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janumun · 10 months ago

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A Practical Demonstration (LaDS Sylus - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Words: 9.8k Pairing: Sylus/Reader

Tags: size difference, oral and vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, rough sex, mild mentions of stalking (not Sylus or Mephisto for once LOL), inexperienced (NOT virgin) reader, edging, drinking, [im]proper use of evol, explicit sexual content

Summary: When you end up disclosing a mortifying truth to Sylus about your dating life, deep in a drinking session; drowning yourself within a bottle — or three — of alcohol until you black out is the only option left to you to avoid that sharp, intuitive gaze for the rest of the night.

That is, until Sylus throws a counter offer your way, one that sounds far too tempting to your scrabbled brain. Being the brilliant voice of reason you are tonight, you accept.

[A fic where Sylus shows you exactly how good sex with a perceptive partner feels like when you confess your less than optimal dating experience.]

Author’s Notes: Truly clown moment when I believed this fic would not exceed more than 4k words and yet again, here I am sitting on an almost 10k monster. I love what being horny for these men has done for my inspiration. Thank you so much to @chibamari for providing the prompt that birthed this fic. Already working on a religious desecration imagery angsty sex fic with Xavier and Queen MC, based on his first myth, as we speak.

The lingering remnants of your foiled meeting are muted with the press of rouged lips against the cusp of your cool glass, the liquor within, sliding easy down your throat with your fervent swallow.

Placing it back down with a defeated sigh, you lean your arm against the counter, cradling your warming cheek against the crook of your palm.

You never should’ve let Tara talk you into an impromptu date with a mutual acquaintance she’d considered ‘the perfect match’ for you; her giddy excitement and enthusiasm to get you a date had been too difficult to turn down. You cursed yourself underneath your breath at your inability to say no to those big, wide eyes and cheery smile; exactly the components that had saddled you deep into the disaster you’d considered that date to be — if it could be called as such.

You’d excused yourself half-way through the man’s self-absorbed prattling — ruining the taste of the expensive steak in front, one you’d been wanting to try for ages — on excuse of an urgent mission coming up.

A hand tucking your phone close to your ear, to reinforce your hasty lie while the other had slipped your card to your assigned waiter, making hasty work of settling your end of the bill. You’d swept up your coat and purse, striding out the lavish restaurant on swift-heeled steps before your sputtering date could so much as lift a hand in protest.

Which is what had now landed you firmly in your current predicament, within the confines of a cosy, well-known bar, not too far from where you’d started.

Nursing a budding headache within the bitter notes of alcohol, to help ease at long fraught nerves. In between the ever-looming threat of Wanderers and the obstructive wrench thrown into your investigation into the Ever group, along with how busy work usually kept you, you were exhausted, suffice to say. The insignificant man tonight had just been the icing on this long-ruined cake.

Tara’s suggestion; to put yourself out more and ‘let loose’ for a bit, had ended in mild regret in going along with it, in the first place.

It had been far too long since you’d been in a relationship — let alone enjoyed a date with a man; your professional obligations kept you busy, coupled along with an extremely low desire to invest yourself into the dating pool, to wade and weed through to one that matched your wavelength.

A flash of an alluring garnet gaze sparks through your mind’s eye in passing, at the thought, one you physically shake yourself out of.

Now there was a man entirely on the spectrum opposite to your frequency. Your inability to resonate with him had only been just one of many failures toward mutual understanding.

“Another one for you, Miss?” The bartender inquires; you’re nodding before you can think it through.

“Yes, thank—”

“She’ll have a mojito instead. The usual for me.” A deep, rich voice drifts at your back — before it scotches down, involuntarily and low into your belly — just as the large hand you feel slip across your shoulder in greeting. You close your eyes against the intrusion, hoping the hazy apparitions of your mind would gift you a damn break just once tonight; as if having had him conjured out of mere musings. You shudder.

The alluring man at your side does not dissipate as you’d direly wished, seating himself down onto the stool next to yours, completely at leisure at having snuck into your space, unannounced once more. You hated how infuriatingly easy the Onychinus head found himself able to pervade your every space, along with each of your thoughts — the latter of which you did not wish to dissect apart tonight. Or, ever, if you had the choice.

“What are you thinking of, with such a severe frown on your face?” He speaks, as if he does not know the exact reason for your irritation. “You’ll put a permanent knot in there if you don’t stop.”

You choose to ignore him in lieu of offering a resigned nod to the bartender for the order Sylus had placed on your behalf. You could use a less inebriating drink now, especially so if you were to deal with the man beside you.

“What’re you doing here, Sylus?” You sigh against the dredges of your last drink, letting the bitter liquid warm your throat.

“Has the alcohol numbed your memory as well, sweetheart? We had an appointment, did we not?” Your respective orders are deposited in front, just as he moves to take the drink in between long, tapered digits, bringing it up to his mouth for a taste.

The slow drag of his Adam’s apple against his throat as he drinks, tugs your gaze towards it — an involuntarily reflex you aren’t able to control. Sylus’ scarlet gaze canting sideways to capture yours is what finally has you wrenching away from the delectable sight, cursing your fast settling inebriation for the mis-step.

He was an attractive man, your mind had long made begrudging peace with the fact, even if you’d both started off on an extremely wrong — horrid, actually — foot. And he’d proven himself to be a reliable companion, when the two of you had caused waves within N109’s criminal hub, in a quest for the Aether Core. His side of the bargain he’d kept, in exchange for your deal to forge a steady resonation with him. One you had no thoughts of reneging on, you’d keep your promise to him for the massive aid he’d provided. And yet, you could not help bemoan the fact that this very man confounded you, to your very core, to the point you weren’t sure what to make of his intentions. And yours.

But surely, you weren’t this physically deprived that Sylus of all people was beginning to sprout this visceral a reaction from you?

“And I texted you I couldn’t make it tonight, sweetheart.” You quip, pinching your forehead in between thumb and index. “This really isn’t the time, Sylus.”

He raises a careful brow at you, and God help you, even that gesture is incredibly beguiling to your slushed brain.

“And you couldn’t make it because” he prompts, tapered digits drumming against the marbled countertop. “you wished to spend your time out here, dressed to the nines, in a party of one?”

“So what if I wanted to?” All your prickly response earns you is a discerning gaze, zoned in on you. You exhale hard through your nose, shoulders steeling to utter your next words. “Oh alright, I had a blind date tonight.” You’re not sure why exactly you’re divulging something this private to the man.

The way his brows shoots in simmering surprise before they bunch in at his forehead in a frown is almost comical, you would’ve snorted at the expression he’s pulling if not for his next words. “So that’s what had that imbecile out there on your trail, lingering at the door for.” He scoffs. “You may not have enjoyed your date but you certainly got yourself a love-struck fool nipping at your heels, kitten.”

“Wait, what?” Bewilderment wars cold within your mind at the disgusting revelation of the man tonight having possibly followed you and Sylus having caught him dead in the act. “What did you do to him?”

“It’s fascinating how your first assumption is that I did anything to him.” His pleasant chuckle curls within your ears; a low, throaty burr. And when you give him one of your own looks, “Alright, don’t look at me so. Mephisto presumed you had a far dangerous stalker on hand than that sorry bastard, when he saw him lurking about you.” He swirls his glass of whiskey in between casual fingers. “I gave him some cordial talking to and sent him on his merry way.”

A million queries hurtle within your mind — what did his “cordial talking to” ensue exactly? Why had Mephisto been trailing you? Why did Sylus feel the need to step in and personally take care of your potential stalker?

You reach to take a swig of your own glass, feeling that headache pinching once more at your brow. “I don’t appreciate you having your silly crow keep tabs on me, Sylus. But,” Reluctant gratitude stirs at the tip of your tongue as your mind slowly processes the situation at hand. If it hadn’t been for Sylus’ interfering ways, you might’ve been saddled with a problem far worse than the infuriatingly suave Onychinus leader on your hands tonight. “Thank you for taking care of that creep for me, I guess. I appreciate it?”

You think you catch the strains of barely there surprise within his gaze, along with an amalgamation of emotions you aren’t able to parse before they’re shuttered out of sight. Replaced with a cool smile, he angles at you. “The alcohol has you honest for a change, kitten. I can’t say I dislike it.”

That infuriating remark has you almost wanting to take back your thanks, almost.

“Your engagement for the night has scurried off home with his tail in between his legs, leaving you to your celebration of one.” His touch is a flitting, warm caress against the shell of your ear as he folds a stray lock of hair back in place. “Are you going to say why you’re out here by your lonesome yet, furiously downing liquor, instead of back in the safety of your house?”

A gibe sits sharp across your tongue at his probing, wanting to tell him to back off and out of your business, he had no reason to be asking whether you chose to go out on a date or throw yourself a self-wallowing party, to let loose for one damn night. You weren’t even sure why Sylus pricked at your nerves the way he did — riling you up in the manner he did. Each single touch, every look fraught with meaning. He did and went as he pleased, without a care for what people made of him; self-assured as if the world itself, he held, in between those devious fingers. And he probably did too, his reputation one of absolute power within N109 Zone and without.

That very same man — the one who’d told you he’d make full use of you, as you did him — perched atop a bar stool by your side, asking you a question that seemed devoid of his usual ribbing. And perhaps, it’s because of that one sole thought that you find your mouth moving — or simply, because the alcohol has sniped your inhibitions. “Tara’s been on my case lately, insisting I need to get laid to blow off some stress.”

“Oh? That hunter girl with the bob, the very eager one.” Sylus looks immensely amused; your mind sifts through memories to recall how exactly Sylus knew her before it clicks: ah, the company retreat you’d stumbled into Sylus a few weeks back at. How could you ever forget? The day had been a nightmare.

“The very one,” you blink. “Hence the failed date tonight and my immeasurable disappointment.”

“Why? Were you planning on sleeping with that loser?”

You shake your head at him, horrified at the mere thought. “No, it actually went as well as I was expecting it to. Bad, that is.” You take another enthusiastic swig of your drink, a modicum of clarity returning to your stuffed head. “The sorry state of the dating pool at large, for a hunter with limited time on her hands isn’t exactly stellar. Even less so for men who know what they’re doing. And my luck in that regard seems particularly disastrous.”

In hindsight, you knew you were word vomiting your thoughts out at this point, with way too much candour than was appropriate for the situation, you’d regret it tomorrow perhaps — no, most definitely. But at the moment, underneath the glazed pleasant bubble of alcohol loosening your tongue and the enticement of an extremely alluring man, who had his entire attention focused upon you, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

He huffs an amused half-laugh. “What sort of men have you been with exactly, kitten?”

“Not that many.” You retort. “...Two and both during my schooling years, very briefly. I was a giddy teen, excited at the prospect of a loving boyfriend. Both their expectations from the relationship were obvious from a mile away, though.” You scrub a hand through the carefully primmed fall of your hair, not caring for the accessories you knocked askew. “God, I don’t think they even knew what to do with a woman, outside of getting their dicks wet.” You laugh at your own odd joke, tumbling within your brain.

“It’s actually crazy how I’ve never had a man make me properly come in all my years—” Your words die within your throat at the realization of your horrifying admission.

Surely, you’d thought them within your own mind and not just blurted your entire sob fest onto the man in front? A wretched sound of dismay leaves your throat at the inscrutable look upon Sylus’ face, shredding apart any sliver of hope you’d had that you had only been musing in thoughts.

Gods, Tara was right, your idiotic self did need to get laid, you’d gone mad at long last. And made of yourself, a fool in front of the man you were begrudgingly attracted to. There was no coming out of this and you woed the fact that you’d even let yourself drink in the first place.

“It does seem like your dating life has been rather disastrous up to this point.” Sylus responds, at last, insouciantly plucking his glass of whiskey off the counter for a swig, so at counterpoint to your rioting emotions.

“Sylus.”

“What is it?”

You reach over, a hand securing about his broad shoulder, as you tip precariously close into the man’s space, plucking the glass straight out of his hands.

“Hey—” Before darting back as far as you’re able, a feat Sylus did not think a woman even half-drunk was capable of.

Taking a large gulp of the acridly strong liquor down your gullet, in a prayer to knock yourself out like you’d originally intended to before Sylus had walked in all over your small parade. Anything to blot your memory of the knowledge of your mortifying words to Sylus. But curling vines of red and obsidian are cleaving through your plans just as swift, one sliding about your waist to prevent your precipitous tilt upon the narrow stool while the other plucks the liquor clean out of your hands after a single pitiful swig.

The swirls of misted red disappear just as furtively swift as they’d appeared once they have you righted upon the stool and out of harm’s way.

A low sigh rings heavy above your head at your absurdity. “That’s enough. We’re leaving.”

Affording you no room for feeble protests as he slips a cool palm around yours; long, thick fingers reassuring in between your own before he tows you away from the glittering inebriation of night life.

Clarity from the merciful remnants of your intoxication is unwelcome tonight — like cool gunmetal pressed fast against your temple, siphoning the entirety of the alcoholic flush from your system. Having utterly failed at your attempts at getting hammered so you would’ve had at least an excuse to fake post drunken amnesia in the face of your shame tomorrow.

Instead, here you were, deep within Zone N109 once more, incarcerated to the room Sylus had appointed temporarily as yours during your first visit to the place. One that had over time, turned into your housing and personal space, indefinitely, for whenever you happened to drop by on business with the Onychinus head. On business, you firmly reminded yourself. Even as the significance of the fact that Sylus had thought it fit to make space for you within his very own — his home — was not lost on you.

You remembered trying to sweep a kick to the back of his shins, back at the bar, for having you bodily dragged out into the sobering night air and towards where his car awaited, parked by the curb.

“Let go of me, you big brute.” Those vexing vines of red had curled about your leg mid-motion, tugging you up sharply before your world upended and you’d been tossed unceremoniously like a sodden sack of rice onto the broad expanse of one of his shoulders. You’d dug your nails into his back in punishing protest at his audacity.

Earning yourself a derisive snort for your efforts. “Continue pawing at me like that and I’ll have you trussed next, kitten.”

Your mouth had curled into a silent snarl, thumping futile fists against his solid back. “Try me.”

“Don’t think I won’t.” He’d warned mildly before he’d continued on his merry way, wide stride that had barely faltered with your struggles.

You sigh in defeat, scrubbing your palms down your face in recollection of the memory — your reflexive annoyance at his actions stemming more from your own mortifying situation than any real anger at him.

He’d brought you back to his place, closer from where the bar was located, instead of back home, where the two of you risked running into any of your acquaintances, Xavier for one.

And you couldn’t afford to let the people around you know of the Onychinus head — Sylus understood that instinctually, even if you did not speak of it. Content though he seemed to perpetually keep you in a state of life-threatening heart palpitations with his goading ways; absently recalling how Sylus had been Tara’s first man of choice for her date plan, owing to how he’d found it fit to barge in on their last team retreat.

Shaking your head, you press a hand against your forehead as you move to wipe your body clean, having opted for one of the more comfortable outfits to change into for the night, you’d brought over from your place to his during one of your earlier visits — amusement sparking at you to witness how Sylus had thought it fit to buy you a couple new dresses, to add to your sparse collection, hanging within your wardrobe. As if you two were something more than acquaintances and professional partners.

Your mind really seemed to have free reign over mad thoughts tonight.

A knock resounds through the quiet of the room, effectively piercing your thoughts. “Are you done yet?” His familiar, welcome burr sounds from the other side of the door.

“I am. Come on in.” The handle glides open, revealing Sylus standing in the doorway, having swiped his outerwear for a casual dark red button down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the firm strength of his forearms; a sight you aren’t able to tear your ogling from, as he steps into the room. He closes the distance in between you in three easy strides. Crowding you within a room that feels too small and sweltering all of a sudden.

“Feeling any better now?” His voice wrenches your gaze away from the sliver of skin revealed beneath the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened.

You sigh, cursing at licentious thoughts. This man, in his incinerating, sensual entirety, frustrated you to no end. “I am, Sylus. Thank you.”

“Good.” He hums. “Because you should stay awhile, a day or two at least.”

“What? Why?”

“I have to make sure that weasel you had tagged to you tonight doesn’t try getting too smart. Mephisto caught him lingering close to your streets after the whelp bolted following his wretched stalking attempt.”

The revelation has nausea stirring at your gut; what had you gotten yourself into with that despicable creep? You were going to throttle Tara the next time you saw her.

You sigh. “While that is disturbing behaviour and I’m grateful for the concern but I think I could’ve handled that idiot fine on my own.”

A frown belts at his brow. “He’s a colleague from work, isn’t he? Despite his absolute spinelessness, that weasel is a trained Hunter with an authorized weapon on hand.”

You raise a questioning brow at him, half inquisitive how exactly he knew your date happened to be a work acquaintance. Barely a few hours spent on his radar and the sorry fool already had all his information scraped and into the Onychinus head’s clutches. You did not envy his position, at the moment, massive creep though he was, having stood witness to how Sylus wiped his enemies clean out of existence.

“Sure you’re capable, sweetheart, and your weasel is an idiot but do you want to be vigilant, glancing over your shoulder for a stalker, round the clock?” He pitches his head, waiting for your answer.

His words give you pause, his reasoning not entirely without weightage. You mutter a quick curse underneath your breath, frustrated at how terribly disastrous tonight had turned out to be.

Sylus’ smile quirks, taking your expletives for the affirmation they are. “And besides,” his hand shifts against your cheek, skimming a thumb down the curve of it, “you did enthusiastically mention your hazardous luck with dates. Might as well take care of this one before the vermin starts to fester.”

A skitter of irked embarrassment bruises at your ego. “Are you making fun of me right now?”

“Not in the slightest.” His thumb has switched towards your bottom lip, trekking a ghosting path across the swell of it. A different kind of emotion spurts within your chest along with the simmering annoyance, at his testing touch. “On the contrary, I was going to make an offer, one of mutual benefit.” His voice skims an octave lower and scotches deeper into your belly. “What do you say? Would you like to hear it?”

His searing touch drifts down your chin, sweeping against your jaw. You’re unsure of the mesh of emotions that are surging through you at his evocative touch; indignation, surprise, reluctance... desire. You can barely focus on the words issuing from his mouth.

“Well?” He prompts. “I don’t recall taping your mouth shut, sweetie.” His thumb returns to caress a path across your parted lips as if to make a point; a hushed throaty laugh leaving him at the hitch of breath that action elicits. He knows what he’s doing to you and he’s rousing you on purpose; the absolute scoundrel.

“What’re you trying to say? Speak clearly, Sylus.” Your tongue darts forth to lap a quick path across the bottom of your lip; Sylus’ gaze rolling down your face to settle at your mouth when you do, a sudden simmer of heat flaring within blood-red. “I despise riddles.” Another deep chuckle issues from his mouth, one that stirs into your belly without permission, much like the man himself.

“What was it that you said earlier?” The tip of his thumb edges just past your lips. “Ah yes... you’ve never had a man make you come.”

You flush at the recollection, cursing yourself for the umpteenth time tonight. You’d made a terrible mistake and you swore you’d never drink again, if it meant Sylus would just fucking drop it. Or you would, and the ground would swallow you whole. You’d confided a mortifying secret within a man who confounded you to no end.

“So what?” A challenging grimace drags at your face, just as you sink a bite into his invading digit, hard. He does not so much as even flinch, his smile tugging wider instead.

“What a spirited kitten I’ve lured into my hands.” He muses. “I like the face you’re making right now.”

His eyes crinkle in at the corners, a mild thread of tenderness you think you catch streak through the simmering heat of his garnet gaze. It makes you want to turn away from the look, not wanting him to scrabble your heart any more than he has.

“No,” A tapered index and thumb curve about your chin, firmly tempting your gaze back to him. “Don’t look away, keep your eyes on me.”

And for that one instant, you listen. “My proposition is earnest, sweetie. Despite what your consensus may be, I’m quite fond of you, more so than you think.” Your breath snags in your throat at the admission; you’d be blind to not catch the clear insinuation in his words.

His mouth skews into a smile. “Would you be averse to the idea of me showing you how it’s done?” He swipes at the swell of your bottom lip, his voice several octaves lower. Yes?” A sensual caress in the opposing direction. “No?” Your eyes flitter in hooded desire at the allure of his rich voice, scotching low into your belly to pool in between your clenched legs.

You take a moment to inhale, slow, processing his words. Reaching a hand out to trace careful fingers against the strength of his jaw. “Do you realize the weight of what you’re implying, Sylus?” An inane question by all means. You’ve never known a man more self-assured in what he desires; you admit it’s rather arousing.

“Oh, I do.” The distracting curve of his smirk pulls wider. “But do you, sweetheart?”

Your fingers leave his face to drift across the open collar of his shirt, pulling him close. “You’ve been lodged in my mind for a long time.” You allow him a moment of that infuriating self-pleased smile. “Even without that pesky Evol of yours invading my skull.” Before you’re fisting his collar to rise on the tips of your toes to press your lips hard against that irksome, delicious mouth.

Sylus’ hands curve about the give of your waist, fitting you firmer against the hard planes of him, without hesitance. He allows you free reign for a while before he chases your retreating mouth with his own, not sparing a moment of reprieve for the hungering breath you try and draw back into your lungs. His tongue slipping past your lips instead, granting you a taste and breath of what he alone affords you in that moment.

Your hand flies to grip about the base of his neck, appreciating the firm musculature of his upper back that flexes beneath your touch when he moves to snare an arm about your waist. Fingers sinking harsh into your hip as he grinds you impossibly close to his body, siphoning the rest of your breath from your lungs.

You’re near dizzy with the way his tongue licks into your mouth, tip teasing its way across the roof before it withdraws to slick a path against your wet bottom lip. You insist your grip harder against the back of his neck, dragging him back to you in the swelling smile he presses against your damp sighs — the drench of them flaming across your chest to pool low into your belly and settle deep in between your legs.

Sylus lets out a low grunt against your skin — a sound that has your insides clenching in on desire — before his clutch upon the flare of your hip tightens, hand curving downwards about the swell of your ass before he lifts you up entirely on the strength of one firm muscled arm. The whimper you’re unable to tamp even against the aggression of his mouth, at his show of unrestrained desire.

“Hold on tight now, sweetie.” He murmurs, sultry, against your lips.

Sylus strides you both further into the room without breaking your kiss, the corded strength of his arm sturdy beneath your ass and you take that moment to appreciate what the position allows you access to, fully. Covetous fingers you run through the hair at the base of his neck to tug him into the kiss as you wish — his rewarding grunt in answer, warming your belly — against your mouth.

Rushing down the buttoned line of his shirt, making quick work of undoing more of his buttons. A hand you slip past the edges of his shirt once the cloth against his chest is no longer impeding you, caressing your fingers against the hard planes of his pectorals. Sylus’ chuckle reverberates deep within your mouth, your fingers flexing into his shoulder at the sound. “Someone’s eager.”

He stops at your bedside before he tosses you back onto the soft of your sheets. Not giving you the chance to even hoist yourself up on your arms before he’s towering over your body — crowded against his large frame.

Chest heaving from the earlier stretch of your kisses and how he’d hurled you back onto the bed, you press a halting hand against his torso, playing at the lower buttons you weren’t able to undo earlier. Making hasty work of your remaining task before your fingers slide in welcome against the defined warmth of his abdomen.

Your mouth parts in breathless wonder, eyes drinking him in voracious need, before they slip lower towards the straining length of his arousal through the placket of his pants — a sizeable bulge visible even through the pitch-black material. “Like you’re one to talk about being eager.” you quip, inquisitive digits dipping lower to ghost across the clothed length of him.

His breath deepens at the touch, a thick chuckle slipping past his lips. “Point taken.”

Your hand slips to curve against the swell of his cock above cloth, once more, feeling for the shape of him; larger than any you’ve had before, it sets a flitter of nervous anticipation into your chest. You want to see it, him.

Sylus cocks his head at your inquisitive touches but doesn’t move to stop when your fingers work at the confines of his pants, until his arousal is far prominent beneath the remaining layer of his briefs. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight — he truly is big. Rather intimidating, entirely exciting.

“Having fun?” He inquires, capturing your fingers in between long, tapered digits to bring them up to his mouth in a brushing kiss, a keen garnet gaze that refuses to relent from yours.

“Yes,” you answer honestly.

“That’s a good start.” He hums. “My turn.”

Red and obsidian spiral about the length of your body, toying at the straps of your camisole, the edges of it at your belly before they’re dragging the material up across your body, and with the reveal of skin, Sylus’ eyes follow; the serrated intensity of his heated gaze, enough to have you try to squeeze your legs together on instinct to relieve some of the overbearing burn in between them.

You can feel how mortifyingly wet you are, and yet in that moment, your mind cannot seem to muster shame.

His thick fingers trail next across the waistband of your shorts — vined red making quick work of the ribboned bindings of the silken material before Sylus’ thumbs hook on either side, to drag your shorts and panties, torturously slow, down the plush of your thighs in one go.

He’s hunching over to overshadow you entirely before you can make sense of it, face sinking close into the space in between your legs, hot gaze drinking in the sight of the thin strings of arousal that stretch from your pussy to your underwear before they bow and break into the sheets beneath. You watch him hum his approval, your head raised to observe the erotic picture he paints, in between your legs.

A moan scratches free of your throat, your head falling back in shuddered pleasure when Sylus does not waste a single moment in ruining you; the broad pressure of his tongue you feel against the length of your quivering cunt as he swipes up a taste for himself before withdrawing once more.

“Sylus.” You protest, fingers rushing to catch at his hair to pull.

His gravelly laughter is devious against the inside of your thigh — so close to where you want him. “That’s a beautiful sound you’re making there, kitten.” He blows a hot breath against your centre, your pussy spasming at that bare action. “Let’s see if you’ve got any more of those for me.”

“Sylus.” You try and let the irritation ring in your tone this time but all it sounds to your ears is a licentious plead.

“I hear you, sweetheart.” He pulses a kiss against your outer folds. “I made you a deal, didn’t I?” He wrests his now loose shirt off his body before his touch returns to you once more, this time without the barrier of clothes in between you both.

You're entirely vulnerable and naked underneath him, held to his mercies as his forearms flex about the pliance of your thighs as he hooks them about his broad shoulders. “You’re going to let me make good on my word tonight,” your legs spasm against his back — useless — as he keeps them held within steeled grips at your knees; large fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh. “and witness it too, with your entire body.”

You feel the corded, hard strength of the muscles of his back flexing beneath the heels of your feet as Sylus ducks closer to your slit to suck at the pleasured bead of your apex. Your hips fly up on instinct at that first brush of stimulation, a moan crippled free of your lips. His smug smile you feel buried against your pussy when it gushes further against the skewed stretch of those lips. “And you know I never renege on an agreement once made.”

Your thoughts blank entirely the next time that adroit tongue lands against your drenched folds, his mouth swallowing you up entirely as he works at your slick with all the practised propensity of a devil set to wrecking you within your sheets.

You’ve never had a man’s mouth down there before; you didn’t quite think it were possible to feel anything remotely close to what he was doing with your body at the moment.

Sparks of jolting pleasure thrum throughout the length of your body, you’re not even fully aware of how hard you buck against his mouth. How Sylus thwarts each unconscious attempt of escape by dragging your pussy back to his mouth each time you squirm from the overwhelming sensation.

His growl of pleasure is what drags part of your hazy attentions back to how white knuckled your grip is within his hair, tugging at the strands as if they were your sole lifeline to sanity. And you were beginning to suspect they were.

Sylus’ knuckles brush against your tightened clit, knocking a groan of pleasure out of your throat. “You’re so wet.” He hooks a thick, tapered index up into your walls, clenching at his filthy words. “That’s it, sweetheart, keep doing that for me.” His laughter is a deep, hoarse sound. “I’m going to take all you’ve got for me.”

He laps a path up against the junction of your thigh; a second finger teasing at the rim of your slit before it joins the first, in a slick easy slide.

“Sylus,” You’re no longer caring; to your sounds, to the fact you’re dripping enough you’ve wet the sheets beneath his thrusting fingers. “Oh God, don’t stop. O-oh. God.” Not caring for the slight twinge of heat that sparks with the roll of your head to catch Sylus watching your entire downfall from in between the space of your legs; fervid scarlet gaze fixated to yours, the bow of your mouth in a constant, pleasured O curve as moans of senseless appreciation and babbled curses tumble from it. Even as his tongue laps a languid path against your outer folds, at screeching odds to the deft fingers he works into you.

“Yes,” his growl is vehement, pleased. “Scream louder, no one’s going to hear you mewl down here, kitten. Let go.” The squelch of your arousal is loud within your ears, the pads of his terrifyingly nimble digits lighting up nerves against that one spongy spot deep within you that has stars wheeling within your wide gaze.

And just as you think this is how he’s going to end you — the pinnacle of pleasure — he betrays your expectations once more with the hot slide of his tongue back against your clit. You nearly sob at the stimulation, a silent scream clawing up your bruised throat at how close you feel to breaking.

“I-If you—” your words are garbled, hard to breathe. You're so, so close to a peak you’ve never fallen off of, in this manner before. “—I’m... hah, going to come.” Never had your own toys or hand or even another human, scrabbled your brains out this hard; a height so vehemently approaching, you’re afraid to fall.

Sylus seems to understand you even through your incoherent babbling, stretching you open on his fingers in harder thrusts. “Then do it. Come on my tongue, darling.” His mouth sucks the abused flesh of your clit deep into his mouth. A peak so in sight, you hurtle into it, your pussy spasming about his fingers, his mouth so hard, you’re near thrashing your limbs about the broad strength of his shoulders. Sylus creeps a hand beneath your ass, to lift your back and shove up deeper against his mouth as you sob out his name in senseless prayer.

“That’s it, you’re so hot like this, you know that, kitten?” His guttural words, muted within your pussy and lost through the white daze of your prolonged orgasmic haze. Sylus continues to lap at you until you’re tumbling into buzzing overstimulation; the heavy weight of him like iron fetters at your legs as you weakly push at his face, his steeled shoulders in whimpered protest.

“I— give me a break, Sylus.”

He affords you a modicum of mercy, glistening mouth and chin withdrawing to rise from between the confines of your legs to fix a skewed grin at you. And when you meet his gaze, he makes a deliberate, erotic show of sweeping the broad of his tongue, slow, feral, against the edge of his upper lip.

His fingers maintain their languid position still within your sensitive walls, each measured thrust has you shivering against the intrusion.

You cup a hand about his strong neck, dragging him down towards your mouth. His voice low, heated in between the taste of yourself he sweeps into your mouth. “Enjoying yourself?”

You secrete a hushed sound of approval against his exploring tongue. “I’ve never come this hard in my life,” you confess, breathless. “You’re crazy.”

“I’ll take that as an enthusiastic compliment.” Knocking that smug grin of his only wider. And then, a softer whisper settles against your wet mouth. “You’re so good for me, sweetie. You drive me insane.”

You withdraw from him to catch the simmering heat of his fervid desires and affection commingled within that scarlet gaze you’re so taken with. Sweeping a thumb at the clinging wetness of arousal, against the angle of his jaw, you marvel at the sensual sight he paints. “...I’m no different.” You meet his gaze, your honesty heavy on your tongue.

He chuckles at the confession, canting his head to catch the plush of your thumb against his teeth, worrying at the flesh as he laves it up into his mouth on an obscene suck.

The way he looks at you has arousal flushing anew within your cheeks; your insides clenching in on the fingers that languorously thrust into you, stretching you open. Lashes nearly trembling shut when his thumb traces a whispered touch against your clit before withdrawing, having your hips juddering up into his hand.

Restless digits quiver down the length of his sculpted torso, working at releasing him from the rest of his un-wanted clothing; cut, well-tailored pants you’d more than once found yourself admiring him in but at the moment, you couldn’t survive a second longer without uncovering the entirety of his captivating body to your gaze. Sylus gently pulls out of your pussy to help you along, thick fingers running along yours at his buckle to slide is smooth out its confines before his Evol curls about the belt to toss it easy, at the side of his bed. His pants and briefs follow soon after and you nearly choke at the sight of him revealed at last to your gaze.

Sylus’ cock is a devastating thing of beauty; thick and intimidating enough it has you salivating at the mere sight of it. You’ve never seen a man this big, blessed in both length and girth, it has your cunt clenching in on need at the sight of him. You wonder how he’d feel against your tongue if you tried taking him in, parched lips you wet with a swipe of tongue, parting at the thought.

“Like what you see?” His self-pleased words wrench you out of your self-imposed stupor until you see that smug grin painting his face too. Your fingers delicately curve about the girth of him in a gentle squeeze; has grin falling open in a low, breathy laugh of arousal.

Your fingers unable to wrap him up entirely within a fist, even as you stroke a slow, steady path up across his length. “You’re right,” you murmur in wanton desire. “I do like what I see.”

“Such an honest tongue.” he groans low, in pleasure at your languid ministrations. Hooking a thumb at your bottom lip to tease it into your mouth and onto the wet muscle.

“Honesty isn’t the only thing it can provide, you know.” You bait, in breathless, risqué whispers around the intrusion of his thumb in your mouth, sucking at him in imitation of what you truly desire from him.

Sylus hums a pleased sound, withdrawing his finger to sweep it across your swollen lips. “Later.” He silences your protests with the wet ingress of his digits back into your walls. “You’ll have me, you have my word. But right now...” Your broken moan mingles with the guttural sigh that tumbles from his lips to witness your face shatter in pleasure. “we’re here to see how good I can make you feel, aren’t we, kitten? So, lay back.” He eases the flat of his palm in between your breasts to push. “And watch how else I ruin you tonight.”

You moan at his filthy threat of a promise, hips rolling into the fingers he’s pressed into you, their rhythmic propulsions turning faster with each moment until he has your crest building once more.

“Sylus.” you gasp out, fingers spasming around the wrist buried in between your quaking legs.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” He draws down closer, body crowding yours against the sheets, the heat of his breath sultry against your sweat soaked skin. You feel the weight of his arousal ghost a searing path against your thigh and jump at the stimulation.

“You.” you plead. “I need you so stop teasing me now, Sylus. I’ll—”

His lips capture yours in an incendiary kiss, a violent clash of tongue, drinking your startled mewls up into his own as his fingers curl about the back of your head to hold steady underneath his assault. “You sure you’re ready for it?” He rolls his hips against yours once more in emphasis, making you shiver underneath the intimidating heat of his arousal.

“I am, I can take it.” you insist against his wet tongue. “And even if I can’t, you promised you’d show me how good it can get, didn’t you?” You shiver. “So quit edging me any longer and put it inside me.” Your back arches in need at a particularly adept press of his fingers. “Sylus.”

His answering groan at your fervent desires burns you higher, his soaked fingers dragging out of your clenching walls. “You really do know how to rile me up, don’t you, sweetheart?” Large hands settle about the swell of your hips as Sylus presses himself in between your legs. Letting the head of his cock, at long last, stroke at the wetness of your cunt, gathering moisture on to it. So close.

His hips undulate in languid pleasurable strokes in between the fall of your legs, and each time the flared head of his cock bumps up at the tight bead at your apex, your hips try and jump against the caged strength of his hands holding you down. Every single stroke — up, down — has your breaths turning laboured in need, each single time he brushes down close to your hole, you clench in on instinctual emptiness, wanting to pull him deeper into you.

“Some restraint, kitten. We don’t want you too overwhelmed too fast.” A low sound of disapproval soughs past his lips at your squirming. “Impatience is not a good look on a Hunter of your repute.”

Your mouth falls open on a silent groan; hooking a leg about the snatch of his waist, you try and urge him into you. Earning an amused, guttural laugh for your efforts. “You’ve had me plenty ready. You’re just baiting me at this point.”

“But you like me being this way, don’t you?” And God help you, if your brain wasn’t entirely mushed at what he’s done to you, you would’ve tried refute his observations with a lie of your own. But in this moment, you let him have his victory.

Sylus curves a palm about the crook of your leg, fingers ghosting the underside of sensitive skin, up, until his hold catches at your knee. Keeping you fixed firm down onto the bed with the other, while he rolls his hips against you once more. “Keep holding tight,” he taps at your knee hooked at his back one last time before his hand drifts to curl about the base of his cock, pressing more of your slick up against the bulbous head.

The first breach of him burns you open in pleasurable bliss, you hiss at the intrusion, back arching on instinctual chase of the man you’re so drunk on. Just the head in has you dizzy around him, grateful for the anchor of his large hand holding you grounded, at your hip.

More of his member pushes past your rim; Sylus’ grunt of pleasure breaking in the tight scrunch of his brow in concentration. A thumb flits about your pinched bottom lip, end to end, before he’s coaxing it open with a firmer press of the pad of his digit against it. “Breathe for me, sweetheart.” You don’t think your body is capable of drawing air in at all but you try and trudge past the closure of your throat, gulping in a few, needed breaths. “That’s it, yeah, take me in. Slowly now.”

It’s only when your body shudders underneath his with the ingress of almost his entire length settled into you do you realize the sheer, unyielding size of him inside, Sylus’ throaty groan of arousal, he bites into the sensitive skin of your wrist he’s had curled in between thick digits. Your cunt feels stretched impossibly wide around the shape of him, in a manner that has you whimpering on his next few testing strokes up into your walls. Sending him curling impossibly deep on each long, heavy thrust up into you until you feel him nudging, as if at the very ends of you.

Your head rolls in restless need across the down of your pillows, your fingers skittering up the length of his arms, sinking harsh into the taut muscles of his biceps. Angry crescents you’re sure you’re marking into the skin but all it seems to do to him is make him push into you with greater need, approval heavy in the fervid grunts that issue from his mouth.

One of his hands steals beneath your body to press in between your shoulder blades, guiding your body deeper against his as his hips piston into you. The wet squelch of your arousal heavy in the space, commingling with your damp, thick groans.

Sylus withdraws from your body on his next slide, nearly all the way out, before he pulses back, slick, without resistance; each time, your body taken by the pleasant shock of how fully he sheathes himself into you, the stretch sending you into a dizzying spiral of mounting need.

And despite it all — the hazy pleasure, his long, deep strokes into you — your ravenous body needs this man closer, a desire you aren’t able to word coherently.

Sylus’ diligent handling of you — although, a gesture appreciated — is not what you require of him in the moment. He’s your first in so, so long; desires shuttered in since forever, along with the intense need to be thoroughly loved over by this man; your need to have him fuck you without restraint, after a heart so long spent in warring against its yearning for him, overflowing off the cusp of your poor control. Manifesting in the fingers you rush about the angled cut of his hips to squeeze, your legs tightening their hold at the back of his waist to pull deeper inside.

Your eyes meet his in fevered haze; a slip of your tongue to drench parched lips, falling open to voice your desires before Sylus’ face crowds your vision. His mouth pulsing a quick kiss of violence against yours, it siphons your entire breath from your lungs at the aggressive curl of his tongue into you. “Alright,” he utters on a wet, hoarse whisper against your lips. No more questions, no more unsurety. “I’ll give you what you need.”

He’s gingerly worked himself into you up to the near base of him when large hands move to grip on either side of your abdomen, the pads of them pulsing into the pliance of your skin — heated scaffoldings of flesh. Heralding the slow, squelching withdrawal of his cock from your depths up to the tip. Until Sylus plunges back into you with a force vehement enough you see stars white the scape of your vision with the audible slap of hips meeting the back of your ass.

And it isn’t until he starts driving into you in that punishing pace, manoeuvring your body as if you were a mere doll meant to house his cock do you realize with primal joy that you love how he’s taking you. You’re delirious on the feeling of his cock ramming up into your walls — the massive stretch of him, each single inch of hot, unyielding flesh — hard enough he’s driving you up the sheets, your voice you do not realize is a shrill scream of pleasure.

Everything — you, him, your hot, clenching insides around him — is all too much, all of a sudden, you’re drowning in the ecstasy of the feeling of him overwhelming your senses.

And the man above, an unfettered beast; he folds you deeper into the mattress with the ardent swing of his hips, large hands gripping hard onto your waist as he guides your own weak thrusts back onto his cock with ferocious precision. Each single glide of the swollen head of his cock dragging him deliciously against that one spot inside that has you quivering apart around him. A deliberate assault of your sweet weakness. Truly, he knows your body as if he’d had you before several times already; the thought is as exhilarating as it is terrifying, having your pussy spasm around him on instinct, dragging a vicious growl out of him that has you whimpering at the sound.

The sweat slicked concentration and fervid arousal that knits at his powerful brows is addictive, the heated flush of pleasure and effortless exertion — all of him an erotic sight, meant to throttle you into finishing ruin. The violent tatters of your orgasm you feel crumpling within your belly, fast approaching.

You try and buck against his hips faster, pace paling in comparison to the near bestial propulsion of his cock into your depths. Sylus groans at a particularly harsh squeeze of your cunt; a hand leaving your waist to feather his knuckles against the drenched slide of sweat and tears at your cheeks you know are ruddy in desire. “You’re taking me so well, kitten, so deep inside that small body.” You might’ve offered a word of approval if your throat wasn’t so swollen from the breathless moans and ruinous pleas he’s knocking out of you instead. “You’re clamping so hard around my cock. Do you not want to let me go?” His large hand drifting against the lower stretch of your abdomen, before he presses the flat of his palm in deep, as if he could feel for the place his cock pounds up as if against your very womb, angling his hips to brush at the sensitive bundle of nerves at your apex and you nearly weep at the tight stimulation.

“C-Clo—” is all the words your battered throat can manage out before your head’s falling back against the pillows, tear-strained gaze blown wide with the unrelenting intensity of his pillage of your body.

But Sylus groans in approval, understanding of your broken prompts. “I’ve got you. Let that pretty pussy of yours weep more for me, sweetheart.”

You moan unabated at the filth that issues from his lips, your body immediately moving to obey his instruction in the spasm of your walls.

His hand slides against the length of your hooked leg to hoist it up and over a broad shoulder as his large frame arches over you, nearly folding you in half. The new angle driving each of his wild thrusts hard against your swollen clit. Your back nearly snapping with the force of its curve up towards him with your next shrill scream of his name. “What a perfect, perfect girl for me.”

You're no longer coherent, a garbled speech and cotton head your constant companions — only dimly aware of the muted sounds of wood striking against concrete walls as Sylus drives your body violently up against the headboard. The distant absence of pain you only realize is possible when your cheek curls sideways to sink against the simmering warmth of the red and obsidian mesh of his Evol, keeping your head pillowed against the strength of his thrusts.

His face descends towards you, a thick hand easing beneath sweat soaked locks to grip at your neck, holding firm for the ravenous mouth that plunders yours, choking your moans against his tongue. Your spit trails useless past swollen lips, Sylus’ tongue immediately following a broad path against your jaw, your chin to lick at the combined essence of sweat and spit. His guttural moan at the taste, sending you nearly into your orgasm, so close at hand, you’re spasming useless about the great length of him.

Long, tapered digits flex about the delicate expanse of your neck, coaxing your pleasure-drunk gaze up towards his. “The way you’re looking right now...” You catch the flex of his other arm at the corners of your vision as it slinks in between your bodies. “a man could get addicted, sweetie.” His thumb presses against the abused bead of your apex in that instant, knocking a scream free of your parched throat, body arching in the slick slide of your breasts pressed flush against the broad planes of his chest. Even that stimulation at your nipples is too much; the heat in between your legs tempered to an inferno.

The precise, perfect strikes of his cock into your walls, along with the insistent pinch and press of your clit in between adroit index and thumb has your crest rising. White hot heat undulates through your entire body. The merciless sting of a delicious bite you feel Sylus sink at your straining neck, right beneath your jaw, “Come for me now, sweetheart,” accompanying the hammering thrusts of his cock, his thumb at your bundle of nerves is what finally has you ripping apart on an orgasm so intense your gaze blanks entirely.

Jaw falling open on a shriek so unlike yours, you do not recognize the sound of your own battered voice until Sylus presses two thick digits into your slack mouth to toy at your wet tongue as if he could capture that sound for himself. “You’re so damn beautiful.” His pace unrelenting through the violence of your orgasm, stretching your own peak so long, spasming about the wet heat of him until Sylus’ hips too stutter as he finds his release into your welcoming depths.

Pulse after pulse of ejaculate so abundant, hot, it drives you into another release — or perhaps, you’d never even stopped coming — a pinnacle so high, your fall from it is prolonged, pleasurable. Your mouth sucking hard at his fingers, willing them to serve your anchor.

Sylus’ gaze meets yours from across the small pocket of space in between your faces, heated and stifled with your breaths. Scarlet eyes, simmering, pupils blown so wide in low settling arousal as the two of you breathe deep in unison. Several moments of reprieve, you allow your bodies as you come down from your highs.

A small part of you distantly realizes a single session with Sylus has effectively ruined you for life and you’re unsure if you’re bemoaning the fact or thrilling in delight at it. You think you just might be far more infatuated with this infuriating man than you’d initially thought and the notion of being this adoring of him mildly terrifies you. Just as the sliver of tenderness that threads through that garnet gaze as he pushes back sweat soaked strands from your face to study you. “You alright there, sweetie?”

You can’t deny it any longer. “Never been better.” you wheeze past a sore throat. And God help you, the grin that skews at his beautiful mouth at your answer has your heart refusing to settle into rest, even after your mind-numbing release.

“That good, was it?” You do not have the energy to refute him, settling for a light slap at his bicep.

His arms flex about your body before he rolls you both over. Releasing himself, slow, from your depths — you groan weakly at the muted stimulation before he hoists himself onto his arm.

You reach a hand forwards, curving it about his face, thumb sketching at the angle of his jaw. “Stay with me tonight.” you ask of him quietly.

Mild surprise flickers within blood-red garnet before it’s replaced by the tender quirk of a strong brow. “Didn’t plan on leaving, sweetheart.” He tips his head further into the crook of your palm, pulsing a quick kiss onto the skin. “Sleep tight, now. Your eyes are glazing over.”

And for that one moment, you listen, letting the warmth of his engulfing embrace shepherd you into dreams of scarlet eyes and amused smiles — the only ones you’ve been able to think about for a long time now.

End Notes: Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @chocomii-chan

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here. If you’d like to be removed, shoot me a DM!

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to chat or just squeal with me about hot characters, in general.

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hunnieknight · 6 months ago

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Little Soul

A leyline abnormality has occured in the House of Hearth!

Gn!Reader, unspecified relationship status, SUBTLE power dynamic, OOC, bad grammar and no beta read, quick story, canon divergent?

Being House of Hearth's best leyline researcher means you work outside a lot. Always be on the field, directly studying the leylines themselves.

Being the best also means that the Head of the House always rely on you whenever there is an abnormality. You and the Lady are quite close, in professional matter. Everything is mostly about documents and mission.

With few personal teacup party.

The very first tea party was a nervous wreck. The Lady herself request for your presence, only you, just you. Oh boy, despite the bad thoughts clouded your mind, you just hope you got a raise or promotion.

Thankfully, it was just her asking for a plan. A quite specific plan of a very specific leyline abnormalities. It was Clervie, one of House of Hearth's children in the past.

That's where you learnt more of the Head of House of Hearth's past. She doesn't tell much other than Clervie need to be gone as she isn't suppose to exist and wandering about. Putting a soul to rest, again.

After hours of talking, she settled with a plan, thanking you by promising a raise on the next salary. Somehow, knowing how she was in the past is a promotion itself for you, imposing into her life story where not a lot of people are lucky enough to know.

Knowing how a leyline can manifest, how a memory of the past can exist as a visible soul, how an innocent soul can stuck in time, how...Arlecchino was just a child.

Leylines, basically Tevyat's biggest hive network memories, everything that has happened in the world is recorded and remembered.

Including the very memory that Arlecchino wants to forget.

You always see the Lady herself is all calm and collected, barely anything makes her break a sweat. She often does things her own way, it is quick and precise.

Now imagine your shock and dread when a pigeon bird flies to you with a small note "S.O.S". You know this bird, in fact, this one particular pigeon is only assigned for you. A messenger pigeon, reserved only for you, only for emergency, only from the Lady Arlecchino.

Door slams open, all due respect but anxiety fills your body, there is no time for greetings and formalities, if the Lady herself sending urgent message there must be some-

Huh?

It took you a moment to realize another abnormality like Clervie happens again but..in..the appearance of..the Lady?!

The task is simple, RETURN PERUERE. Okay, it's not that dreadful but the fact the fact the Lady trusting you to do this task, you feel like she is testing your skill. Testing if you are truly her best researcher.

You nodded, agreed to keep Lil Peruere a secret, her small hand engulf by yours when you guide the little soul into your private research office.

The true challenge is not sending her back, the TRUE challenge is to not grow attachment to the soul. Yes, she is a bit unique but the way her little hands always wanting to help stacking books, papers and catching small spiders making you grow fond of the little one.

So this is how Arlecchino was when she was a child, huh?

Makes you wonder what would Arlecchino's child be like.

This challenge also creating a bridge, more personal bridge rather than professional. Often times you only meet Arlecchino if there is a task, it was professional and formal, over a teacup party.

When Little Peruere stays with you, Arlecchino always shows up before your research office, o'clock, with..basket of sweets?

It was nice, the atmosphere is less formal and more domestic casual. Conversation is not always about the research progress, sometimes it's about Arlecchino's upbringing, what Little Peruere likes to do, and your own trivial stuff. The intimate talk only be witnessed by the papers and whiteboards in the research office.

Weeks passed and with Arlecchino's power, Little Peruere passed on, same with Clervie, the warm sunlight enveloping the lost soul as the little one disappear into small glistening petals. Just like Clervie, Arlecchino accompany Little Peruere, but you also sits next to her. Arlecchino have asked you to stay in the research office as the night is cold, yet here you are...

Sitting next to her, leading the conversation as both Peruere and Arlecchino prefers to listening in. The dawn sky is beautiful, dark twilight-blue night sky slowly painted with yellow-orange lights. Peruere watching with fascination, yours watching the little one with adoration, and you felt a pair of eyes watching you from the side.

Clicking, typing, rustling filled your research office. You need to make a report on the little soul, as formality of your works. Arlecchino was there to proofreading the report herself.

The Harbinger doesn't miss how you sighed a lot, recalling the little pitter-patter of Peruere's feet around your office, the small hands tidying up the papers around, and the small bug container-which always contain any bugs found in your office- in the corner is empty now that Peruere is not here.

Arlecchino thinks, you have gone this far to send the soul back. Perhaps she should give you something in return, it's only fair in transaction,right?

What is it? A day off? A vacation? A raise? A promotion? A kid of your own?

Well, it seems you have grown fond to the little Peruere, perhaps...another real Peruere would be a delight?

And what a delight it is~! The House of Hearth burst into happiness when the news of another member, from the Father herself , was announced when the children are eating dinner.

This raised the House's morale, everybody work and play safely, determined to go home in one piece looking forward when cries of an infant burst into the house. It would be hell to get used to but the House of Hearth is used to not cry for pain, no tears of loss and grief.

This is the only cry they would have, the only wail in the building, the only tears they would be happy to hear. The only tears in the House of Hearth....

Oh hey, The Tsaritsa send a baby care package~♡!

♡♡

Another one is in the oven

#imaginedraw #genshin impact arlecchino #genshin arlecchino x reader #genshin x reader #capitano genshin #genshin pierro #genshin harbingers #arlecchino x reader #genshin imagines #genshin arlecchino #arlecchino #genshin x gn reader #arlecchino x gn reader #geez im flopping

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myassignmentsexperts · 2 months ago

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emmajacob03 · 6 months ago

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How to Overcome Writer’s Block During Assignment Deadlines

Writer’s block is a common challenge faced by students, particularly when assignment deadlines loom large. It can be frustrating and demotivating, leading to anxiety and a sense of helplessness.

At AssignmentDude, we understand the pressures that come with academic life, particularly in demanding fields like data science, programming, and other technical subjects.

Our urgent programming assignment help service is designed to support students who find themselves overwhelmed by tight deadlines or complex topics. Whether you need assistance with coding assignments or help structuring your essays, our expert tutors are here to provide personalized guidance tailored to your needs.

When you’re facing writer’s block, it can feel like you’re stuck in quicksand — every attempt to write just pulls you deeper into frustration.

This is where AssignmentDude can make a difference. By utilizing our services, you can alleviate some of the pressure and focus on developing your writing skills without the added stress of looming deadlines.

Our team is dedicated to helping you succeed academically while fostering a deeper understanding of your subject matter.

In this article, we will delve into various strategies for overcoming writer’s block, including practical tips for managing your time effectively and maintaining motivation throughout your writing process. Let’s explore these strategies in detail.

Understanding Writer’s Block

What Is Writer’s Block?

Writer’s block is a psychological condition that prevents individuals from being able to write or produce content. It can manifest in various forms:

Inability to Start: You may find it difficult to begin writing even when you have ideas.

Lack of Ideas: You might feel completely blank and unable to generate any thoughts related to your topic.

Perfectionism: The desire for perfection can lead to procrastination and an inability to produce anything at all.

Fear of Judgment: Worrying about how others will perceive your work can paralyze your ability to write.

Causes of Writer’s Block

Understanding the root causes of writer’s block can help you address it more effectively. Common causes include:

Stress and Anxiety: Academic pressures, personal issues, or fear of failure can contribute significantly to writer’s block.

Overwhelm: Facing a large project or multiple assignments at once can lead to feelings of being overwhelmed.

Distractions: A noisy environment or constant interruptions can hinder concentration and creativity.

Fatigue: Lack of sleep or burnout from continuous studying can impair cognitive function and creativity.

Strategies for Overcoming Writer’s Block

1. Set Clear Goals

One effective way to combat writer’s block is by setting clear, achievable goals for your writing sessions. This involves breaking down your assignments into smaller tasks that feel less daunting.

How to Set Goals:

Be Specific: Instead of saying “I will work on my essay,” specify what part you’ll tackle first, such as “I will write the introduction.”

Assign Timeframes: Allocate specific time slots for each task. For example, “I will write for 30 minutes on my introduction.”

Prioritize Tasks: Determine which sections are most critical and focus on those first.

2. Create a Writing Schedule

Establishing a regular writing schedule can help create a routine that makes writing feel more automatic rather than daunting.

Tips for Creating a Schedule:

Choose Your Best Times: Identify when you are most productive — whether it’s morning or evening — and schedule your writing sessions accordingly.

Block Out Distractions: During your scheduled writing times, eliminate distractions by turning off notifications on your devices or using apps designed to minimize interruptions (like Focus@Will).

3. Break Down Your Tasks

When faced with an overwhelming assignment, breaking it down into smaller steps can make it more manageable.

Steps for Breaking Down Tasks:

Outline Your Assignment: Create a detailed outline that breaks down each section of your paper.

Focus on One Section at a Time: Concentrate on completing one section before moving on to the next.

Set Mini-Deadlines: Assign mini-deadlines for each section based on your overall deadline.

4. Embrace Freewriting

Freewriting is an excellent technique for overcoming writer’s block because it allows you to write without worrying about structure or grammar.

How to Practice Freewriting:

Set a timer for 10–15 minutes.

Write continuously without stopping or editing yourself.

Focus on getting ideas down rather than producing polished content.

This exercise helps clear mental blocks and often leads to unexpected insights that you can refine later.

5. Change Your Environment

Sometimes a change of scenery can stimulate creativity and help overcome writer’s block.

Tips for Changing Your Environment:

Find a New Location: Try writing in a different room, a coffee shop, or a library.

Create an Inspiring Workspace: Decorate your workspace with motivational quotes, plants, or artwork that inspires you.

6. Take Breaks

Taking regular breaks during writing sessions can help refresh your mind and prevent burnout.

Techniques for Effective Breaks:

Use the Pomodoro Technique: Work for 25 minutes followed by a 5-minute break; after four cycles, take a longer break (15–30 minutes).

Engage in Physical Activity: Use breaks to stretch, take a walk, or do some light exercise — this helps increase blood flow and boosts creativity.

7. Seek Feedback Early

Getting feedback early in the writing process can provide clarity and direction that may alleviate feelings of uncertainty contributing to writer’s block.

How to Seek Feedback:

Share drafts with peers or mentors who can provide constructive criticism.

Join study groups where members review each other’s work regularly.

Utilize platforms like AssignmentDude for professional feedback on specific sections of your assignments.

8. Utilize Writing Prompts

Writing prompts are great tools for sparking creativity when you’re feeling stuck.

Examples of Writing Prompts:

“What if I approached this topic from an entirely different angle?”

“How would I explain this concept to someone without any background knowledge?”

Using prompts allows you to explore different perspectives without the pressure of perfectionism.

9. Manage Your Time Effectively

Effective time management is crucial when facing tight deadlines that contribute significantly towards writer’s block due increased stress levels associated completing tasks last minute!

Techniques for Time Management:

1 . Prioritize Tasks: Identify which assignments are most urgent based upon their due dates; focus efforts accordingly!

2 . Create A Timeline: Develop timelines outlining key milestones leading up until submission dates! This helps visualize progress while keeping track deadlines ensuring nothing falls through cracks!

3 . Avoid Procrastination: Combat procrastination by setting specific times each day dedicated solely towards working on assignments — eliminating distractions during these periods enhances focus productivity!

10. Stay Motivated

Maintaining motivation throughout the writing process is essential! Here are some strategies that may help keep spirits high even during challenging times:

Tips For Staying Motivated

1 . Set Clear Goals :

Define specific short-term long-term goals related what want achieve within field Data Science .

2 . Break Down Tasks :

Divide larger tasks manageable parts so they feel less overwhelming; celebrate small victories along way!

3 . Reward Yourself :

After completing significant milestones — treat yourself! Whether it’s enjoying time off indulging something special — positive reinforcement helps keep spirits high!

11.Seek Help When Needed

Despite all efforts , there may be times when assignments become too challenging time-consuming . In such cases , don’t hesitate seek help from professionals who specialize providing assistance tailored specifically students facing difficulties .

Why Choose AssignmentDude?

AssignmentDude offers urgent programming assignment help services designed specifically students who find themselves overwhelmed tight deadlines complex topics within coursework! Our expert team available around-the-clock ensuring timely delivery without compromising quality standards!

By reaching out when needed — whether it’s clarifying concepts related directly back onto assignments — students can alleviate stress while ensuring they stay ahead academically!

Additional Tips for Success in Writing Assignments

While we’ve covered numerous strategies already let’s delve deeper into some additional tips specifically aimed at helping students overcome challenges they may face during their assignments:

Understand Assignment Requirements Thoroughly

Before starting any assignment take time read through requirements carefully! This ensures clarity around what exactly expected from submission — avoid misinterpretations which could lead wasted effort down wrong path!

Tips To Clarify Requirements:

1 . Highlight Key Points :

Identify critical components outlined within prompt such as specific methodologies required datasets needed etc .

2 . Ask Questions :

If anything unclear don’t hesitate reach out instructors classmates clarify doubts early-on rather than later when deadlines approaching!

3 . Break Down Tasks :

Once understood break down larger tasks smaller manageable chunks creating timeline completion helps keep organized focused throughout process!

Collaborate With Peers

Forming study groups collaborating classmates provides opportunity share knowledge tackle difficult topics together! Engaging discussions often lead new perspectives understanding concepts better than studying alone!

Benefits Of Collaboration :

1 . Diverse Perspectives :

Different backgrounds experiences lead unique approaches problem-solving enhancing overall learning experience!

2 . Accountability :

Working alongside others creates accountability encourages everyone stay committed towards completing assignments timely manner!

3 . Enhanced Understanding :

Teaching explaining concepts peers reinforces own understanding solidifying grasp material learned thus far!

Embrace Feedback

Receiving feedback from instructors peers invaluable part learning process! Constructive criticism highlights areas improvement helps refine skills further develop expertise within field!

How To Embrace Feedback Effectively :

1 . Be Open-Minded :

Approach feedback positively view it as opportunity grow rather than personal attack — this mindset fosters continuous improvement!

2 . Implement Suggestions :

Take actionable steps based upon feedback received make necessary adjustments future assignments ensure progress made over time!

3 . Seek Clarification :

If unsure about certain points raised during feedback sessions don’t hesitate ask questions clarify how best address concerns moving forward!

Explore Advanced Topics

Once comfortable foundational aspects consider exploring advanced topics within realm Data Science! These areas often require deeper understanding but offer exciting opportunities expand skill set further enhance employability prospects post-graduation!

Advanced Topics To Explore :

1 . Machine Learning Algorithms :

Delve into supervised unsupervised learning techniques including decision trees random forests neural networks etc .

2 . Big Data Technologies :

Familiarize yourself tools frameworks such as Hadoop Spark which enable processing large-scale datasets efficiently!

3 . Deep Learning :

Explore deep learning architectures convolutional recurrent networks commonly used image/video processing natural language processing tasks alike!

4 . Natural Language Processing (NLP):

Learn techniques analyze interpret human language allowing applications chatbots sentiment analysis text classification etc .

5 . Cloud Computing Solutions :

Understand how cloud platforms AWS Azure Google Cloud facilitate storage computing power needed handle large-scale analytical workloads seamlessly across distributed systems .

Conclusion

Navigating through challenging assignments in Data Science requires dedication , practice , effective communication skills — and sometimes assistance from experts !

By following these tips outlined above while utilizing resources like AssignmentDude when needed — you’ll be well-equipped not just academically but also professionally as embark upon this exciting journey!

Remember that persistence pays off ; embrace each challenge opportunity growth ! With hard work combined strategic learning approaches — you’ll soon find yourself thriving within this dynamic field filled endless possibilities !

If ever faced difficulties during assignments related specifically C++ , don’t hesitate reaching out AssignmentDude — we’re here dedicated support tailored just YOU!

Together we’ll conquer those challenges ensuring success throughout entire learning process! This guide provides comprehensive insights into overcoming writer’s block during assignment deadlines while offering practical tips for students facing challenges

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cuzxai · 20 days ago

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side effects - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!teader

a/n: youre exposed to sex pollen in the field. 5k words… im sorry😭

The warehouse had been cleared by the time you arrived—agents already sweeping for evidence, bodies already bagged, the sting of gunpowder still clinging to the humid air. You and Spencer were last to respond, mostly for paperwork and profiling, wrapping up what the rest of the team started. A simple cleanup, they said. Nothing dangerous.

No one had warned you about the broken vial in the corner. It was barely noticeable—just a cracked glass container, its liquid contents long evaporated into the air. You barely remembered brushing past the table it had been resting on but the chemical team flagged it almost immediately. “Unidentified compound,” they said. “Possibly synthetic. Possibly hormonal.”

They didn’t use the words sex pollen until they got the preliminary analysis back but the moment you heard the phrase, your stomach dropped. That shit never ended well in any field report. And by then, it was already too late.

“You’ll start feeling the effects within a few hours,” the hazmat technician told you, holding a clipboard and avoiding your eyes. “It’s uh… fast-acting. Intense. And it mimics extreme heat symptoms. We’re required to isolate anyone exposed. Just until it wears off.”

“Great,” you muttered. “So I get to sit in quarantine while my body tries to fuck itself.”

Beside you, Spencer shifted uncomfortably.“Someone will be assigned to supervise in case medical intervention is needed,” the tech added, flipping to the next page. “Or if symptoms become… unmanageable.” You didn’t ask what that meant.

You expected to be sent to some sterile room in Quantico. Instead, Spencer offered his apartment. Hotly. Quickly. The moment the idea was brought up, his hand was already half-raised and his voice had that eager, slightly-too-fast edge to it.

“I can do it,” he said. “We’re coworkers. I mean—we’re close. I know her. It’s better than sticking her in a glass box with strangers, right?”

You had no argument for that. Just heat blooming in your chest as you glanced at him—soft curls, worried eyes, fingers twitching by his side. They agreed. No one questioned it.

You’d been at his apartment for three hours. Three. The early onset effects were supposed to have hit by now. And sure, maybe your skin felt a little too warm under your shirt. Maybe you’d showered longer than usual, just to stand under something cool. But you didn’t feel crazy. Not like the stories went. No desperate writhing, no begging for touch, no burning arousal that left you breathless. You just felt… irritated. Restless.

Horny in a way that wasn’t quite urgent but definitely persistent. Like a low hum beneath your skin. A knot that wouldn’t untangle.

“I feel fine,” you said, for the third time. “You don’t need to babysit me, Spencer.”

From his kitchen, he raised a brow. “You’re quarantined for a reason.”

You flopped back onto his couch, groaning. “I could be home, in my own bed. But instead i’m rotting away in your living room.

“You’re not rotting.”

“You don’t know that.”

He leaned on the counter, glass of water in one hand, hair pushed back from his forehead. There was something almost amused about the way he looked at you—like he knew better but was letting you burn yourself out. “Do you want anything to eat?”

“Unless it’s a cure for vague, medically induced horniness, I’m not hungry.”

That earned a real smile. The faintest quirk at the edge of his lips. He set the glass down and crossed the room, arms folding in front of him, his frame tall and lean and calm as ever.

“You’re going to feel worse before it gets better,” he said gently. “The symptoms build.”

“And you are not helping,” you mumbled, thighs shifting where you sat.

He tilted his head. “How am I not helping?”

“Your voice is annoying,” you lied.

Spencer’s brows ticked up slightly. “That’s new.”

“Everything you say makes it worse.”

A beat passed. The air shifted. His mouth parted like he was going to speak—but he didn’t. Just studied you for a second. The flush rising in your cheeks. The way your arms crossed too tightly over your chest. And your thighs—pressing together. Trying to ease the ache building between them. The knot that was already tightening.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.

Spencer’s smile twitched again.

“I’m not the one clenching my legs together every time I talk.”

You glared. “Fuck you.”

His voice dipped an octave. “That might actually help.”

Your breath hitched. His expression stayed soft, almost unreadable—but there was something behind it. Something careful. Curious. Watching you like a scientist, like a profiler, like a man trying to read something far more dangerous than a casefile.

“I’m kidding,” he said after a moment. “Mostly.”

“You’re such a dick.”

Spencer walked back to the kitchen but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder—sharp and deliberate. You could still feel it after he turned away. You shifted again on the couch. Your shirt clung to your skin. Everything tingled. Maybe you weren’t fine after all.

You wanted to pace the apartment like a caged animal, restless in a way that doesn’t feel like arousal—but it is. It’s in your skin, your breath, your nerves. It’s in how warm the couch feels under your thighs, how every fabric that brushes your body feels like too much and not enough all at once. You’re not squirming, not really. But your hips shift a lot. And Spencer sees it.

“You okay?” he asks again. He’s in the armchair across from you, nursing a tea he hasn’t taken a sip from in twenty minutes.

“I’m fine,” you bite back, the words sharp—not at him, not really. You’re just uncomfortable. Hot. Frustrated.

He watches you with that too-big brain of his, eyes sweeping your body like he’s reading symptoms off your skin. You’ve shed your jacket. Then your socks. You sat in a tank top. Now you’re curled into the corner of his couch, arms crossed under your chest, thighs clenched tight like a pressure valve.

You know he notices. Of course he does. You catch the flicker of his gaze down your body—quick, cautious, reverent. And when your hips shift again, slow and subtle against the cushion, you see him swallow.

“It’s warm in here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, rubbing your palms down the sides of your thighs like it’ll help. “I feel… itchy. My skin’s buzzing.”

Spencer nods, slow. “That lines up with the early stages of arousal-inducing pheromone exposure. Symptoms are typically mild at first—”

“I know what the report said,” you interrupt, huffing a breath. “I was there. I read it. Twice.”

He doesn’t take it personally. “Just making sure you remember.”

You throw your head back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. “I remember. I also remember it saying the effects can be psychosomatic, which means this might all be in my head. Which means you don’t have to babysit me like I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

“No,” he says, firmer than before. “That’s not what psychosomatic means and you’re not leaving.”

You blink at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’re not driving in this condition and we don’t know how your symptoms will progress. I’m not risking you being alone.”

There’s something final in the way he says it. Something that makes your stomach twist and not in a bad way. You press your thighs together tighter, annoyed by how easily that helps.

“…Your voice is different,” you murmur, surprised by the words as they come out. “When you talk like that.”

Spencer blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you’re in charge.”

He shifts in his seat. “I’m not trying to be in charge.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” you murmur, mouth dry. “I just said it’s different.”

Your heart thumps once, hard. You see the flicker in his jaw when you look at him again—his leg bouncing, his knuckles pale around his mug. He’s trying to be good. So good. But you’ve worked with him long enough to know the signs of when he’s not entirely in control of himself. And this is starting to look like that.

You lean your head back against the cushion and sigh through your teeth. “God, I feel like I’ve had five espressos and a daydream I can’t stop.”

“That… might actually be one of the effects,” he says, tugging at his collar.

“Oh my God, stop talking like a doctor Spencer.”

He shuts up. A beat passes. Then another. His eyes flicker toward you. You watch him over the edge of your arm.

“…Sorry,” you say, a little sheepish. “I’m just—I don’t know. I feel weird. And your voice is not helping.”

Spencer’s brows knit. “I am a doctor. And… my voice?”

“It’s just—it’s like everything you do feels hotter right now and I don’t know if that’s you or me or the pollen or what but—” You cut yourself off. “I think I’m going insane.”

His eyes stay locked on yours. You can see the moment something shifts in him.“…You pressed your thighs together when I told you no,” he says, so quietly it almost doesn’t register. “Didn’t think I noticed.”

Your lips part. You hadn’t expected him to say that. You hadn’t expected him to notice that, not out loud. And now it’s hanging there in the air like an admission. The tension between you thickens like syrup. And suddenly you realize you’ve stopped breathing. “I didn’t mean to,” you say.

Spencer hums, something low in his throat. He sets his mug down, eyes on you like you’re something fragile and glowing. “I don’t think you meant to feel like this either,” he murmurs. And you don’t know if he means aroused or frustrated or aching but he’s right. And it’s getting worse.

“You’re not touching yourself, are you?” he asks, a little hoarse now. “That’s what they said not to do. Until the effects pass.

Your whole body burns. “No,” you whisper.

“But you want to.” He says it like a statement. A soft, knowing one. Like he already has you figured out and doesn’t need you to say it.

Your voice comes out thin and barely audible: “Yeah.”

Another beat. Then quietly, almost tender— “Don’t.”

Your body shivers. He’s not even touching you and you can feel him. The weight of his voice. The way he’s watching you. The way your hips shift again, slower this time, like gravity is pulling you toward something.

“Spence…”

“Don’t,” he repeats, softer. “Not yet.”

Your thighs clench again. You can’t stop. Every word he says sinks straight into you. And you don’t even realize your nails are digging into the couch cushions until his eyes dip down to your hands.

“You’re not okay,” he says. “You just think you are.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper. Your voice breaks on it. You last all of five minutes.

Five minutes of shifting on the couch, of pressing your thighs together so tight they ache. Five minutes of trying to breathe normally, trying to ignore the slow, electric hum beneath your skin. Five minutes of Spencer watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch of discomfort, every unconscious move you make to relieve the pressure building between your legs. It’s unbearable. And it’s only getting worse.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out, standing too fast.

Spencer raises a brow. He doesn’t argue but you can feel his eyes on your back as you walk away—fast, too fast. You don’t even turn on the water. Just lock the door, shove your pants down, and sit on the closed toilet lid with your head thrown back and your hand already between your legs.

You’re soaked. And it’s instant, the relief of pressure from finally touching yourself—but it’s not enough. Not even close. You rub slow and firm circles, breath catching, hips rocking with every pulse of heat that crashes over you. Your thighs shake. Your toes curl against the floor. You bite your lip to stay quiet but it only makes it worse. You try to speed up, fingers moving faster, sloppier. But no matter how close you get, it won’t happen.

Your breath is a mess. Your body is screaming for something it can’t reach, and it hits you: the report warned about this. That once the arousal sets in, your brain stops registering solo touch the same way. That you need external stimulation to reset the chemical overload.

And you’re not alone in the apartment. You don’t know you’re moaning until you hear it echo against the tile. And then you hear him on the other side of the door.

“Are you okay?”

Your heart stutters. “I’m—fuck. I’m fine.” The silence after that is so loud, you think maybe he’s walked away.

“You’re not fine.”

Your breath stutters again. “Spencer—“

“I can hear you.”

Shame burns hot across your face but your hand doesn’t stop moving. It can’t.

“You said you were fine but I know you aren’t,” he murmurs through the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say weakly.

“I’m not mad,” he says gently. “But I think you’re past the point of pretending you can do this alone.”

You don’t respond. Not with words. Your legs are trembling, your hand still moving between them but you already know it’s not going to work. You’re panting like you just ran a mile, back arching off the seat—and still nothing.

Another knock. Softer. “I can help,” Spencer says, voice low.

You should say no. You should tell him it’s the pollen talking. You should warn him that once this starts, it won’t stop. You want to tell him that it’ll ruin everything between you. But your hand’s already reaching for the lock.

You barely get your pants all the way back up when Spencer gently pushes the bathroom door open, his gaze dark and steady. You try to pull your sweater down over your thighs like it’ll hide anything—but it’s useless. He saw you. Heard you. And he knows.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it, fingers curling lightly around your wrist. You don’t even hesitate—you let him lead you out, your heart hammering against your ribs, your body so wound up it almost hurts.

Spencer leads you through the hallway, the short walk to his bedroom feeling longer than any distance you’ve ever traveled. His hand stays on you the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles against your wrist, soothing and claiming all at once. The bedroom door clicks shut behind you and then there’s nothing separating you from him. No reason to pretend, no rules, no shame. Just the gnawing, burning need.

Spencer tugs you toward him until your chest brushes his. His hands settle lightly on your hips, the heat of them sinking through the thin fabric of your clothes. His forehead drops to yours, breathing you in. “Been wanting to touch you all night,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “You know that? Sat there watching you squirm, pretending you’re fine—” His hands trail down your sides until his fingers find the hem of your pants again. “—when you’re really falling apart.”

You let out a shaky exhale, grabbing at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. Your skin feels hot and tight, hypersensitive, desperate for something to soothe the ache. “I can’t—I can’t think straight,” you breathe out, pressing closer.

“I know.” He ducks his head to kiss along your jawline, slow and savoring like he’s tasting something he’s been denying himself for far too long. “You’re burning up. Need me to take care of you, huh?”

“Yes—” it leaves you before you can even think, a desperate little whine slipping from your lips. Your hips buck forward slightly, brushing against the hardness tenting his pants and the soft groan it pulls from him makes your knees go weak.

“You’re so wet already, aren’t you?” he whispers, one hand slipping between your bodies to cup you through your pants. The pressure makes you gasp, you press into his hand shamelessly. He chuckles low in his throat, all fond and wrecked at the same time. “Fuck, you’re dripping through your clothes.” You whimper, face going red. The humiliation burns but it’s nothing compared to the need clawing at you. Spencer gently nudges your chin up until you’re looking at him. His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and careful. “You gonna let me help you, baby?” You nod, already too wrecked to form words.

“That’s not good enough,” he breathes and suddenly you’re shoved back onto the bed, Spencer following you down until he’s hovering over you. “Say it. Tell me you need me.”

You squeeze your thighs together, your whole body pulsing with need. “I need you, Spencer. Please.” He grins and it’s all teeth and something dangerous glinting behind his eyes. Hungry and desperate to make you feel as good as he knows you deserve. “That’s my girl,” he mutters, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants and dragging them down your thighs slow enough to make you whine. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Could spend hours between your legs…” His voice is nearly trembling with restraint, his hands splaying over your bare thighs like he’s grounding himself.

Once your pants and panties are gone, he spreads your legs open and just looks for a moment. “So fucking pretty.” His fingers ghost over your inner thighs, making you twitch and squirm. “Look how messy you are for me already. Been suffering all by yourself, haven’t you?” You nod again, hips jerking up slightly in search of more.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, leaning down to kiss just above your mound, maddeningly close but not close enough. “I’m gonna make you feel so good you won’t even remember your own name.” You whimper again, bucking your hips in a silent plea. Fianlly Spencer drags his tongue up your slit, slow and deliberate. You cry out, hands flying to his hair.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs against you, pressing a kiss to your clit that makes you jolt. “Gonna have you coming so many times you’ll forget how to say no.” You mewl, tugging at his hair and he chuckles breathlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs to pin you down. “No running away,” he teases, voice warm and wrecked. He flattens his tongue against you again, licking a thick stripe up your cunt before swirling around your clit with infuriating precision. Your thighs tremble in his grip, your whole body arching off the bed.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he mutters between licks. “Could get drunk off you.” You can’t even form coherent words anymore—just high, broken moans spilling out of you as he eats you like he’s starving as if you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. And god, you want it to last forever. Your hands fist in his hair, your hips grind against his mouth. He lets you—lets you use him, lets you fuck yourself on his tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“You’re so good,” he murmurs against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder. You’re right there, right on the edge when he slips a finger inside you. He moves perfectly to hit that sweet spot that makes your whole body lock up. You moan his name, head tossing back against the pillows and Spencer just smiles against you, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You’re right there, teetering on the edge. Your thighs quivering around Spencer’s head— when he suddenly pulls back. A broken whine tears from your throat, hips chasing him instinctively but he just chuckles. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers tighten around your thighs to hold you down.

“Not like this,” he pants with desperate eyes. “Wanna feel you come around my cock.” You barely manage a whimper of protest, your whole body screaming for release but then he’s shushing you, climbing up over you, nosing along your jaw. His hips grinding into yours and making you feel the thick, hard length of him through his sweats. “You can wait a little longer, can’t you, baby?” he murmurs, voice all syrup and sin. “Gonna make it so fucking good for you. Promise.”

You nod frantically, your hands sliding under his shirt. You’re clawing at the warm, solid planes of his stomach. Anything to get him closer, to get him inside you. “Please Spencer,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist like you could pull him in yourself. “I need you—need you so bad.” His breath shudders against your ear as he ruts against you as if he’s barely holding himself back.

“Fuck—” he groans, dragging his pants down just enough to free his cock, hot and heavy and leaking against your bare thigh. “You have no idea what you do to me. Gonna fill you up so good…you’ll forget anything else ever existed.”He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock sliding through your soaked folds—and it’s already almost too much, the anticipation, the need.

“You ready?” he rasps, his voice trembling with restraint.

“God, yes,” you sob, lifting your hips into him. Spencer smirks and starts pushing inside, slow and deep. Splitting you open perfectly as everything else disappears.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s moving, his palms hot and firm around your waist as he lifts you and nudges your hips back, steering you further up the bed like you’re something breakable—precious, even now. Even with the way both of you are trembling to touch, to fuck, to feel. Spencer’s lips brush against your ear as he leans over you and the heat of his breath sends a shudder tearing through your body.

“So tight,” he mutters roughly. His voice nearly unrecognizable, caught between a growl and a plea. “So perfect.” You can only nod, throat too dry to speak— heart pounding a riot against your ribs. You feel him shift behind you, the rustle of his own clothes joining yours in the scattered mess on the floor. You whimper and it makes him groan under his breath. You can feel the way he’s struggling to keep it together, the way his cock twitches inside of you, pulsing with need.

“Please,” you manage and Spencer rewards you by speeding up.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, like he can’t help but marvel at it. He leans down, mouth grazing your neck. It’s just above the frantic beat of your pulse. “Fuck— you need this, don’t you?” You nod frantically, back arching. You’re chasing the barest hint of him.

“I do,” you whine. Voice breaking with each thrust. “Need this— need you.”Your fingers clutch at the sheets, at anything you can grab as he fills you, thick and heavy and stretching you so perfectly you think you might actually cry. Spencer lets out low, guttural sounds. He’s burying his face against your shoulder as he seats himself fully inside you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, voice cracking. “It fits so good— made for me.” He pulls out slowly and the drag of him inside you rips a broken gasp from your throat. When he thrusts back in harder, it knocks the air right out of your lungs. Your body jolts, pleasure burning through you so hot and fast that your knees nearly buckle. He moving in long, grinding strokes. He’s dragging the thick head of his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. Just fast enough. Cruel, almost. Intentional. Controlled.

Every thrust is a brand, a mark he’s stamping deep into your body. “God, look at you,” Spencer pants against your ear. One hand slides down to press against your stomach, feeling the way he moves inside you. “Taking me so good. You can see it.”

You choke on a whine, barely able to form words. “Y-yeah. You’re so big. I need—”

“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, hips snapping a little harder, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. “You need me to fuck you until you can’t think about anything except how full you are. Hmm?” You nod desperately, hands gripping at him, at yourself, at the bed. Anything you can grab. Your whole body feels raw, wired so tight you think you might snap apart at the seams.

Spencer’s rhythm grows rougher, deeper, the slap of skin on skin filling the air along with the filthy sounds you’re both making—panting, moaning, gasping each other’s names like prayers. And through it all, Spencer keeps talking.

“Wanted you like this for so long,” he groans, voice wrecked. His hands are everywhere now—your hips, your waist, your shoulders—like he can’t touch enough of you at once. “Dreamed about it. Fucking you. Making you feel good.”

You’re barely holding on, your entire body trembling with the effort of staying right on that edge, right where he’s keeping you. When he pulls you up slightly, forcing your chest against his, it’s almost too much. One hand holds you up— the other finding your throat, squeezing softly.

“You’re gonna come when I tell you,” he breathes against your temple. “Okay?”You moan, you’re thrumming with need. There’s sweat slicking your skin. His hand slips from your neck inbetween your thighs, fingers teasing and circling just above where you need him most but not touching, not giving you that last push.

Spencer keeps fucking into you, deep and slow and deliberate. Grinding his hips in just the right way to make you sob. “You feel good?” he murmurs. “You’re dripping all over me. Making a mess.” You can’t think anymore. Can barely breathe. You’re nothing but sensation, tethered only by the sound of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his body inside yours. But still—you don’t come. Because Spencer hasn’t told you to. You want to be good for him. You want to give him everything. Even if it kills you.

Spencer’s thrusts start to falter—still deep, still good but messier now, losing that iron control he’d fought so hard to keep. His breath is ragged against your ear, every exhale a soft, desperate whimper that shoots straight through your blood.

“Spence,” you whisper, reaching back to touch his hip. You’re trying to steady him, to soothe him. “Let me— let me ride you.” He groans, low and broken like just the idea of it shatters whatever composure he had left.

“Please,” he rasps, nodding frantically, barely able to get the word out. “Okay— yes.” It’s clumsy, the two of you scrambling to reposition but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting closer, closer, closer. You straddle his lap, legs shaky from how much he’s already wrecked you but the second you sink down onto him again—God, he’s so deep—everything else fades away. Spencer’s head falls back against the mattress, a choked moan ripping from his throat. His hands find your thighs, clutching hard enough to bruise— like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You move slowly at first, savoring the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. The way his mouth falls open, eyes glassy and wide and so fucking gone beneath you. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he babbles, hips jerking up instinctively to meet your movements. “So tight, so good, you’re gonna make me come. I can’t—“

“You can,” your hands braced on his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart under your palms. “You’re so deep.” And he whimpers. Actually whimpers, high and broken, thrusting up into you helplessly as you start to ride him harder. You roll your hips, grinding down just right and he loses it.

“Oh, fuck— gonna breed you.” The words tumble out of him in a stream of gasped, pleading sounds, almojst incoherent. His fingers dig into your thighs, dragging you down harder onto him. Trying to chase the friction, the heat. His pretty mouth falls open, desperate sounds spilling out with every thrust. Grunts and moans.

“Taking me so good,” he babbles. “So fucking pretty like this. So wet—feel so good around me—” You speed up, hips snapping faster. Riding him hard now, and you’re both falling apart. Spencer’s cock pulsing inside you so thick and hot you can feel him twitching already, right on the edge.

“You— ah— so good.” you pant, leaning down so your lips brush his jaw, your words a filthy little tease. “Gonna fill me up, Spence?” He gasps, the sound so wrecked it barely sounds human and his hands claw at your hips, yanking you down harder as he bucks up into you wildly now, rhythm lost completely.

“Please,” he groans, high and broken. “Yes— filling you all the way up.”

You nod, whispering, “I want it. Need it.” That’s all it takes. Spencer cries out desperately, jerking up into you for a few last times as he finally lets go. You feel it—the heat flooding inside you, the way he throbs and twitches with every pulse of pleasure. You ride him through it— triggering your own orgasm. It’s loud and messy. You’re slowing your movements just enough to make it last, to draw every last drop.

Spencer’s hands are digging where they hold you. His hips stutter weakly, his chest heaving like he’s been running for miles. When you finally collapse against his chest, both of you boneless and shaking and soaked in sweat— it’s like the entire world narrows to just this—his heartbeat pounding against your cheek, the wrecked little sounds he’s still making under his breath, the way his arms tighten around you like he can’t stand to let you go.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breathing. Just existing. Finally, Spencer’s hand lifts, trembling slightly, to run through your hair. “Holy shit,” he whispers hoarsely. His voice is wrecked, thin and scratchy like he’s been screaming for hours. “I—I think I saw God.” You huff a weak, breathless laugh against his skin.

“Good,” you whisper back. His arms wrap tighter around you, pulling you impossibly closer. And for the first time since this whole night started—you feel something other than desperation.

“Are you okay?” he asks, shifting enough to pull himself out of you— letting your guys’ mess to spill out all over him. You nod against him and he presses his chin to your forehead, breathing you in like he needs it. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs after a second, thumb brushing the side of your thigh.

“So are you,” you say, your voice soft.

He gives a weak, breathless laugh—a little hoarse thing that barely escapes his throat—and shifts you carefully off his lap, laying you back against the pillows. His hands never leave you. He tugs the comforter up over your bodies, his fingers smoothing the edges near your shoulders, almost absentmindedly like he’s on autopilot. Like he needs to be touching you, even if it’s just fixing the blanket.

He leans in, his nose brushing your temple. “You did so good,” he says quietly, almost a whisper. “You feel so good.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering stupidly hard against your ribs. “You do,” you whisper back. Spencer’s mouth quirks into the faintest, most exhausted little smirk and for a second he just looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You reach for his hand under the blanket, threading your fingers through his. He lets out a soft, broken sound at that—almost like a whimper—and squeezes your hand tight, clutching it to his chest.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t have to. He stays curled around you like that, close and warm and steady, until your heartbeat slows and your breath evens out. And even then, he doesn’t let go.

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ningvory · 2 months ago

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NERD — kim minjeong

🦋 // WARNINGS : college au, gp minjeong, nerdy minjeong, popular reader, swear words, praising, mating press, cummin’ inside, (girl don’t be silly and wrap that willy), NOT PROOFREAD I MADE THIS IN 40 MINS.

🦋 // WORD COUNT : 913 words

it’s my birthday and i’ve officially hit the 20’s WTF. i’m auntie status💀

you were settled inside the school library, a place where you found peace from all the chaos in the rest of the campus. you were finishing up some assignments your professor assigned to you quietly until you heard a voice.

“knew i’d find you in here!” you heard the voice over your music blasting in your ears, you looked up to see none other than your friend ning yizhou, mostly known as ningning to those who aren’t in her tight friend group circle.

“hey ningyi.” you said, lowering the volume of your headphones and putting your pencil down. you couldn’t help but take a brow at the look she’s giving you, “what’s up?” you asked her as she smirked at you.

she immediately took the chair in front of you and plopped down, “you passed the math test with a A+, nothing incorrect, and that never happens..how’d you study? what’s your secret?” ning asked in a urgent tone.

“did you fail or something?” you raised a brow which made her sulk and nod, “fucking bombed that test! now spill the secret!” she nudged you with her foot under the table.

“okay okay, my mom told me i need my grade higher than a B so i asked minjeong to help me out. she really explained it better than our own professor.” you finally explained which made the chinese girl give you a deadpan look.

“forgot you dated that…nerd. i mean seriously, doesn’t she read harry potter books?” ning scoffed, referring back to the time you and your friend group spotted her in the library in the fantasy aisle, picking out the third harry potter book.

“hey, don’t call her that. there’s nothing wrong with harry potter.” you defended your girlfriend, watching as ning added more mascara to her eyes, looking at her reflection in her pocket mirror.

“she’s fuckin twenty for crying out loud!” ning snickered to herself before closing her pocket mirror and mascara. you rolled your eyes and went back to your assignment.

“oh my gosh wait..so this means you’re fucking kim minjeong..” ning added on, “is her dick that good?” ning jokes, giving you a smug look.

your face immediately heats up, “ning—get your head out the damn gutter!” you quietly shouted, wanting to throw something at her for even thinking that.

she got a little closer to your face, “well we all know your the top, she’s wayyy too quiet and a nerd to even top.” ning playfully teases.

“uhm..duh?” you look around and chuckle as you already know that it’s a complete 180 when you both are in bed.

—

“w-wait!! slow down minjeong—ah!” you moaned loudly as your hair was pulled out the pillows, your girlfriend drilling her cock inside you with no remorse.

“cmon princess, i know you can take more.” minjeong grunts behind you, your ass smacking against her pelvis.

she suddenly flips you on your back, allowing you to see her messy blonde hair and her glasses still on. her half lidded eyes filled with lust and desire as her hips snapped into yours.

“you’re such a mess—and you tell all your friends that you’re in charge when we fuck.” she pants as she pushes one of your legs up to your chest, her tip kissing a new angle which had you seeing little stars in your vision.

you were speechless, babbling out incoherent words and moans, your cunt squeezing around her thick cock. she smirked and leaned down to kiss you passionately. it was sloppy and messy as she easily dominated the kiss.

“gonna make sure your friends see who’s in charged. you’ll barely be able to walk tomorrow.” minjeong grunts as she brings your other leg to your chest, putting you in a mating press.

now you were really speechless, moans and whimpers getting stuck in your throat, choked out mewls and whimpers only escaping as tears dribbled down your cheeks.

the squelchy noise of your pussy being fucked into was loud, anyone walking by your dorm could probably tell what was going on inside.

“m-minjeong—faster please!” you cried out, looking up at her with wide blown eyes.

“good girl~” minjeong coo’d, “asking to be fucked by your loser girlfriend.” she drilled into you at a faster pace, her balls hitting your ass repeatedly.

“tell me i’m in control.” her voice husky as she whispered into your ear, her pace slowed enough for you to speak.

“y-you’re in control! you’re in control, minjeong—keep going i’m almost close!” you babbled out quickly, wanting her to speed back up.

she smirks and kissed your forehead before speeding up, your legs bouncing on her shoulders as moans and chants of her name immediately rip from your chest, making you a moaning mess.

your toes began to curl and your head fell back on the pillow as you squeezed around her cock, your eyes rolling back and your body shaking under her as you came hard.

soon after minjeong cums inside you, thick spurts of sticky warm fluids filling you up. she slowly slowed down the pace, as you calmed down.

she didn’t pull out yet, laying on the bed and rolling you on top of her. she rubbed your back and kissed your head, “ready for round two?” she smiled softly at you, her glasses slowly falling down her nose bridge.

you lopsidedly smiled and pushed her glasses back up her nose bridge, you knew you were in for a long ass night.

#♡.winter #♡.aespa #kpop smut #wlw smut #g!p #aespa smut #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa winter smut #winter x fem reader #winter smut #minjeong smut #minjeong x reader

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nikkento-writes · 1 month ago

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It’s nearing ten when Nanami finally comes out of his home office, eyes droopy with tiredness, shoulders stiff from hunching over his laptop for the past ten hours. He sees you sitting on the couch in your pajamas, watching TV on a low volume as not to disturb him. You glance up at him, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Are you done?”

He sighs, flopping down beside you, resting his head on your lap. “Not yet. Maybe just another hour or so.”

You ruffle his hair affectionately, running your hand gently along his scalp. He relaxes under your touch, some much needed momentary relief during a stressful night of work.

The bane of Nanami’s existence is overtime. He’d much rather be forced fed ribbon pasta than work a minute past business hours. Yet here he is, wasting away his precious hours to finish some report that’s deemed urgent but actually isn’t. Upper management unfairly assigned it to Yuji, who was excited to take on the challenge. As his mentor, Nanami didn’t feel right to leave such a daunting task to his underling, especially on a night the young man had already planned to spend with friends. So, out of the goodness of his heart, Nanami is taking care of it instead. For some reason, he always manages to get himself into situations like this.

You move your fingers to his temple, carefully massaging a pressure point that pulses with tension. He hums, closing his eyes; he could easily fall asleep like this, and if he didn’t have just one more section to finish in this goddamn report, he would. One eye open, he peeks up at you, immediately noticing the mischievous smile on your face. He raises a brow at you, curious. “What are you up to?”

It’s only now that he realizes your other hand has traveled past his head, grazing the buttons on his dress shirt, half of them undone like magic. You shrug, playing coy. “Nothing.” Your knuckles brush against his abdomen, fingers reaching for his belt.

“Sweetheart…” he warns you, not doing much to resist.

You undo his pants, slipping beneath fabric to rest your palm on his throbbing cock. “I just want to help you relax for a little bit. Is that so wrong?”

He sits up, observing the compromising position. “I have to…” he swallows thickly, voice trembling. “I have to get back to work.”

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, sliding your hand across his shaft. “Just a few minutes. Fifteen minutes tops. You deserve a break.”

He nods, giving in way too easily. You meet his lips with yours, his tongue out and kisses languid, as if in a trance. “I do. I really do.”

You start to pump his cock in small strokes, licking into his mouth. He lifts his hips up to pull down his pants enough to free himself. His dick is hard and already weeps with precum, all the pent-up stress slowly leaking out of him. He begs, even whines a little bit. “Sweetie, please.

You’re wet between your legs, but you can deal with this later. Right now, you want to give your husband a well-deserved treat. Sliding out from beneath him, you position yourself on the edge of the couch, kneeling in front of him. He sits up, back against the cushions, eyes glazed over in a daze, watching. You pull his trousers and boxers all the way to his ankles, giving you full access. Wetting your lips, you sink down on him, hollowing your cheeks as you surround him with your mouth.

“Fuck,” he moans laying his head back, eyes fluttering in ecstasy.

With each stroke, you swirl your tongue over his swollen tip, getting a taste of him. When he bottoms out, you gag on his cock, swallowing him down your throat until you need to catch a breath. He grips your head cautiously with both hands and when you nod at him, giving him the best smile you can with his cock still in you, he goes for it. He fucks your mouth faster, harder, desperate for release. He scoots to the very edge of the couch, thrusting against you, relishing the way you choke on his cock like the good little slut you are.

When you reach for your clothed pussy, arousal soaking through the thin cotton of your pjs, his voice is husky, wrecked with carnal desire. “Do it. Touch yourself while I fuck this pretty mouth.”

Without hesitation, you slip your fingers between your legs, rubbing your aching clit. It doesn’t take much longer for him to come, seeing you get off from blowing him. “I’m coming,” he groans, shooting his load into the back of your throat. You guzzle it down easily, coming on your wet fingers as you suck every drop of him until he pulls out, oversensitive now. He takes a moment to recover, breathing deeply as he watches you remove yourself from your panties, a blissful expression on your face. Just as you’re about to stand up and wash your hands, he stops you, bringing your filthy fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean.

You tempt him to clock out for the night, to take you straight to the bedroom for a full-on fucking. But he resists, promising to continue the fun after his work is done. So, with one last peck on the lips, which he’s hesitant to end, he retreats back into his office, feeling extra motivated to finally finish this cursed report.

#nanami x reader #nanami kento #nanami x you #jjk smut #nanami drabbles #nanami smut #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento smut

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buckysleftbicep · 8 days ago

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the things we left behind 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!ex!bucky barnes x widow!ex!reader (reader is female)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, a whole lot of angst, unprotected sex, creampie, painful break up, depression, toxic relationship

summary: you haven't seen bucky in years. not since the night he left. the blip changed both of you, and nothing was ever the same after. now, val has you working together again. the job is dangerous, the tension is unbearable. and the feelings? still impossible to outrun.

word count: 6.7k

author's note: hi loves, it's been a tough few days and honestly, i am trying to cope with work and school, and how i gotta start on my research paper in a month. i am so overwhelmed, and writing this fic kinda helped me to escape all of that for a bit 💓. thank you for reading, love ya guys and stay safe out there!

The email came at 3:12 a.m.

You didn’t check it right away—you were halfway through disassembling your beretta on the kitchen table, fingers slick with oil, an old jazz record crackling faintly from the busted speaker in the corner.

Outside, another storm carved itself across the city skyline. Rain hammered the tin roof. Wind screamed through the alley like it was trying to claw its way in.

You'd gotten used to nights like this. The quiet ones. The hollow ones. The ones where silence curled around your spine like a second skin. Where sleep didn’t come easy and ghosts sat in the corners.

But you never ignored a message from Val.

Especially not one marked URGENT.

You slid the half-cleaned barrel aside and reached for your tablet. The screen flickered to life, illuminating the room in cold blue.

A notification pulsed at the top corner, her name bold, bureaucratic, unmistakable. You hesitated for a second. Not out of fear, just instinct. You always read the fine print before you let something gut you.

You tapped the message open.

FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: URGENT: Field Assignment Target: Codename OMEGA. Ex-military. Ex-Hydra. Now independent and building weapons that rival Stark’s worst. Expanding faster than Hydra ever did. You’ll be compensated generously, you’re the best tracker I’ve got. And Barnes could use your help. — V

You stared at the screen for a long time.

Barnes.

Your thumb hovered at the edge of the table, tapping once. Twice. Again.

That name wasn’t a landmine—it was a fucking extinction-level event. A seismic crack straight through your chest.

You hadn’t seen it typed out in over two years.

Not since you deleted every message.

Every photo. Every voicemail.

Not since you shoved him—all of him—into a vault inside your mind and welded the door shut.

Even thinking it felt like betrayal. The air shifted around you. Denser. Sharper. You weren’t sure if it was rage or something colder coiling under your ribs, but it made it hard to breathe.

You rose from the table without realising it, pacing to the window. The alley outside was bathed in harsh shadows, neon from the liquor store sign across the street painting everything a violent red.

You could still remember the last time you said his name aloud. It hadn’t been soft. Or sweet. It had been a whisper strangled by tears.

Just a few months ago, you had seen his face again. Unintentionally. On your shitty television, the one balanced on a rusted ammo crate next to your gear bags. You were flipping through channels to avoid your own thoughts—when suddenly, there she was.

Val, in that smug little purple coat, standing on some makeshift podium like a bad dream. Flanked by the press, and smiling like the devil.

"Meet the new Avengers."

And there he was. Bucky.

Your hand froze around the remote.

He was different. A little older. Clean-cut, almost polished. But not really. There was still something haunted behind the eyes. Something wild under the surface.

You knew that look. You’d memorised it—held it in your hands during the worst nights. It was the way he looked when he didn’t know how to stay. The way he looked at you.

You didn’t watch for more than a few seconds.

Didn’t listen to what he said.

You clicked the screen off.

Walked out of the room like it hadn’t just set a match to the walls you’d spent years rebuilding.

The last you’d heard, he was a congressman. Or maybe that was just another lie the world told itself to sleep easier at night.

You’d made it a rule not to keep tabs. Not to reach out. Not even when you missed him so much you thought your skin might split.

It was the only way you’d survived.

Now this.

Now Val was offering you money. A job. A mission.

But not just any mission. One that meant going back into the field. Tracking a target dangerous enough to spook even her.

A weapons dealer with enough firepower to start another war, based in Romania, deep-pocketed, ex-military, rumoured to be building something worse than Stark tech.

You could do it. Of course you could.

You were trained for it. One of the best assassins still walking—invisible, untraceable, lethal.

Val hadn’t exaggerated. You were the best.

But this wasn’t about the mission.

This was about him.

Working with him. Seeing him again.

Smelling him. Hearing his voice.

Pretending it didn’t hollow you out.

God, after everything— After everything—

You clenched your jaw until your teeth ached and looked back at the screen.

Val didn’t know your history. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t have sent the message if she did. Or maybe she did know, and sent it anyway. You wouldn’t put it past her.

Your reflection in the glass caught your eye. Same eyes. Same scars. But the woman looking back wasn’t the one he loved. Not anymore.

Maybe she never was.

You sat back down slowly. The room was too quiet now. The Beretta still lay in pieces on the table, glinting dully under the bare bulb overhead. The silence felt like a countdown.

Your hand moved on its own. You tapped out a reply.

I’ll take it.

You could still remember the night he left.

It had started like all the other nights.

Angry, messy and quiet in all the wrong places.

You’d fought again. You couldn’t even remember what about, maybe it didn’t matter. It never really did. It was always about the same things—the silences, the avoidance.

The way he wouldn’t talk to you unless it was laced in something defensive. The way your voice always seemed to crack just before you said something unforgivable.

The apartment was dark, save for the sliver of streetlight cutting through the blinds and the faint hum of the heater that never quite worked right.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, spine tight, fists curled in the sheets. Your chest still heaved from the shouting match, breath shaky, shallow.

You hated crying in front of him. But it was happening anyway.

Behind you, he stood by the door, tall, unmoving, arms crossed like holding onto himself was the only thing keeping him from saying something worse.

Bucky hadn’t spoken in minutes. That always scared you more than the yelling. The quiet.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you finally whispered, voice raw.

He didn’t respond.

You turned to look at him, forcing your voice to steady. “Say something.”

He looked up then, and his eyes, God, his eyes. There was no softness left in them tonight. Just exhaustion, grief wrapped in the shape of a man.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said quietly.

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. “I want you to act like you still fucking care.”

“I do care,” he bit out. “That’s the damn problem.”

The silence that followed was loud. So loud it made your ears ring.

Bucky’s jaw tensed as he stepped forward slowly, stopping just in front of you.

His voice dropped lower, strained, like it hurt him to say it. “You think I don’t care because I don’t yell back anymore? Because I don’t chase you when you storm out? I stopped chasing you because every time I do, you just run further.”

Your throat burned. “I’m not the only one running.”

That landed. You saw it, in the way his expression faltered, just for a second.

“I lost everyone, Buck,” you continued, voice cracking. “Nat. Steve. The world fucking flipped inside out. I came back and people I loved were either dead or moved on. And you—you were the only thing that felt real.”

He didn’t say a word.

“I just kept thinking… maybe if we held on tighter, we could—”

“Break each other slower?” he cut in.

The words hit you like a slap. Brutal, cold and unflinching.

You blinked at him, stunned. “Is that what you think we’re doing?”

“I think we’re trying to survive a war that already ended,” he said, a little softer now. “And neither of us came out whole.”

Your eyes stung. But you didn’t want to cry.

Not again. Not in front of him.

“So what? That’s it? You give up?”

“I didn’t say that.” he protested.

“Then what are you saying?”

He ran a hand through his hair, stepped back like he needed air. Like you were suffocating him just by standing there. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I don’t know who we are anymore.”

You stood up. Walked toward him. Close, too close.

Your voice was trembling now, but you didn’t step back. “We’re us. We’re still us. You know that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth—like he wanted to believe it. Like he couldn’t.

“You don’t get to walk away,” you whispered. “Not tonight.”

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It was desperate.

The fight dissolved the moment your mouths met. Your hands went to his jaw, to his hair, pulling him in like you could anchor yourself inside him.

He kissed you back like a man unraveling, like he had no other language left. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you backward until your spine met the bedroom wall.

Clothes came off in clumsy, frantic movements. Tugged shirts. Shaking fingers. Gasps caught in the quiet like smoke. His lips trailed down your throat, your chest, his mouth everywhere—hot and hungry.

He pushed inside you with a groan, and your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, like need. Your hips lifted to meet his, the angle bruising, perfect.

It wasn’t gentle, it never was when you fought.

Every thrust was a plea. Every moan a memory.

He held you like he wanted to stay. Fucked you like he didn’t know how to leave.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back as he drove deeper.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured into your neck, voice wrecked. “I know. I’ve got you.”

Your nails raked down his back. Your mouth caught his in a sloppy, hungry kiss. You’d done this so many times, made love like it was the only language you both still understood.

And maybe it was.

When you came, it was with a cry muffled into his shoulder. Your body trembled around him, and he held you through every wave. He followed soon after, voice breaking on your name as his hips stuttered, as he buried himself deep inside you, like he could stay there forever.

For a while, you just lay there. Breathing.

You were curled against his chest, your hand resting over his heart, still pounding hard beneath your palm. His arm was around your waist. His other hand gently cradled the back of your neck. He pressed a kiss to your hair.

And then—he spoke.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

Your whole body stilled.

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “What?”

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“This,” he said. “Us. The fights. The sex. The pretending, (y/n) it's killing us.”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, we can fix it. We always do.”

“This isn’t fixing anything,” he said, voice quieter now. “We're just stalling the inevitable.”

Your eyes filled again, but you blinked fast, furious. “So what? You want to end it?”

He hesitated.

That hesitation was worse than anything he could’ve said.

“Say it,” you whispered. “If that’s what you want, just say it.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. He looked wrecked, like every word he said carved him open too.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he said. “I’m not what you need. Maybe I never—.”

“Don’t say that,” you breathed. “Don’t you dare—”

He kissed you again.

Slow. Final.

And when he pulled away, it was like something tore loose inside your chest. Like a rib cracked open and your lungs forgot how to work.

“I love you, god, I do,” he said. “But we’re not good for each other.”

You stared at him, heart breaking open like glass.“Then why does this hurt so much?”

He looked at you—like it was killing him not to reach for you.

“Because I loved you,” he said, voice wrecked. “And I still couldn’t make it right.”

He left before sunrise. You didn’t sleep for three days.

Bucky hated briefings.

He hated the fluorescents. The cold coffee. The recycled air. He hated the staged professionalism, the smug undertone in Val’s voice, and the folders she always slapped down like a final hand in poker.

But he showed up anyway, half-shaven, black t-shirt clinging to the sweat along his spine, bruises still blooming across his ribs from the chase in Istanbul just a day ago.

A smuggler had gotten lucky with a crowbar and he had returned the favour with a shattered wrist.

Val didn’t even glance up when he entered the room.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered, flipping through a file like she hadn’t been waiting. “Sit.”

He dropped into the chair across from her, spine loose but jaw tight, watching her like he was waiting for the punchline.

“You said it was urgent.”

“It is.”

She slid the top folder toward him across the steel table. No smile. Just business.

“Weapons dealer. Codename: OMEGA. Ex-military and former Hydra, bastard’s freelancing now, he’s building something, Stark-level tech, maybe worse. We don’t know but black market says it’s mobile, adaptive, and spreading faster than anything Hydra ever managed.”

Bucky flipped the folder open, glancing over the first photo. Satellite images. Grainy outlines of a compound nestled in the Carpathians. Weapon crates stamped with false serials. And a man, dark-haired, lean, with a half-smile that made Bucky’s gut twist.

“You want me to take him out?”

“No,” Val said, narrowing her eyes. “Not yet. I want you to find him. Get intel. Map the pipeline. This asshole is exporting something fast, quiet, and powerful, and nobody knows how yet.”

He leaned back in the chair, nodding slowly. “So who’s running point with me?”

That was when she smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It never was.

“Someone sharp. Knows the terrain like it’s etched into their bloodstream. I needed someone OMEGA wouldn’t see coming, a ghost, basically.” She pulled a second folder from beneath the stack and laid it down with calculated weight.

“So I found the best.”

Bucky’s chest went still.

She tapped the folder once. “You’ve worked together before.”

His eyes didn’t move. Not yet. He didn’t need to look to know. Something low and cold began to unfurl inside him.

“Who?” he asked, already knowing.

Val didn’t skip a beat. “She’s from the Red Room, trained with Romanov. One of the sharpest trackers I’ve ever seen, maybe the best. You worked with her back in 2016. Rogers brought her in to help you disappear for a few weeks.” She looked up at him. “That ring any bells?”

His throat dried out.

Of course it rang a bell. Of course it cracked the whole goddamn church tower.

“She ghosted after the Blip,” Val went on, oblivious to the way the blood had drained from his face. “Merc work. Off-grid. Her name comes up every few years, always attached to success stories. She doesn’t come cheap, but lucky for us, she said yes.”

Bucky didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His hands had gone still in his lap.

Val cocked her head slightly. “Problem?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his tone flat. “No. Just surprised.”

“Don’t be. I told you I wanted the best.”

And she meant it, that was the thing.

Val had no idea. None.

She was looking at him like she’d made a smart tactical move, like this was just another piece on her chessboard.

She didn’t know you were more than a name on a file. Didn’t know that just hearing your name was like being punched in the ribs with a memory.

Of course you said yes. Of course you did.

Bucky looked down at the folder, the one he hadn’t opened. The one that already felt like it was burning through the table. His fingers twitched, fighting the urge to open it. But he didn’t need to. He could already picture your face.

Exactly how you looked the last time he saw you, in that apartment, the light catching the tears on your cheek, your mouth trembling, your voice a broken whisper after one final kiss that hadn’t felt final at all.

You hadn’t spoken since. He’d made sure of that.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think you were the right choice.

You were. You always have been. Your instincts were lethal. Precise. Back when everything was chaos, when he was hunted, bleeding, feral—you’d found him with no satellites, relying on nothing but your skills.

You’d read the rhythm of his footsteps, you’d seen the man underneath the weapon—and somehow, you’d still touched him like he was worth something.

He remembered it all.

The way you’d looked at him without fear. The way you’d spoken to him like he wasn’t broken. The way you’d fallen— And the way he’d fallen harder.

Too hard.

He clenched his jaw and rose from the chair before Val could get clever.

“When do we leave?”

Val smiled, satisfied. “She’ll be here by morning.”

He turned and left before she could say anything else.

Bucky hadn’t seen you in years.

But the memory of you had never really left.

He had tried to pretend otherwise—told himself he’d locked it away. Buried it. Pushed it down into the same graveyard where the rest of his broken things lived. But the truth was simpler. Meaner.

You were everywhere.

In the way someone laughed too loud on a subway platform, in the weight of silence when he climbed into bed alone.

You’d lived beneath his skin long after you left his bed.

And sometimes, even now—in moments he didn’t expect, he could still feel you there.

He remembered the first time he saw you.

Bucharest, 2016. Steve had said your name, classified—a Red Room defector who knew the streets, the syndicates, the backchannels. A shadow that didn’t leave footprints.

He said you owed him a favour. He never said what that favour was.

You’d found him in less than forty-eight hours.

He was holed up in an abandoned tenement, hiding in corners, still haunted by trigger phrases and mission reports and words like asset and eliminate.

He hadn’t slept in two days. He hadn’t trusted anyone in longer.

Then the door creaked. A whisper of motion. And there you were, boots silent, a pistol tucked in your belt, eyes sharp enough to cut. You looked at him like you already knew every terrible thing he’d done.

And somehow… you didn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you said.

And maybe that was the first lie you ever told him.

Because you did. Just not in the way he expected.

You’d stayed longer than Steve asked. Said the apartment wasn’t secure. Said you didn’t trust the local chatter. But you’d also started bringing back coffee in the mornings. Left food on the table without asking.

You never made him say thank you. You never asked why his hands shook when he reached for a fork.

And when he had a nightmare so violent he woke up gasping, fists clenched, blood on his tongue, you didn’t back away.

You touched his shoulder, soft and steady, and whispered his name until the past let go of his throat.

Until he remembered where he was. Until he remembered who he was.

That was the night you sat on the windowsill, legs crossed, and told him about the Red Room.

Not all of it. Just enough.

You told him about the girl who never shed a single tear during conditioning. Who learned pressure points before she comprehended math. Who killed a man before she learned how to braid her own hair.

He watched you in the half-light. And something broke open in him. Something painful and quiet.

“You think you’re the only one who came out wrong,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve got blood on my hands too.”

He didn’t know what to say.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It couldn’t be.

Two people clawing at each other for something that made them feel human. That made them feel alive.

You’d kissed him like you were starving. Pulled him in by the collar, pressed your body to his like you could crawl inside him and stay there. It was heat and teeth and desperation. It was need, masquerading as anger, safety masquerading as lust.

But later, when your breath had evened out and the moonlight spilled across your bare shoulder, he held you like a secret. His hand moved up and down your spine like he’d been doing it forever.

You curled into him. Stayed there. Whispered things you’d never say in daylight.

He didn’t ask about the scars. You didn’t ask about the dog tags beside his bed. You didn’t need to.

You’d already seen each other naked long before the clothes came off.

That was all it took. That was all it ever took.

Then the Blip happened. And the world ended.

He didn’t know what hurt more—watching you turn to dust in front of him, or himself coming back five years later to find out you hadn’t come back.

They say grief changes people. But this wasn’t grief. This was obliteration.

When you finally returned, months after the snap was reversed—something in you was different. Sharper. Duller. Both at once. Your eyes didn’t light up the same. Your voice came from somewhere deeper.

Bucky later learned the truth in pieces.

You hadn’t come back with the others. Not because you couldn't. But because you hadn’t wanted to.

The moment your body came back, lungs gasping, heart hammering, soul thrown back into flesh, you were alone. Dropped in a place you didn’t recognize. Somewhere cold. Ruined. A city that had moved on without you.

No one was waiting. No one even knew you'd returned.

And when you finally made it back to what was left of the world, you found out what you’d missed.

Natasha was gone. Steve was gone.

Everything you fought for. Everyone who held you up. All of it—just gone.

You didn’t go back to the Tower. Didn’t call anyone. You vanished.

You went underground, took jobs that let you bleed. Let you disappear. Let you punish yourself in silence, in shadows, where no one could see the way grief had gutted you.

It wasn’t about survival. It wasn’t even about revenge.

It was about not being seen. Not being found.

Because if someone found you—if Bucky found you—then you’d have to admit that you were still alive.

And some days, that felt like the worst thing of all.

It took Bucky weeks to track you down.

You'd covered your tracks—burner phones, false names, cities that swallowed you whole. But he knew your patterns. Knew how you moved.

He traced whispers of a woman who never stayed long, it had led him to a crumbling outpost in Albania, an old safehouse half-buried in snow.

You’d just come back from a mission, your knuckles bruised, your jaw clenched, blood dried at your collar.

He watched you from across the road, heart pounding, breath caught in his throat. You didn’t see him until he stepped into the light and said your name.

Soft. Like a prayer. Like a wound.

You didn’t talk about Natasha. Didn’t mention Steve. You didn’t talk at all.

And when he finally got you to come home, Bucky tried to help. God, he tried. He made you tea on the nights sleep wouldn’t come. Sat outside the bathroom door when you locked it, listening to the sound of your breath breaking apart through panic.

He held you when you let him—which wasn’t often—and never asked for more. And when the words ran dry, when silence grew sharp enough to cut, he touched you like he could piece you back together. Made love to you like it might be enough, like it might remind you how to stay.

But you didn’t come back to him. Not really.

And if he was honest, neither did he.

The world had cracked open. And when it tried to reassemble itself, the pieces didn’t fit.

He still loved you, that had never changed.

But love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s sharp, jagged.

Sometimes it’s made of splinters and sutures. Sometimes it bleeds.

And this one did.

The fights started small.

You stayed out too late. You took contracts without telling him. Vanished without explanation. Returned like nothing had happened—blood on your hands, silence in your eyes.

“Where were you?” “I handled it.” “You don’t have to handle things alone anymore.” “Don’t tell me what to do, Bucky.”

It escalated.

You screamed. He slammed doors.

You made love like it was the last time, every time. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from drowning. He kissed you like he couldn’t bear the thought of breathing without you.

You cried once—during.

He kissed the tears from your cheeks and didn’t ask why.

And the next morning, neither of you said a word.

He had left before sunrise.

Quiet. Measured. Like if he moved too fast, the goodbye would catch fire.

Hours earlier, you’d clung to each other like maybe it could still work. Like maybe the way he held you—deep and slow and shaking, like it could sew something back together that had already torn beyond repair.

He’d kissed you after. Whispered your name like it was a prayer. You’d thought maybe he was staying.

But the words came anyway. The softest ones. The final ones.

“I love you,” he’d said. “But we’re not good for each other.”

He didn’t leave a note, he didn’t need to. The silence between you had already said everything.

You didn’t chase him. He didn’t come back. And neither of you called.

Because whatever it was—love, grief, survival—it had finally burned through.

Now, standing in the tower hallway, hands clenched and jaw tight, he thought about all of it.

About the girl who kissed him with cracked knuckles and laughed when she beat him in hand-to-hand. About the woman who came back from the dead and couldn’t sleep through the night.

He thought about your mouth. Your voice. The way you used to touch him.

You were coming back into his life. He didn’t know what that meant yet.

But it didn’t feel like closure. It felt like fate trying again.

The helicopter touched down just before midnight.

The rooftop landing pad of the compound was slick with rain, wind howling against the glass walls like it wanted in. You stayed seated as the engine powered down, watching water bead and crawl across the window.

The city pulsed below, indifferent and alive. It had been years since you stood in this place. Longer since it had felt anything close to home.

You adjusted your gloves slowly, methodically. Your bag was already slung across your shoulder, weapons holstered, expression blank. The only tell was your fingers—twitching against your thigh like they were searching for something to hold onto.

Footsteps echoed behind you.

"You coming, or do I have to drag you out?" Yelena's voice, unmistakably smug.

You turned. And for a second—just a second, your composure slipped.

She looked the same. Combat boots scuffed from wear. Hair shorter now—cropped into a blunt cut that suited her sharp grin.

There was something in her eyes that made you feel twelve again. She crossed the threshold and threw her arms around you before you could react.

"You bitch," she said, laughing into your shoulder. "You didn’t even text me. I thought you were dead. I tried everything. Even hacked into a mercenary network that tracks off-grid operatives. That’s how low I sank."

You exhaled a breath that almost cracked. Your arms wrapped around her on instinct.

"I missed you too," you murmured.

She pulled back and looked at you—really looked.

"Where did you go?" Her voice dropped a little. Not accusing. Just softer. Like it hurt to ask. "I tried calling, so many times. You just vanished."

You hesitated.

"I couldn’t be here," you said finally. "Not after everything that happened."

Yelena nodded, but her smile faltered. There was understanding in her eyes. And maybe grief too. You had lost your best friend, and she had lost a sister.

"Well, you're here now," she said. "And Val’s gonna shit herself when she sees the two of us in the same room."

You huffed out a quiet laugh. It didn’t reach your eyes.

The elevator opened with a low chime.

And that was when you felt it.

A shift. A cold crackle in your chest. Like a wire pulled tight.

You turned your head.

And there he was.

Bucky stepped off the elevator like a ghost from a life you didn’t let yourself remember.

Dressed in black, cargo pants, worn boots, leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the grey shirt beneath. His damp hair pushed back like he’d just stepped out of the storm. A duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, his gait loose but alert.

And his expression—his expression was still, but his eyes...his eyes landed on you like impact—like an old wound splitting wide open

They locked on yours with such force it felt like gravity shifted. Something primal and painful surged in your chest.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

He froze. So did you.

It was silent. Just the distant hum of the building, the rain tapping against the windows, Yelena shifting awkwardly between you. No words. Just that unbearable, suffocating pause.

Then he blinked. Swallowed. And nodded once.

"Hey."

It was barely audible. Rough. Like he hadn’t said it in a long time.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Yelena glanced between you and cleared her throat. "I’ll uh… give you two a minute."

She was gone before you could stop her.

You turned back toward the window, throat burning. You felt him walk closer—not near enough to touch, but close enough that his presence bent the air.

"You look different," he said quietly.

You didn’t turn around. "So do you."

Another silence.

"Didn’t think I’d see you again," he said.

"You didn’t try to."

That landed. Hard. You could feel it—the way his weight shifted, the breath he held like it might shatter.

"I didn’t think you’d want me to."

You finally turned, eyes sharp, guarded.

"I didn’t."

And it was true. At least partly.

Because as much as you wanted to hate him, as much as you told yourself you’d buried it all—your body still remembered.

The way he used to touch you. Hold you. Make love to you like it meant something.

It all came flooding back now.

You remembered the press of his mouth against your throat, the weight of him between your legs, the way he whispered your name when he was close—like it broke something inside him.

You remembered how he moved inside you, how he clung to you like a drowning man, murmuring your name over and over like it was the only anchor he had left.

You remembered his hands, calloused and warm, roaming your body like they knew every inch, every scar, every secret.

The way he used to fuck you like he was desperate to stay, to feel something that tethered him to this life—to you. Like the act of loving you was the only thing keeping him from disappearing entirely.

And you remembered what it felt like after.

Curled into his chest.

His lips in your hair.

His breath still shaking.

His voice—low and ruined—saying he couldn’t keep doing this.

The ache of it split something inside you.

You swallowed hard. Fingers tightening over your arms like they were holding your ribs together.

"This doesn’t change anything," you said.

He nodded slowly. "I know."

But it did. You both knew it.

Because for all the distance, for all the time, the pain, the silence—the second your eyes met, you felt it. That same, awful, impossible thing.

You still wanted him.

And he still looked at you like you were the only person who ever knew how to touch him without hurting.

It wasn’t love.

It was something worse. It was memory.

The ride into Romania was long, loud, and silent in all the worst ways.

The blades beat a steady rhythm against the night sky, slicing through clouds as the landscape below dissolved into shadow.

You sat across from him on the side bench, both of you facing inward, knees angled close, but never touching. The blades roared above as the helicopter cut through the clouds, the green glow of the instrument panel washing your boots in ghost-light.

You didn’t look at him. But you could feel it. Every flicker of his gaze, every stolen glance. Like gravity pulling him toward something he had long buried.

When the helicopter finally began its descent, the mountains looked like teeth—jagged, looming, half-lost in cloud. The safehouse wasn’t much. A stone structure tucked into a hillside, half-swallowed by fog and overgrowth.

The wind howled around it as the blades slowed to a halt, leaving you both alone with nothing but damp air and unfinished sentences. You slung your bag over your shoulder, boots crunching over gravel as you followed him up the narrow path.

There was no conversation. Just the weight of your history trailing behind you like a second shadow.

Inside, the safehouse smelled like dust and rain. There were two rooms. A generator humming low. A fireplace that hadn’t been used in years.

The air held the chill of old grief, you dropped your gear on the floor, peeled off your damp jacket, and stood there, cold, wet and exhausted. He did the same, his movements slow, careful, like even the air between you might break if he moved too fast.

The silence thickened. Unbearable.

You turned toward him, voice sharp. “You never came back.”

He looked up from his bag. Stilled. “What?”

You stared at him, every nerve in your chest pulled tight. “After the fight. After you walked out. You never came back. Not even once.”

He blinked. “You told me not to.”

“No, I didn’t,” you said, voice rising. “I begged you to stay. I begged you not to walk away, and you still left.”

His jaw flexed. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snapped. “You did anyway.”

He stepped toward you then, chest heaving, anger flickering beneath the surface. “What did you want me to do? Keep pretending we were okay? Just keep fucking you like that was enough?”

You flinched. “Don’t you dare—”

“I didn’t know how to make it better!” he shouted. “I loved you, god, I loved you, but I didn’t know how to reach you. And every time I touched you, I told myself we were okay, that I could keep us from falling apart. But it was fucking killing me.”

You swallowed against the ache rising in your throat. “So you let go.”

He nodded slowly, breathing hard. “Yeah. I let go.”

“And you didn’t look back.”

He stepped closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Act like you didn’t leave too. You shut me out. You stopped talking. You disappeared before I even walked out that door.”

Your eyes burned. “Because I was grieving, because everyone I—I loved was gone.”

“And I was still standing there,” he said, voice breaking. “I was right there, and you wouldn’t even look at me.”

Something in you cracked.

You pushed him, open palm against his chest. Hard.

He didn’t move. Didn’t stumble. Just looked at you with something hollow in his eyes, like he was still standing in the ruins of everything you used to be.

“I waited,” you whispered. “I waited for you to come back.”

He stepped into you then, hands bracing against the wall behind you, caging you in. The air shifted, heat sparking between you like a live wire.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said, low and rough.

Your breath hitched.

You stared at him, eyes wet, fists clenched. “Then why didn’t you try?”

His voice was hoarse. “Because I thought I already lost you.”

You shook your head. “No James, you gave up on me.”

“I never gave up on you,” he said. “I gave up on the idea that I was good for you.”

The words scraped across your chest.

“I didn’t want perfect,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

The distance between you snapped.

His hands found your face, your jaw, your waist, pulling you in like a man dying of thirst. The kiss came sharp, searing, desperate. All tongue and teeth and ragged breath.

You clawed at his shirt, fisting the fabric, grounding yourself in the heat of him. He pressed you back against the wall, hard enough to shake loose the memories.

His mouth dropped to your neck, your collarbone, biting at the soft skin like he was angry at it. You gasped, arching against him, fingers dragging down his spine.

“Tell me you don’t miss this,” he growled against your throat.

“I hate you,” you gasped.

“Not what I asked.”

He lifted you with ease, walked you backwards to the bed, lips never leaving your skin. He dropped you down, followed you with a weight that felt like coming undone. The rain outside slammed against the windows. The bed creaked beneath the weight of everything you hadn’t said.

Clothes peeled off, slow and frantic at once. He kissed every inch of your skin, reverent and bruising. You clawed at his back, moaned his name like a plea, like a prayer.

When he slid inside you, it stole the air from your lungs.

He moved slowly at first, deep, deliberate thrusts that made your toes curl, your body arch. You clung to him, nails biting into his shoulder blades. He buried his face in your neck.

“You feel the same,” he rasped. “Fuck—you feel exactly the same.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Please, don’t stop.”

His rhythm quickened, rougher, harder. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by broken sobs and gasping breath.

“I should’ve fought for you,” he said. “I should’ve fucking fought.”

You kissed him, fierce and shattering. “Then fight now.”

He groaned into your mouth. “I love you.”

“Then stay.”

You came with a cry, your whole body seizing around him. He followed with a broken moan, hips stuttering, breath catching as he spilled inside you.

You stayed like that for a long time, chests pressed together, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the dark.

And in that quiet, brutal silence, something shifted.

Not healed. Not yet.

But something close to hope.

You lay still for a long time after, his hand tangled in your hair, your breath catching on every exhale like your body didn’t quite believe what it had just done. Bucky shifted beside you, his arm tight around your waist, grounding you.

“You meant it?” you asked softly. “When you said you love me?”

He turned his face toward yours. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no flicker of doubt. “I never stopped,” he said. “I want you to know that.”

You closed your eyes. Let the words settle. Let the silence stretch.

Then—his voice again. Quieter now. Rough around the edges, like the words scraped on the way out.

“Can we try again?”

Your eyes opened.

He held your gaze, steady and unflinching.

“I know I left,” he continued. “And I know you shut me out too. We both did damage. But I still love you. And I want to stay this time. No matter how hard it gets, I’m not walking away. Not ever again.”

Your chest ached.

Because part of you still wanted to push him away, to brace for the inevitable.

But a bigger part, the part that remembered the sound of his laugh in the morning, the feel of his hands holding your broken pieces together—that part whispered:

Yes.

And for the first time in a long time, you almost believed it could be enough.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! your feedback is forever welcomed my loves!

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