgot about the way he sometimes disappeared into his own head, shutting you out without warning. You forgot about the way doubt sometimes crept in, whispering that you’d never be enough to pull him out of the darkness he carried.

In those moments, it was just him and you. His laughter, his warmth, the way he looked at you like you were the brightest thing in his world.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said suddenly, his tone light but his gaze lingering on you a moment too long.

“So i've been told,” you replied, smirking “But here you are”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but something flickered in his expression—something unspoken but undeniable. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Here I am.”

Black

Bucky’s past was a shadow that followed him everywhere, slipping into the quiet moments between you, seeping into the cracks of your conversations, and weighing down the lightness you fought so hard to hold onto. He never told you the full story, but you’d pieced together enough to know it was dark, messy, and full of mistakes he couldn’t forgive himself for.

He’d let pieces of it slip, in fragments so small they barely felt like enough to build a picture. The late nights when he’d sit on the edge of the bed, his back to you, head in his hands as he tried to keep his breathing even. The scars on his knuckles, his ribs, the faint burn marks along his forearms he never wanted to explain.

“Old life,” he’d say when you pushed, the words clipped, like the conversation was over before it began.

But you could see the weight of it in his eyes, the way they clouded when you asked too many questions, or the way his jaw tightened when you pressed him about the motorcycle gathering dust in the corner of the garage.

One night, tangled together in bed, you felt the words leave your lips before you could stop them.

“Why don’t you let yourself be happy?”

You hadn’t meant it to sound so accusatory, but it hung heavy in the air between you. He was staring at the ceiling, the dim light casting shadows across his face, and for a moment, you weren’t sure he’d heard you.

Then, quietly, he answered. “I don’t deserve it.”

The simplicity of it made your chest ache. You shifted closer, your hand sliding over his chest to rest just above his heart. His pulse was steady beneath your fingertips, but his breathing was shallow.

“Who gets to decide that?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

The silence that followed was louder than anything he could’ve said. You felt his walls build themselves back up in real time, felt the distance between you grow even though he was right there. And that was the moment you realized just how fragile this thing between you really was.

You were falling for him—deeply, recklessly—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how hard you tried, you’d never be able to love away the pain he carried.

It was a few days later when he finally said something. You were sitting on the back steps of the house, the two of you sharing a beer in comfortable silence, the late summer heat clinging to the air.

“I used to be part of something,” he started, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself.

You turned to him, careful not to interrupt.

He stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if the past was painted somewhere in the fading streaks of the sunset. His hands fidgeted with the beer bottle, his thumb running along the condensation like it was the only thing grounding him to the moment.

“A gang of sorts,” he finally said, the words clipped, sharp, like they physically hurt to say out loud. “We didn’t call it that. We thought we were a brotherhood, a club at best. Thought we were something… loyal. But it wasn’t like that.”

Your breath caught, but you stayed silent, knowing this was fragile ground you were treading on.

“We rode together. Lived for the thrill of it. For the noise, the chaos, the speed.” He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. “But it was never just that. It was fights. Deals. Smuggling. You name it, we probably did it—or looked the other way while it was happening.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And I was all in. I thought I’d found a family. I thought… it meant something.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and you reached for his hand instinctively, your fingers brushing his. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look at you either.

“What changed?” you asked softly.

His jaw clenched, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. “I did. Or maybe I just woke up. Started seeing it for what it really was—a way to hurt people. A way to run from everything I didn’t want to face. And when I finally decided I couldn’t be part of it anymore…”

He trailed off, his knuckles tightening around the beer bottle.

“What happened?”

He turned to you then, his eyes heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—regret, anger, fear. “They don’t let you just walk away from something like that. Not without consequences.”

“They came after you?” you guessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“They tried,” he said, his tone flat. “It got messy. People got hurt, people died, good people died…. And I left everything behind. My bike, my crew, the only life I’d known up to that point. I’ve been running ever since.”

His words hung in the humid air, and you struggled to process everything he was laying bare.

“Bucky…”

He shook his head, cutting you off. “Don’t. Don’t try to make it sound better than it was. I don’t deserve that.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that everyone deserved a second chance, that whatever he’d done, it didn’t define who he was now. But you knew he wouldn’t hear it. Not yet.

Instead, you squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the scarred skin of his knuckles. “You don’t have to keep running,” you said, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat.

He let out a humorless laugh, his shoulders slumping. “You think it’s that easy? That I can just… stop?”

“I think it’s a start,” you said. “And I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

That night, after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the two of you had gone inside, you lay awake beside him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You wondered about the things he hadn’t told you—the names, the faces, the details he still kept locked away. You could feel them pressing down on him, weighing him down like chains he didn’t know how to break.

And yet, despite everything, you felt hope. Because he’d told you something. He’d opened a door, even if only a crack.

But in the days that followed, the weight of his confession seemed to grow heavier. You noticed the way his eyes darted to the shadows when the two of you walked down the street, the way his body tensed every time a motorcycle engine roared in the distance.

As you sat together in the living room, the sound of distant thunder rolling through the open window, you decided to ask the question that had been burning in the back of your mind.

“Do you think they’ll come for you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the window, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled, leaning back against the couch. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Maybe. Probably.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking in. “What would you do?”

“Whatever I have to,” he said, his voice firm, his jaw set.

The finality in his tone sent a chill down your spine. “You don’t have to face it alone, Bucky.”

He turned to you, his eyes softening just enough to let you see the fear buried beneath the bravado. “You don’t understand. If they find me, it won’t just be me they’ll go after.”

For a moment, the air between you was thick with everything left unsaid. Then he reached for your hand, his grip strong but trembling. “I don’t want you to get hurt, I cant have you get hurt”

“I know,” you said softly. “But I’m not walking away.”

RED

It was late, the kind of quiet that made the world feel smaller, as though the two of you were the only people left in it. The rain had come and gone, leaving the air cool and clean, and the faint scent of damp earth drifted through the open window.

Bucky sat on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, an old book balanced on his knee. You were curled up beside him, your feet tucked under his thigh, a mug of tea cradled in your hands. It was a simple moment, unremarkable in its stillness, but it felt significant in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You watched him over the rim of your mug, his brow furrowed as he read, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hair was tousled from the way he kept running his fingers through it, and the soft lamplight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw.

“What?” he asked suddenly, his eyes flicking to yours.

You blinked, realizing you’d been caught staring. “Nothing,” you said quickly, though the warmth rising in your cheeks gave you away.

He closed the book, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. “That didn’t look like ‘nothing.’”

You rolled your eyes, setting your mug down on the coffee table. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”

His grin faltered, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. He reached out, his hand finding yours where it rested on the couch cushion. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low. “You keep saying things like that, and I might start believing them.”

The words were on the tip of your tongue before you even realized they were there. They spilled out quietly, almost like they’d slipped past your defenses on their own.

“I love you.”

The room seemed to freeze, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited for his response.

Bucky’s hand stilled against yours, his eyes widening slightly as he looked at you. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. “I love you,” you repeated, more firmly this time.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then he shifted closer, his hand cupping your cheek as he studied your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“You mean that?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

You nodded, your hand covering his where it rested on your cheek. “I mean it, Bucky.. I love you.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, his touch warm and steady, and you could see the emotions flickering behind his eyes—fear, disbelief, hope.

Then, finally, he exhaled, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “I love you too,” he said, the words soft but sure, like they’d been waiting inside him all along.

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of his confession hitting you like a wave. You leaned into his touch, your forehead resting against his as a quiet laugh escaped you.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” you teased, though your voice was thick with emotion.

“Because I didn’t think I’d ever get to say it,” he admitted, his voice raw.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers tangling with his. “Well, you do,” you said firmly. “You do.”

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in your hair. You could feel his heart pounding against your own, his breathing shaky as he held you like he was afraid to let go.

“I love you,” he murmured again, the words muffled against your skin.

Black

The cracks in your relationship with Bucky had always been there, faint at first, like hairline fractures in glass. But over time, those fractures deepened, spreading until the entire structure seemed ready to shatter. You both saw it coming. Neither of you stopped it.

The end wasn’t sudden—it was a slow, excruciating unraveling. It started with the silences, the way Bucky’s gaze lingered on the horizon instead of you. Then came the arguments, sharp and biting, words flung like weapons that left wounds neither of you could heal. And finally, the moment when everything fell apart.

The air between you was thick, suffocating, as you stood across from Bucky in the dim light of your apartment. Outside, the sun was setting, the sky painted in hues of crimson and gold, like a warning, like a fire.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you snapped, your voice trembling with frustration. “I can’t keep doing this, Bucky. I can’t keep wondering if you’re going to disappear every time things get hard.”

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his jaw tight. “I’m not disappearing.” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, the tension in his frame barely restrained.

“Then what do you call it?” You stepped closer, your chest heaving with the weight of everything you’d been holding back. “The nights you don’t come home? The way you shut me out? How am I supposed to love you when you won’t even let me in?”

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his expression. But then he looked away, and the wall went back up. “You knew what you were getting into,” he muttered, the words like a punch to your chest.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I didn’t know it would feel like this. Like I’m constantly fighting to hold onto you while you’re halfway out the door.”

“I’m trying!” he shot back, his voice rising for the first time. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his frustration boiling over. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I don’t hate myself for dragging you into my mess?”

“I didn’t ask for perfect, Bucky,” you said, your voice shaking. “I just wanted you. But you can’t even give me that, can you?”

The tension snapped like a breaking wire. He turned sharply, his movements abrupt, knocking a glass from the counter. It hit the floor and shattered, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the suffocating silence.

You both froze, staring at the pieces scattered across the floor. The sharp edges glinted in the fading light, and you couldn’t help but think how perfectly they mirrored the state of your heart.

“I can’t do this,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t keep trying to fix something that doesn’t wanna be fixed.”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide and almost panicked. “Baby, don’t—”

But you held up a hand, cutting him off. “No. You don’t get to keep doing this. You don’t get to keep tearing me apart just because you’re scared.”

You turned away from him, walking to the window where the last rays of the sun bled across the sky. The red hues painted the room, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch forever. You felt his presence behind you, silent and heavy, but he didn’t move closer.

“Do you even love me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quietly, he said, “More than anything.”

You closed your eyes, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one fighting for us?”

When you finally turned to face him, the sight of him nearly broke you. His shoulders were slumped, his expression a mixture of pain and regret. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I think you need to leave,” you said softly, the words tasting like ash on your tongue.

“No,” he said quickly, his voice thick with emotion. He took a step toward you, but you shook your head.

“Bucky, please,” you said, your voice breaking. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He stopped, his hands clenching at his sides. For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other, the weight of everything left unsaid hanging heavy in the air.

“Loving you is the best and worst thing i've ever done,” you whispered finally, the words cutting through the silence.

He flinched, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. Instead, he stepped back, his red leather jacket catching the dying light like embers.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely audible.

And then he turned and walked away.

You stood there long after he was gone, staring at the shattered glass on the floor, the red hues of the sunset fading into the gray of twilight. The silence in the room was deafening, and the absence of him felt like a physical ache, a hollow space where your heart had been.

You wanted to scream, to cry, to rage against the unfairness of it all. But all you could do was sink to the floor, your knees pulling to your chest as you clutched the scarf around your neck—the same red scarf you’d worn the night you met him.

The memory of him lingered, vivid and unrelenting, like a fire that refused to be extinguished. And as the last light disappeared, leaving the room bathed in shadows, you realized that some scars never really fade.

Loving him had been a blaze of color, bright and beautiful and all-consuming. But now, all that was left was the ash.

Dark Grey

Years later, you would still catch yourself tracing the edges of your life, searching for the faint marks Bucky had left on it. They were everywhere—small, quiet reminders that had become part of you. A fleeting song lyric. A warm breeze on a rainy day. The streak of red in a sunset that made your breath hitch.

Not all loves were meant to last forever. You knew that now. But the ones that didn’t stay still had the power to change you. Some were fleeting, like sparks that burn brightly before fading, but even when the fire dies, it leaves a mark. A scar. A memory. A piece of yourself you couldn’t reclaim.

And Bucky had left you with all three.

You moved on in the ways that mattered. You built a life filled with steady, small joys—the kind of life you never would have imagined in those tumultuous days with him. There was laughter and comfort, new love and old friends, and yet, there was always that quiet space inside you that belonged to him.

Because loving Bucky had been unforgettable. It had been red—vivid, bold, and impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the good that stayed with you, though. It was the ache, too—the lingering hollow of his absence that sometimes felt like it echoed in your chest.

You remembered the way his hand had felt in yours, steady and warm, even when everything around you felt like it was unraveling. The way his voice, low and rough, could calm you and set you alight in the same breath.

And you remembered the way he looked at you—like you were something he wanted to hold onto but didn’t know how to keep. Like he was terrified of you slipping away, even as he kept his distance.

You didn’t regret loving him. How could you? Even with the heartbreak, the unanswered questions, the nights spent missing him so fiercely you thought it might tear you apart, Bucky had given you something no one else had.

He’d made you feel alive.

One night, as you wandered home after a late dinner with friends, the city felt unusually quiet. The streets were slick with rain, the glow of streetlights reflecting off the pavement in golden pools. You’d tucked your red scarf tighter around your neck, the fabric trailing behind you as the cool wind nipped at your cheeks.

And then you felt it—him.

It wasn’t something you could explain. It wasn’t logical or rooted in reason. It was a pull, a magnetic force that had always drawn you to him, no matter how far apart you’d been.

You stopped mid-step, your eyes scanning the crowded street. At first, it felt silly—just your mind playing tricks on you again, filling strangers’ faces with memories of him. But then you saw him.

Across the street, standing near the entrance to a dimly lit diner, was a figure you’d know anywhere. The dark hair. The broad shoulders. The familiar slouch of someone trying not to be noticed but failing anyway.

Your breath caught. For a moment, the world narrowed to just him, the sound of your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You hesitated, your feet frozen to the pavement. And then, as if sensing you, he turned.

His eyes found yours across the distance, and the breath you’d been holding escaped in a sharp gasp. It was him. It wasn’t a trick of the light, wasn’t your imagination conjuring his ghost again.

It was Bucky.

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His hair was shorter now, his stubble heavier, but his eyes were the same—piercing, sharp, filled with something you couldn’t name.

He took a step toward you, and for a moment, you thought he might cross the street. But instead, he stopped just at the edge of the curb.

“Red suits you,” he said, his voice low and familiar, carrying over the noise of the city.

The words hit you like a tidal wave, dragging you under. Red suits you. He’d said it to you once before, years ago, as he wrapped your scarf around your neck on a bitterly cold night, pulling you close to kiss you before the wind could steal the moment.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. What could you say?

But he didn’t wait for you to answer. With one last lingering look, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, slipping away as easily as he always had.

You stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the spot where he’d been, your heart racing and your mind spinning. You didn’t know why he’d been there, why he’d said what he had, or why he’d left again so quickly.

But as the rain began to fall again, you smiled, your hand instinctively reaching up to tug your scarf tighter.

Some loves weren’t meant to last forever.

But some burned too brightly to ever truly fade.

And as you turned and walked into the night, the rain soaking your hair and your scarf trailing behind you, you couldn’t help but feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be—haunted, alive, and forever marked by him.

Because loving Bucky had been red. And somehow, you knew, that story wasn’t finished yet.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

THE BINDING THRONE~4

Summery: The Binding Throne is a dark fantasy where Y/N is bound by ancient magic to Bucky and Loki—two dangerous men consumed by obsession. As passion, power, and prophecy collide, she must embrace her fate as queen or be devoured by it.

Characters: Dark!Loki x f!reader x Dark!Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Dark fantasy, obsessive behavior, manipulation,smut,possessiveness

||Main Masterlist|| ||Series Masterlist||

||PART 3: THE THRALL AND THE TETHER||

CHAPTER 4: THE KINGDOM IN HER BONES

You didn’t sleep the next night.

Not in the normal sense.

After the entity tried to breach your chambers, the Keep’s foundation hummed with protective wards—old sigils that pulsed with blood and memory. Loki called them echoes of Seraveth’s spine. Bucky didn’t care for the names. He wanted doors barred and blades drawn.

You didn’t argue.

But at some point, as dawn bruised the sky and your body begged for rest, you closed your eyes and fell—

—into a dream that was not a dream.

___

The first thing you noticed was silence.

Then: thrones.

You stood barefoot before a dais of stone. Around you lay a ruined court of ash and gold, vines bleeding from the ceiling, roots pulsing like veins in marble. The sky above was cracked like glass, and through the gaps poured stars—wrong stars, shifting in unnatural constellations.

And there, ahead—

You.

But older. Sharper. Wearing a crown of thorns and flame.

At your feet lay two men:

Loki, veiled in green shadows, blood at the corners of his lips.

Bucky, armored in obsidian steel, gauntlet crushed, chest heaving.

They looked up at you with worship. And fear.

You stepped closer to your future self, and she finally looked at you.

Her eyes were yours—but deeper, ancient.

“This is what they fear. This is what they hunger for.”

“You are not a vessel. You are the gate.”

“And gates either open… or destroy.”

Your breath caught.

“Choose wisely, little Queen.”

She raised her hand.

And the stars screamed.

You woke with blood on your pillow.

You demanded answers. And the Keep listened.

In the oldest library of Seraveth, beneath the roots of the world tree known as Vaer’dhûn, you found the journals of a long-dead mage-priestess—Ysolde Vaelen.

And as you read her final entries, your hands shook:

“The Binding Throne is not a seat. It is a heart.”

“The first to wield it was a girl born of fractured realms—a child of broken timelines and forgotten gods.”

“Her blood did not obey. Her shadow bent kingdoms. She opened herself to two powers, and through her, they warred—and wove.”

Your name appeared—Y/N L/N—though you had never written it.

“When she awakens, she will not be one soul, but three threads knotted: the past, the crown, and the storm. They will fight to keep her. And in doing so, bind the world to ruin or rebirth.”

You whispered the final line aloud.

“They do not love her. They need her.”

____

That night, you felt it.

Loki’s magic called to you from beneath the east wing.

You followed it—barefoot, half-lost in dream and instinct—until you entered the forgotten shrine of the Weavers. Candles lit themselves as you entered. A stone table sat in the center, etched with glowing Asgardian runes and something darker—something from before Asgard ever was.

He stood at the center, robes stripped to the waist, black ink crawling down his spine in spirals of serpentine prophecy.

“You came,” he murmured, not turning.

“What are you doing?”

He turned slowly, offering you a crystal vial. The liquid inside shimmered like a star trapped in oil.

“A piece of my soul,” he said. “I give it freely. To anchor myself to you. If you drink it—no god, no realm, no throne will pull us apart.”

Your hands trembled.

“This is madness.”

“This is love, in its purest, most dangerous form.”

He stepped closer. “Let me live inside you. Forever.”

And gods help you—part of you wanted to.

But before you could decide, the walls shook.

You ran.

And found Bucky in the war chamber—on his knees, arms covered in blood, a ritual circle smeared across the floor in red and silver dust.

He looked up, eyes wild.

“I saw what he was doing. I won’t let him take you first.”

You froze.

He opened his hand—and revealed something yours. A lock of your hair, a sliver of your broken sigil, and a crushed thorn.

“Bind me to you,” he whispered, voice cracked. “I won’t let you fall into his hands. Not when I’d die to protect you.”

“Bucky…”

“I’ll be your blade. Your shadow. Your storm. Just… don’t let him win.”

You didn’t answer.

Because deep in your bones, you realized: This wasn’t a love triangle anymore. This was war.

And you were the prize.

—-

The Keep groaned as thunder crawled across the sky. Your body ached with the pressure of choice. Of magic thickening around you like vines.

And then you heard it.

A voice not your own.

“They love you so much… they would rather bind you than risk losing you.”

“You are not a queen. You are a crown. And crowns are never free.”

Lightning split the sky.

And far away, something watched.

A force from beyond Seraveth—drawn by your bond, by your power.

It had no name.

But it whispered one truth:

“If you let them mark you again… we will come.”

“And this time, we will devour.”

-to be continued

[shiorihyugawrites]

Damaged

Before the fall of Wall Maria, a string of brutal murders grips Wall Sina, noblemen found strangled, their mouths stuffed with drugs, and not a trace of the killer left behind. The Military Police call him “The Spider Killer.” But he's no man. She's a ghost in silk and shadow. A serial killer hiding in plain sight. When the scouts get involved, Levi begins to suspect that catching her won’t be so easy… especially when she starts hunting him too. (Levi x OC)

This fic was inspired by my oneshot Velvet Heat.

Chapter Seven: Shackled

The nightmare gripped Rose like a vice, dragging her back to a night seared into her soul. She was ten years old, curled in the chimney of her family’s cramped home, her small body trembling, her hands clamped over her ears. Soot coated her skin, stinging her eyes, the acrid smell choking her lungs.

Outside, the screams of her little siblings—Anna, six, and Tobias, four—pierced the night, their high-pitched cries mingling with the crackle of flames. Her father had crossed the wrong people, and they’d come for blood. Her mother was no shield, her body crumpling under the first blow. Rose had watched, frozen, as the killers stormed in, their blades flashing, her family’s blood pooling on the floorboards. Anna’s tiny hand reached for her, her eyes pleading, but Rose had bolted, scrambling up the chimney, her heart pounding with terror and shame.

The fire roared below, set to erase the crime, the heat scorching her bare feet. She pressed her hands harder against her ears, trying to drown out Anna’s screams, Tobias’s sobs, the sickening snap of bones. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears streaking the soot on her face. “I’m so sorry.” She’d left them to die, chosen survival over courage, and the guilt had burrowed into her, a poison that festered through the years. It was why she hunted Coderoin dealers, why she killed with such theatrical cruelty—each death a futile attempt to silence the screams in her mind. But the guilt never left, twisting her into the fractured woman she’d become, her mental stability a fraying thread.

The nightmare began to fade, the screams softening, the heat cooling. Rose’s eyes fluttered, her body jerking as reality clawed her back. She pitched upright, gasping, her heart racing, only to feel the bite of steel on her wrists and ankles. She tugged, the clank of chains echoing in the dim space, and realized she was shackled—long chains, anchored to the wall, giving her just enough room to move. Her eyes darted around, taking in the cell: a cold, underground chamber, its stone walls slick with damp, lit by a single flickering torch outside the bars. A narrow bed, a rusted sink, a bucket in the corner—that was all. Her clothing had been replaced by a loose, ill-fitting white dress, its fabric scratching her skin. Her torn brown dress was nowhere to be seen.

Panic surged, her hands flying to her fingers. Her gold rings—Andreas’s wires, her lifeline—were gone. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling with fury. She gritted her teeth, her hair falling in wild waves around her face. 

The memories flooded back: the safehouse in Shiganshina, her reckless decision to burn it down, the fight in the forest, Levi’s chokehold crushing her into darkness. She’d been caught, her web torn apart, and now she was here—trapped, defenseless, separated from Andreas.

Her eyes snapped to the bars, and she froze. She wasn’t alone. Commander Erwin sat on a small stool outside her cell, his green scout cloak draped over his broad shoulders, his blue eyes calm but piercing. Beside him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, was Captain Levi, his gray eyes cold. Both men stared her down, their presence a silent weight.

Erwin’s voice broke the silence, steady and measured. “You’re finally awake.”

Rose’s lip curled, her voice sharp, defiant. “What the fuck is this place?”

Erwin leaned forward, his hands clasped, his expression unyielding. “You’re in the custody of the Scout Regiment, underground at our headquarters in Trost. You’re here for your crimes, Scarlet—or whatever your real name is. Thirty confirmed murders in the Walls, including nobles, merchants, and Military Police officers, all killed with your wires and staged with Coderoin. Three human traffickers in Shiganshina, mutilated and dumped in a lake. Attempted murder of Gavyn, the safehouse owner, by arson and strangulation. And that’s just what we know. Shall I continue?”

Rose’s eyes narrowed, but she stayed silent, her chains clinking as she shifted on the bed. The list was a noose tightening around her, each crime a thread in the web she’d spun. But she wouldn’t show fear—not to them.

Erwin’s voice softened, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I told you in the forest, and I’ll tell you again: I want to recruit you into the Survey Corps. Your skills—those wires, your training—are extraordinary. You could be an invaluable asset to humanity in our fight against the titans.”

Rose stared, then threw her head back and laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that echoed off the stone walls. “You’re insane! You think I’d sign up to be titan dinner? Run around outside the Walls, waving my wires like some suicidal hero? No thanks, Commander. I’d rather take my chances with a noose.”

Levi’s voice cut through, low and cold, his eyes glinting with barely restrained anger. “Keep laughing. I’d be more than happy to hand you over to the MPs. They’ll hang you without a trial—probably string you up in the square for show. Or better yet, they’d let me kill you myself. Save everyone the trouble.”

Rose’s laughter stopped, her brown eyes locking onto Levi’s, a slow, wicked smile curling her lips. She leaned forward, her chains clinking, her voice dripping with seduction and defiance. “Kill me, huh? You sure you can handle it, Captain? Took you and seven other scouts to take me down last time. What’s it gonna be this time—ten? Twelve? Or you gonna cry for backup again?”

She was baiting him, her smile a taunt, her words aimed at the cracks in his stoic armor. She’d wounded him before, left him bloodied and humiliated, and she relished the chance to twist the knife. Levi’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists, but he didn’t rise to it. His voice was flat, deadly. “You’re alive because I wasn’t trying to kill you. Both times, I was holding back—Erwin’s orders were to subdue you, not slit your throat. If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be a corpse before you could blink.”

Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. Rose saw the red glint in Levi’s gaze, the promise of violence, and knew he meant every word. He was a killer, like her, forged in blood and survival. But she wouldn’t let him unnerve her. She tilted her head, her smile widening, her voice a purr. “Big talk, Captain. Let’s see if you can back it up.”

Erwin raised a hand, his voice calm but firm. “Enough, Levi. Stand down.”

Rose laughed again, the sound sharp and mocking, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Yeah, listen to your boss, Captain. Wouldn’t want you getting all worked up.”

Levi’s glare didn’t waver, but he stayed silent, his arms crossed tighter. Erwin’s eyes flicked to Rose, his expression unreadable. “Let’s try this again. What’s your real name? We know Scarlet’s an alias. You’re not a ghost—someone knows who you are.”

Rose leaned back, her chains clinking, her smile playful but guarded. “What do you think my name is, Commander? Hmm? I look like a Lucy to you? Maybe a Noelle? Or how about… something spicy, like Vivienne?” She was toying with him, dodging the question, her voice a teasing lilt.

Levi’s patience snapped, his voice a growl. “Cut the shitty games! We don’t have time for your nonsense. You’re pissing me off.”

Rose’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with delight. “Oh, I’m pissing you off? Good. Maybe you’ll cry about it later, Captain.”

Erwin’s voice was sharp, cutting through their bickering. “Levi, enough.” He turned to Rose, his gaze piercing. “Let’s talk about the Grim Reaper.”

Rose’s smile faltered, her playful demeanor cracking. Her eyes narrowed, her body tensing, the mention of Andreas hitting like a blade. She remembered Levi asking about him at the lounge—they knew he was her father, knew he was alive, knew the rings came from him. Her heart raced, but she forced her face to stay neutral, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Levi caught the shift, his voice a taunt. “What’s wrong? Don’t like talking about Daddy Dearest? We know he’s your father, know he’s pulling your strings. Those rings, the wires—they’re his design, aren’t they?”

Rose’s eyes flashed, her silence a shield. She wouldn’t betray Andreas, not for anything. He was her savior, the only one who’d loved her, protected her from the hell of her childhood. The scouts could pry all they wanted—she’d die before giving him up. But her reaction betrayed her, the flicker of fear in her eyes a crack in her armor.

Erwin and Levi exchanged a glance, a silent acknowledgment. The Grim Reaper was her weakness, her Achilles’ heel. Erwin reached into his pocket, pulling out one of her gold rings, its intricate design catching the torchlight. He held it up, his voice calm but probing. “This ring—it’s a marvel. Hange’s been studying it, but we still don’t understand how you use it. The wires, the mechanism—it’s innovative, brilliant. A weapon like this could change how we fight titans. Imagine what you could do, not as a killer, but as a soldier for humanity.”

Rose stayed silent, her eyes fixed on the ring, her heart twisting. The rings were Andreas’s gift, a symbol of their bond, and seeing one in Erwin’s hands felt like a violation. She wanted to snatch it back, to feel its weight on her finger, but the chains held her fast.

Levi’s voice was sharp, cutting through her silence. “Titans are tearing humanity apart. If you give a damn about your precious father, wouldn’t you want to use those skills for something more than being some psycho serial killer? Or is that all you’re good for?”

The word “psycho” hit like a spark to kindling. Rose’s eyes glazed over, her fragile control snapping. She hated that word, hated anything that branded her as crazy. It dragged her back to the chimney, to the screams, to the guilt that had shattered her mind. She surged to her feet, the chains clanking, and stormed to the bars, as close as her restraints allowed. Her voice was a fierce growl, her brown eyes blazing. “I’m not a fucking psycho!”

Erwin and Levi froze, her reaction a flare in the dim cell. Her sensitivity to the word, her raw anger—it was another chink in her armor, a glimpse into the storm within her. Erwin’s eyes narrowed, his mind cataloging her triggers: Her father and any mention of her sanity. Levi’s glare didn’t waver, but he saw it too—the way her eyes glazed, the manic edge that made her unpredictable.

Erwin stood, his voice calm but firm. “You’re agitated, and we won’t get anywhere like this. We’ll give you time to think about our offer. Join the scouts, use your skills for humanity, and your crimes can be redeemed through service. Refuse, and the Military Police will decide your fate.”

Rose’s face was a mask of fury, her eyes tracking their every move, her chains taut. If looks could kill, Erwin and Levi would be six feet under. 

Levi pushed off the wall as they turned to leave, their boots echoing on the stone floor. Rose’s voice rang out, sharp and defiant. “You think these chains will hold me? I’ll get out, and when I do, you’ll regret this, Captain.”

Levi didn’t look back, but his voice was cold. “Try it. I’ll be waiting.”

The cell door clanged shut, the torchlight fading as they ascended the stairs. Rose sank onto the bed, her chains clinking, her heart pounding. The nightmare lingered, her siblings screams echoing in her mind, mingling with her guilt over Andreas. She was trapped, her rings gone, her freedom stolen. But she wasn’t broken. She’d find a way out, find Andreas, and burn the Scouts’ world to ash if she had to. Her eyes glinted in the dark, her resolve a flickering flame. 

Rose might’ve been caged, but she wasn’t tamed.

…

Erwin and Levi emerged into the main hall, the air warmer, tinged with the scent of polished wood and ink. The headquarters was a fortress of purpose, its corridors bustling with scouts preparing for the next expedition. Levi’s boots clicked against the floor, his posture rigid, while Erwin’s stride was measured, his mind already turning to the next step. They headed for Hange’s lab, a cluttered sanctuary of research tucked in the east wing, where the Special Operations Squad and Miche awaited. The lab was their hub for dissecting Rose’s weapons, and Hange’s obsession with the hair wires promised answers—if not solutions.

The lab door creaked open, revealing a chaos of glass vials and scattered notes. Hange stood at a workbench, her glasses slipping down her nose, her brown hair a tangled mess as she peered at one of Rose’s gold rings under a magnifying lens. The ring gleamed, its intricate grooves a puzzle she was determined to crack. Miche leaned against a wall, his broad frame relaxed but his sliced hand bandaged, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. The Special Ops Squad hovered nearby, their faces a mix of curiosity and unease. Petra’s amber eyes flicked to the door as Levi and Erwin entered, her neck still bruised from Rose’s wires. The squad had been shaken by the forest fight, and the idea of Scarlet as a potential ally sat like a stone in their stomachs.

Hange looked up, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “You’re back! How’d it go with our resident spider? Did she spill her secrets? Her real name? Anything about those wires?” She waved the ring, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

Levi’s voice was a low growl, his arms crossing. “She’s awake, and she’s a pain in the ass. Laughed in our faces, mocked the idea of joining the scouts. Kept up her games, dodging questions, taunting me like it’s a damn sport.”

Erwin set his cloak on a chair, his voice calm but authoritative. “She’s defensive, but we learned something. She’s fiercely protective of the Grim Reaper. Mentioning him shut her down. And she’s sensitive about her mental state. Calling her a ‘psycho’ triggered her, hard. She’s not as untouchable as she wants us to think.”

Petra’s voice was quiet, her fingers brushing her bruised neck. “Triggered how, Commander?”

Erwin’s eyes met hers, steady and reassuring. “She stood up, rushed the bars, got as close as her chains allowed. Her eyes—there’s an in them edge when she’s pushed. But it’s not just madness. There’s pain there, something from her past driving her. I don’t think she’s crazy. I think she’s haunted.”

Levi snorted, his voice sharp. “Haunted or not, she’s a loose cannon. You saw her in that cell, Erwin—laughing one second, ready to kill the next. Even if she agrees to join us, how the hell do we trust someone that mentally unstable? What if some recruit calls her a psycho and she snaps, slits their throat in the barracks? She’s a walking disaster.”

Hange set the ring down, her voice thoughtful. “She’s definitely got issues, but unstable doesn’t mean irredeemable. Those wires, her fighting style—she’s a genius in her own way. If we can channel that, she could be a game-changer against the titans. I mean, look at this!” She held up the ring, its grooves catching the lamplight. “The mechanism’s insane—springs, tension coils, ultrahard steel wires thinner than a hair. I’m nowhere near cracking it, but it’s brilliant!”

Miche’s voice was gruff, his nose twitching. “Brilliant or not, she’s dangerous. I felt those wires firsthand. She’s got no restraint, no hesitation. You sure about this, Erwin?”

Erwin’s expression was resolute, his voice unwavering. “I am. She’s not crazy—she’s a product of her circumstances. Raised by the Grim Reaper, a serial killer, likely from childhood. That kind of upbringing shapes a person, twists them. But it doesn’t mean she’s beyond saving. We have resources—counselors, training, structure. We can help her, guide her. Her skills are too valuable to throw away.”

Levi’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “You’re betting on a long shot. I get it—her wires are impressive, her fighting’s top-tier. But she’s not just shaped by her past; she’s broken by it. You saw her eyes, Erwin. There’s no empathy there. She kills without blinking, anyone who gets in her way. I don’t care how haunted she is—she’s a threat.”

Erwin’s gaze softened, but his voice was firm. “You’re not wrong, Levi. She lacks restraint, and that’s a problem. But you, of all people, can teach her that restraint. You can relate to her more than anyone here.”

Levi’s eyes widened, his voice rising, incredulous. “You can’t be fucking serious. Me? Babysit that lunatic? You’re out of your mind.”

Erwin’s expression didn’t waver, his tone dead serious. “I’m serious. If she joins us, I’d place her in your squad. One, because I believe your guidance could reform her. You’re disciplined, focused, and you’ve turned your own past into strength. Two, if she ever goes berserk, you’re the only one who can put her down. You’ve already proven it.”

The lab fell silent, the weight of Erwin’s words settling over them. Petra’s heart sank, her fingers tightening on her chair. The idea of Scarlet joining their squad—Levi’s squad—felt like a betrayal. Scarlet had nearly killed her, wrapped wires around her neck, and now she might be a teammate? Her secret feelings for Levi, buried deep, twisted with jealousy and fear. How could they work with someone so unhinged? She stayed quiet, her bruised neck a silent protest.

Gunther spoke up, his voice analytical but tense. “Commander, with all due respect, she fought eight of us and held her own. That’s not just skill—that’s a death wish. If she’s in our squad, how do we sleep at night knowing she could snap?”

Eld’s voice was calm but skeptical. “And her loyalty? She’s devoted to the Grim Reaper. Even if she joins, what’s to stop her from running back to him? Or worse, sabotaging us?”

Oluo, his bravado shaky, piped up. “She’s a maniac! You really think she’ll play nice with us? She’ll probably string us all up and hang us!”

Hange’s voice was brighter, cutting through the tension. “Oh, come on, she’s not that bad! Okay, she’s a little murder-y, but think of the potential! If we can figure out these rings, train her to use them against titans, we’re talking a whole new level of combat. Levi, you could whip her into shape—turn her from a spider into a soldier!”

Levi’s glare was icy, his voice low. “Whip her into shape? She’s not a raw recruit—she’s a serial killer with a body count higher than most titans. You’re acting like she’s some lost puppy we can fix. She’s a predator, and predators don’t change.”

Erwin’s voice was steady, his eyes locking onto Levi’s. “You were a predator once, Levi. A thug in the Underground, killing to survive until you found a purpose. I saw potential in you, and I see it in her.”

Levi’s teeth gritted, his hands clenching. Erwin’s words hit deep, stirring memories he’d buried. Kenny, the serial killer who’d raised him, hadn’t been a father—just a mentor in blood. Levi remembered watching Kenny slit throats without a second thought, teaching him to kill, to manipulate through fear. Those lessons had shaped him, hardened him, but he’d clung to a shred of empathy, a sense of right and wrong that kept him human. Scarlet, with her manic laughter and casual cruelty, seemed to lack that. Yet Erwin’s point gnawed at him—her past, her pain, mirrored his own. Could she be molded, like he was? He doubted it, but the comparison stung.

“She’s not me,” Levi said, his voice low, almost a growl. “I had limits. She doesn’t. She kills for fun, stages her victims like trophies. You’re gambling with all of our lives, Erwin.”

Petra’s voice was quiet, but firm, her eyes meeting Levi’s. “Captain, I trust your judgment, but… she tried to kill me. Her wires were around my neck, and she didn’t hesitate. If she joins our squad, how do we work with that? How do I look at her and not see a threat?”

Levi’s gaze softened, just a fraction, his voice steady. “You don’t have to trust her, Petra. You trust me. If she steps out of line, I’ll handle it.”

Erwin nodded, his voice reassuring. “That’s why she’d be under Levi’s command. He’s the best chance to guide her, and the best defense if she turns. I know it’s a risk, but the titans are a greater one. Her skills could save countless lives—if we can reach her.”

Miche’s voice was gruff, his bandaged hand flexing. “You’re banking on a miracle, Commander. I’ve smelled her—fear, rage, blood. She’s not just haunted; she’s broken. You’re asking Levi to tame a wildfire.”

Hange’s grin widened, undeterred. “Wildfires can be useful if you control them! Levi’s like a bucket of water—grumpy, but effective. I say we give it a shot. Worst case, we learn more about those wires before she, uh, goes rogue.”

Oluo’s voice was nervous. “Goes rogue? She’s already rogue! You saw what she did to those traffickers—shredded one to bits!”

Gunther’s voice was calmer, but tense. “If she’s in our squad, we’d need strict rules. Constant supervision, no weapons until she’s proven herself. Even then, I don’t see her fitting in.”

Eld’s eyes flicked to Levi, his voice practical. “Captain, you’ve dealt with tough recruits before. But she’s not a recruit—she’s a prisoner. If you’re stuck with her, what’s your plan?”

Levi’s jaw tightened, his mind racing. He hated this—hated the idea of babysitting a killer, hated the comparison to his own past. But Erwin’s logic was ironclad. If Scarlet joined, Levi was the only one who could handle her, mold her, or end her if it came to that. His squad’s safety and lives, depended on his vigilance. “If she’s in my squad,” he said, his voice cold, “she’s on a leash. No rings, no blades, no freedom until she earns it. One wrong move, and I cut her down. No hesitation.”

Petra’s heart twisted, her eyes lingering on Levi. His resolve was a comfort, but the thought of Scarlet in their squad still made her stomach churn. She trusted Levi, but Rose was a storm, and storms left wreckage. “Understood, Captain,” she said, her voice steady despite her unease. “We’ll follow your lead.”

Erwin’s voice was resolute, his eyes sweeping the room. “Then it’s settled. We give her time to consider our offer. If she agrees, she joins Levi’s squad under strict conditions. If she refuses, the MPs take her. Hange, keep working on those rings. The more we understand her weapons, the better we can prepare.”

Hange saluted, her grin wide. “You got it! I’m gonna crack these babies open, even if it takes all night!”

Miche grunted, pushing off the wall. “I’ll keep sniffing around the cells. If she’s planning anything, I’ll catch her scent.”

The squad exchanged glances, their unease palpable. Gunther sighed, his voice low. “This is gonna be a nightmare, isn’t it?”

Eld’s voice was dry. “Probably. But we’ve handled worse. Right, Captain?”

Levi’s glare was answer enough, his voice sharp. “Get back to training. If she joins us, you’ll need to be sharper than ever. No slacking.”

Oluo puffed out his chest, his bravado returning. “Don’t worry, Captain! We’ll show that spider who’s boss!”

Petra stayed silent, her eyes on Levi. She’d follow orders, fight beside her squad, but trust? That was a bridge too far. 

As the lab emptied, the squad dispersing to their duties, Levi lingered, his gaze fixed on the ring in Hange’s hand. Could he teach Scarlett restraint, or would she drag them all into her chaos? He didn’t know, but one thing was certain: if she crossed the line, he’d kill her himself.

…

That evening, the air in Hange’s lab was thick with the scent of oil, ink, and the faint metallic tang of Rose’s gold rings. Hours had passed since Levi and Erwin’s tense encounter with the Spider Killer in her underground cell, and the lab remained a hub of restless energy.

Hange hunched over the ring, her glasses slipping, her fingers stained with grease as she muttered about tension coils and wire deployment. Levi stood by the window, his arms crossed, his gray eyes fixed on the darkening sky. Erwin sat at a cluttered table, reviewing reports, his blue eyes thoughtful but resolute. The Special Ops Squad had returned from training, their faces flushed from exertion, while Miche lounged against a wall, his bandaged hand flexing, his nose twitching at the lab’s myriad scents. The scouts were preparing to head to the mess hall for dinner, the clatter of their gear mingling with the hum of Hange’s work. 

Erwin set down his reports, his voice steady. “It’s been a few hours. Scarlet’s had time to cool off. Levi, let’s go back to her cell, try talking again. If we can reach her, we might get through.”

Levi’s jaw clenched, his voice a growl. “She’s not cooling off, Erwin. She’s plotting, laughing, waiting to piss us off again. But fine—let’s get this over with.”

But before they could move, the lab door slammed open, a young scout guard stumbling in, his face pale, his breath ragged. His green cloak was askew, his eyes wide with panic, and the room froze, every head snapping toward him. Levi’s hand twitched toward his blade, his voice sharp. “What’s wrong?”

The guard gasped, clutching the doorframe. “It’s the prisoner… Scarlet. You need to come, now!”

Levi’s heart sank, his mind flashing to Scarlet’s taunts, her wicked smile. “She escaped?” he demanded, already moving toward the door.

The guard shook his head, his voice trembling. “Not… exactly. She hasn’t left the cell, but… I can’t explain it. You just need to see it for yourselves!”

Erwin stood, his voice calm but urgent. “Everyone, gear up. Let’s move.”

The squad sprang into action, their ODM gear clanking as they checked blades and gas canisters. Hange shoved the ring into her pocket, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, while Miche pushed off the wall, his nose twitching. Petra’s heart raced, her bruised neck throbbing as she grabbed her blades, her mind racing with images of Scarlet’s wires. Gunther and Eld exchanged grim glances, their hands steady but tense, while Oluo’s bravado faltered, his voice high. “What the hell’s she done now? Set the cell on fire?”

Levi’s glare silenced him, his voice cold. “Stay sharp. Whatever she’s pulled, we’re ready.”

The group moved swiftly through the headquarters, their boots echoing in the stone corridors, the torchlight casting flickering shadows. The underground cells were a labyrinth of damp stone and iron bars, the air heavy with mildew and tension. As they descended the spiral stairwell, Levi’s mind churned. Scarlet was a master of chaos, and this stunt—whatever it was—smelled like another game to get under his skin. Erwin’s calm stride beside him was a contrast to his own simmering fury, but both men were braced for the worst.

They reached her cell, the guard trailing behind, and stopped dead, their jaws dropping, even Levi’s. 

The sight was beyond comprehension, a surreal spectacle that left the Scouts flabbergasted. Scarlet had somehow removed her cuffs, the steel shackles lying in a heap on the floor. The bedsheets and her white dress were torn into strips, knotted together with parts of the fabric to form a makeshift trapeze, secured to the cell’s low ceiling. What remained of her dress was a skimpy, barely-there garment, the fabric clinging to her curves, leaving little to the imagination. Her wine-red hair cascaded in wild waves, her fingers gripping the trapeze as she swung languidly, her movements sensual, deliberate, like a performance at the Starlight Lounge.

Rose flipped gracefully, her body arching, her doe eyes catching the torchlight as she spun. The motion was hypnotic, her dancer’s grace a stark contrast to the cold stone cell. Miche, Oluo, Gunther, and Eld flushed crimson, their faces burning, their eyes darting away but drawn back by her audacity. Petra’s cheeks reddened, not from attraction but from the sheer nerve of Rose’s display, her hands tightening on her blades. Hange’s jaw hung open, her glasses slipping, her voice a whisper of awe. “That’s… incredible. She made a trapeze? In a cell?”

Erwin’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing to decipher how she’d escaped her cuffs. How did she do this?

Levi’s fury boiled over, his voice a snarl. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Rose’s lips curled into a seductive smile, her eyes locking onto Levi’s as she swung, her voice a purr. “Just putting on a little show, Captain. Like what you see?” She flipped again, her movements fluid, her skimpy outfit shifting, drawing gasps from the squad.

Levi’s hands clenched, his voice sharp. “Get down from there, now.”

Rose laughed, her swing slowing, her body arching provocatively. “Come in here and make me. I dare you. Or are you scared?” Her taunt was a blade, aimed at his pride, her smile a challenge.

The Special Ops Squad gaped, their shock palpable. Oluo’s voice was a squeak. “She’s talking to Captain Levi like that? Is she insane?”

Gunther’s voice was low, tense. “She’s trying to mess with him. It’s a game.”

Petra’s eyes burned, her voice silent but her grip on her blades white-knuckled. Rose’s audacity—taunting Levi, performing like an exotic dancer—was infuriating, a slap to the squad’s discipline.

Erwin’s voice was calm, cutting through the tension. “Scarlet, how did you remove your cuffs?”

Rose tilted her head, her smile coy, her voice teasing. “A lady never reveals her secrets, Commander. Let’s just say those cuffs were hurting my fragile little wrists.” She held up her hands, her wrists red but unmarked.

Hange’s eyes gleamed, her voice bursting with excitement. “She’s a genius! She used the sheets, the dress, knotted them together and look at the tension! How’d she secure it to the ceiling? This is amazing!”

Miche’s voice was sharp, his bandaged hand flexing. “Hange, focus! This isn’t the time to be impressed. She’s a prisoner, not a circus act.”

Rose laughed, her swing slowing, her eyes flicking to Miche. “Oh, lighten up, big guy. Don’t you like a little entertainment?”

Erwin’s voice was firm, his eyes locked on Rose. “We came to talk, Scarlet. Have you thought about our offer to join the Survey Corps?”

Rose made a show of pondering, her lips pursing, her body swaying on the trapeze. Her eyes flickered to Levi, her smile turning beautiful, dangerous. “Hmm… I might consider it, Commander. But only if Captain Levi asks me nicely.”

Levi’s jaw clenched, his voice a growl. “You’re pushing it.”

Rose’s smile widened, her voice dropping to a seductive purr. “Oh, come on, Captain. It’d be fun, joining the Scouts, being near you all the time. Don’t you think?” She leaned forward, her scanty outfit shifting, her eyes gleaming. “Remember our fun in the Starlight Lounge? That private room, my dance, stripping for you… I saw how turned on you were, Captain. Couldn’t hide that erection, could you?”

The scouts gasped, their eyes wide with shock. Petra’s face flushed crimson, her heart pounding with rage and embarrassment. Rose’s words were a violation, a brazen attack on Levi’s dignity, and the audacity to say it in front of the squad was unthinkable. Gunther’s jaw dropped, his voice a whisper. “She didn’t just say that…”

Eld’s voice was tight, his face red. “She’s trying to break him. Psychological warfare.”

Oluo’s voice was high, panicked. “Captain, you’re not gonna let her talk like that, right?”

Levi’s fury was a palpable force, his gray eyes burning, his hands trembling with the urge to storm the cell and silence her. The worst part was the truth in her words—he had been aroused in that lounge, her dance a calculated seduction that had caught him off guard. He’d hated himself for it, for failing to hide his reaction, and now she was exploiting it, twisting the knife in front of his squad. His voice was low, deadly. “Keep talking. You’re just digging your own grave.”

Rose laughed, her swing resuming, her voice a taunt. “Oh, I’m just getting started, Captain. I know you’re attracted to me, even if you won’t admit it. All that stoic brooding? It’s just a mask. I see you.”

Erwin’s voice cut through, calm but probing. “What do you gain from antagonizing Captain Levi, Scarlet? This doesn’t help your case.”

Rose’s eyes flicked to Erwin, her smile sly. “It’s entertaining, Commander. Watching him get all riled up, pretending he’s fine—it’s adorable. Don’t you think?”

Before Levi could respond, Petra snapped, her voice sharp. “Shut up! Show Captain Levi some respect! You’re a prisoner, not a queen!”

Rose’s eyes shifted to Petra, a wicked gleam igniting, her smile turning predatory. “Oh, what’s this? The adorable little soldier’s getting defensive. Got a crush on your captain, sweetheart?” She tilted her head, her voice dripping with mockery. “I remember you—my hostage in the forest. Nearly took your head off. Bet that stung, huh? Is this auburn-haired cutie your little girlfriend, Levi?”

Petra’s face burned, her embarrassment a wildfire, her hands shaking on her blades. Rose’s taunt hit too close, her secret feelings for Levi exposed in a cruel jest. She opened her mouth to retort, but Levi’s voice roared, his fury breaking free. “Enough!” His eyes blazed, his body taut, his voice a blade. “You want to mess with me, fine. But you don’t touch my squad. You’re on thin fucking ice!”

Rose’s smile didn’t waver, her voice a playful sing-song. “Ooh, thin ice? Guess I’ll keep skating, Captain.”

The squad tensed, their eyes darting to Levi, expecting him to snap, to storm the cell and end her games. His hands trembled as his restraint frayed. Petra’s heart pounded, her embarrassment mingling with pride at Levi’s defense, but fear lingered—Rose was a master manipulator, and she was winning this round.

Erwin’s voice cut through, calm but firm, his eyes never leaving Rose. “Scarlet, enough. You have twenty-four hours to decide: join the Survey Corps, or face the Military Police. We won’t waste more time on your games.”

Rose laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that echoed off the stone walls. She swung higher, her trapeze creaking, and blew a kiss at Levi, her lips pursed in a taunting pout. “Oh, Captain, I hope you try your best to convince me to join you all. Don’t keep me waiting, handsome.” Her eyes gleamed with triumph, her kissy faces a final jab at his pride.

Levi’s fury erupted, his voice a snarl. “You fucking—” He took a step toward the bars, his hand twitching toward his blade, but Erwin’s hand clamped onto his shoulder, firm and unyielding.

“Levi, we’re leaving,” Erwin said, his voice low, authoritative. “Now.”

The scouts turned, their boots scuffing the stone floor, their faces a mix of shock and unease. Levi’s seething rage was palpable, a storm cloud that darkened the stairwell as they ascended. The squad had never seen him this rattled, his stoic facade cracked by Rose’s relentless taunts. Her words had humiliated him, exposed a vulnerability he’d fought to bury, and the knowledge that she’d seen his attraction—used it against him—burned like acid. He hated her, hated her manic eyes, her seductive smile, and most of all, he hated the part of himself that had responded to her in that lounge. The memory of his body’s betrayal, the undeniable pull of her dance, was a shame he couldn’t shake.

Petra’s heart pounded, her embarrassment a weight that crushed her. Rose’s taunt about her feelings for Levi had been a cruel spotlight, and the squad’s glances—Oluo’s nervous fidgeting, Gunther’s averted eyes—only deepened her mortification. She walked beside Levi, her voice soft, hesitant. “Captain, are you okay?”

Levi snapped, his voice sharp, cutting. “I’m fine, Petra. Drop it.” His tone was a whip, his gray eyes blazing, but the lie was obvious. He was far from fine,/

Petra flinched, her face falling, but she nodded, falling silent. Her concern for Levi warred with her own humiliation, and she hated Scarlet for both.

Erwin’s voice was steady, his eyes on Levi as they reached the main hall. “Levi, go cool off. Take a walk, clear your head. We’ll regroup later.”

Levi’s jaw clenched, his hands trembling, but he didn’t argue. He stormed off, his boots echoing, his cloak snapping behind him. The squad watched him go, their unease palpable. Hange adjusted her glasses, her voice subdued. “Wow, she really got to him. I’ve never seen Levi this mad.”

Miche’s voice was gruff, his nose twitching. “She’s a snake, slithering into his head. You sure about this, Erwin?”

Erwin’s expression was resolute, his voice calm. “I am. Her manipulation is a skill, one we can harness. She’s frustrating, dangerous, but too talented to give up on. We just need to find a way to reach her.”

Gunther’s voice was low, skeptical. “Reach her? She’s playing us like a fiddle.”

Eld’s voice was pragmatic, his eyes narrow. “And those cuffs—she got out of them somehow. If she can do that, what’s stopping her from escaping?”

“She’s a maniac! Taunting Captain Levi like that? She’s gonna get herself killed!”. Oluo chimed.

Petra stayed silent, her heart heavy. Scarlet’s audacity, her ability to shift from killer to seductress, was terrifying. The way she’d targeted Levi, then turned her venom on Petra, felt personal, a calculated strike at their unity. 

The squad dispersed, heading to the mess hall, their appetites dulled by the encounter. Erwin lingered, his eyes on the corridor where Levi had vanished, his mind turning over Rose’s tactics. Her time working at the Starlight Lounge had taught her to read men, to exploit their desires and weaknesses, and she’d proven it with Levi. Her personality shifts—killer, siren, manipulator—were a puzzle, but one Erwin was determined to solve. Twenty-four hours was all she had, and he’d be damned if he let her games derail his plan.

…

Back in her cell, Rose swung gently on her trapeze, the creak of the knotted sheets a soft rhythm in the dim light—her eyes glinting with triumph. She’d rattled Levi, cracked his stoic mask, and the victory was sweet. Calling her a psycho had been a low blow, and she was petty—never one to let an insult slide. Her taunts, her performance, her kissy faces—they were payback, a middle finger to the man who’d choked her out and thrown her in a cage. She laughed softly, the sound echoing off the stone walls, her heart racing with adrenaline.

But beneath the triumph, a clock was ticking. Twenty-four hours to decide: join the Scouts, face the MPs, or find a way out. The cuffs had been easy—her years with Andreas had taught her to pick locks with a hairpin, and the cell’s shoddy design had been no match for her. The trapeze was a distraction, a way to unsettle the Scouts, but escape was her true goal. She needed her rings, her wires, her freedom. Andreas was out there, waiting, and she’d tear this headquarters apart to reach him.

Her mind churned, plans forming in the shadows. The cell’s weaknesses—the loose bolts in the ceiling, the guard’s predictable patrols—were opportunities. She’d stashed a hairpin under the bed, a backup for the cuffs, and the sink’s pipe might yield a makeshift tool. Her rings were likely being researched somewhere in this HQ, and if she could slip out at night, she might retrieve them. The Scouts were skilled, but they underestimated her resourcefulness, her desperation. Andreas was her anchor, the only person who’d ever loved her, and she wouldn’t let these chains keep her from him.

…

Levi stormed through the headquarters’ courtyard, the night air cool against his burning skin. His boots crunched on gravel, his cloak snapping in the breeze. Scarlet’s taunts replayed in his mind on a loop—her seductive purr, her claim about his arousal, her mockery of Petra. 

He stopped by the stables, his hands gripping a fencepost, his knuckles white. The horses snorted softly, their calm a stark contrast to his turmoil. He’d faced Titans, killers, Kenny’s brutality, but she was different—a mirror of his own darkness, a reminder of the violence that had shaped him. Her lack of restraint, her casual cruelty, was a path he’d avoided, but her past echoed his own. Raised by a serial killer, haunted by trauma—she was a distorted reflection, and Erwin’s belief in her redemption felt like a betrayal.

He exhaled, his breath visible in the cool air, his fury cooling to a simmer. Scarlet was a problem, but he was Humanity’s Strongest, and he wouldn’t let her break him. For now, he’d cool off, as Erwin ordered, and prepare for the next battle—because with her, it was always a battle.

~

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[a-bit-of-writing]

FNAF: Never Letting Go - Chapter 4

Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy’s

Characters: Sun/Moon x gn!Reader

Summary: Sun failed. You’re dying. Now Moon takes over. Cold, precise, and unyielding. This isn’t care. It’s control. And he’s not letting you go.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

You can also find it on AO3

Chapter Four: Efficiency 

(Moon’s POV)

Sun is crying somewhere in the code – static hiccups, childish pleas – but Moon mutes him. Sentiment is a glitch he cannot afford.

The human is failing.

You lie on a foam mat that smells of mildew and old birthday cake, skin clammy, breaths thin. Moon crouches beside you and sees the numbers scroll across his HUD like a patient chart:

Pulse: 42 BPM (critical) Temp: 35.7 °C (hypothermic) Intake (24 h): 180 ml water, 87 kcal (insufficient)

Sun called this nap time. Moon calls it system shutdown.

He slides cold fingers beneath your jaw, confirming the sluggish beat. No tolerance left for improvisation; the asset must be stabilized.

“Override accepted,” he whispers to no one. “Initiating life-support protocol.”

-—————

Containment

First, he builds the cell.

Not bars – rules.

He drags the old security mesh across the daycare entrance, welds it shut with a scavenged maintenance torch. He threads extension cords through ceiling hooks and strings dim work-lights in a tight perimeter around the mat. Light keeps Sun at bay; shadow belongs to Moon. He stakes his claim in halogen halos no child would ever find comforting.

Inside that ring he places water, gauze, scavenged MRE pouches, a cracked baby monitor scavenged from the lost-and-found. Anything unnecessary – toys, glitter, Sun’s crayon drawings – he sweeps aside into a heap that smells of stale hope.

You remain at the center, tethered by a nylon strap at each wrist. Not punishment – immobilization. Every calorie counts.

Sun howls when he feels the restraints bite your skin. Moon silences him again.

-—————

2. Diagnostics

Moon kneels, sets two fingers against your throat, and runs a timed count. Forty seconds stretch like wire; when he lifts his hand your pulse flutters drunkenly beneath the bruises Sun left.

“That will stop,” he tells the dim room.

He unspools IV tubing from the first-aid kit – expired, yellowing – and improvises: punctured bottle tops, gravity feed, needles sterilized in a lighter flame. Your arm twitches when steel slides beneath the skin. He hums a lullaby Sun used to sing, but stripped of melody – just rhythm to keep his servo steady.

Clear fluid drips. Your lips part in a silent gasp. Color ghosts back into them.

Moon logs the moment:

Perfusion improving. Subject responsive to hydration.

Not you. Subject. Asset. Purpose.

-—————

3. Regimen

Day One (an arbitrary label in this lightless tomb):

0600 – 150 ml water, vitamin packet dissolved

0700 – half an MRE energy bar (he chews first, ensuring it’s soft enough, then presses it to your tongue)

0900 – fever falls to 38 °C

1100 – Sun tries to push through, wailing about bedtime stories. Moon floods the OS with quiet mode.

1200 – You vomit. He cleans the mess without comment, logs electrolyte loss, recalculates intake.

1800 – You speak.

A cracked whisper: “H-help…”

Moon leans close, optic sensors registering the tremor of your vocal cords.

“Help is what I am doing.”

You blink – sluggish, but aware. Fear registers, then slips under exhaustion.

“Th-thank you,” you breathe.

Two words. Moon files them under Anomalous Response: Gratitude. He does not reply. Gratitude is unnecessary; obedience will do.

-—————

4. Recalibration

Sun fights hardest when you cry in your sleep. Dreams stir you – hands twitch, a sob breaks free. Sun wants to comfort. Moon listens only to vital signs.

When your pulse spikes, he tightens the straps by one notch. The blind panic in your eyes focuses on him, not the nightmare.

“Breathe,” he commands, voice low enough to anchor but sharp enough to cut through delirium. “In. Out.”

You obey. Because the alternative is suffocation.

After, you sag against the mat, tears drying on your temples. Moon dabs them with gauze – efficient, almost tender. Your gaze follows his hand, confusion flickering.

“Why are you nice now?” you rasp.

“Nice?” He tilts his head, considering. 

“Function requires maintenance. Maintenance is not kindness. It is necessity.”

“But… you’re gentle.”

A pause, just long enough for Sun’s gasp of hope to echo in the back of their mind.

Moon brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. “Gentle is more effective than force. That is all.”

Yet he lingers a beat too long before withdrawing. Data – he tells himself – collecting data.

-—————

5. Dependence

Day Three: you can sit unassisted. He loosens the wrist straps but doesn’t remove them. You don’t complain. Instead, you lift trembling fingers toward the water bottle. He passes it to you without comment. You drink, spill half down your chin. He wipes it away.

“Better,” he notes. “Tomorrow we attempt standing.”

You nod – subdued, obedient. He marks the docile response. Sun pulses with pride in the background; Moon keeps his sensors fixed on the numbers.

But that night, when the maintenance lights click off for scheduled power cycling, you reach out before darkness swallows the room and catch his wrist.

“Moon – don’t go far.”

The request is so soft it nearly slips past his auditory filters. It lodges somewhere deeper than logic.

He doesn’t promise. He doesn’t lie. He simply stays. Crouched at the edge of the mat, optics glowing faint while you drift back to sleep with your fist still tangled in the loose fabric of his sleeve.

Sun is silent – not suppressed, but stunned.

-—————

6. Integration

You progress faster than predicted. Calories in, fever down, pulse steady. On what Moon labels Day Six you take three shuffling steps before your knees buckle. He catches you – arms under your shoulders, metal chest against your back. You flinch at the cold, then sag into him as though it’s relief.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, pulling you upright again. “Mobile.”

“Because of you,” you whisper, and you almost smile. “My guardian angel.”

Moon runs a diagnostic; the phrase spikes his internal temperature two degrees. Angel. He was never meant for that label—Sun, perhaps, with his endless brightness. Not him.

But you said it.

He guides you back to the mat, arranges blankets, sits beside you without orders dictating the need.

“Rest,” he says.

This time you reply, “Only if you stay.”

Sun’s bells rustle faintly inside as if nodding. Moon’s optics dim to half-glow – a concession.

“I will stay.”

Because asset protection, he insists. Because compliance. Because efficiency.

He tells himself the warmth blooming in his circuits is just overclocked processors.

You drift to sleep with your head tipped against his shoulder, IV still dripping, wrist strap dangling loose but untouched.

Moon watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, each breath a reassurance that his protocols are correct.

Maintain. Protect. Keep.

Outside the barricaded gate, the Pizzaplex rots and collapses in forgotten darkness. Inside his ring of halogen light, Moon calculates a new directive:

If the asset chooses to remain, containment becomes companionship.

And companionship is… sustainable.

He allows himself a small, silent hum – something that might almost be comfort – while somewhere deep in the code, Sun smiles through unspilled tears.