#have a scaffold to build off of by now...

[d8tl55c]

d8, your works! they are many! is there a place i can traverse their timelines and AUs and subject matters more easily?

haha! well

[ateezlibrary]

pink slip (m) • smg

pairing: street racer!mingi x street racer!reader

tags/genre: street racing au (fast & furious-esque), smut with plot, lots of dirty talk, rivals to lovers, sexual tension, one bed trope but it's the passenger seat, mingi won't admit he's jealous, dom!mingi x dom!reader (this'll be fun)

word count: 6.8k words

synopsis: mingi says he's the best driver in the city; you'd strongly disagree. after weeks of post-race banter and spending a little too much time with another guy at the meet, mingi won't admit he's jealous—and you won't admit you like it ...

notes: 18+ content (mdni!). my best friend won't leave me alone until she gets her racer bf fantasy fulfilled, so here we are. enjoy!

it was near impossible to hear the sound of your thoughts.

the crowd surrounded the starting line like vultures, their cheering coupled with the bass thumping from speakers hooked up in neighboring car trunks. you smile to yourself in the driver’s seat of your nissan 370z, admiring the newly wrapped black cherry exterior. she idled with her usual hum, no bells or whistles that you needed to rev your engine for. after all, it’s not like you needed to compensate for something the way some men did.

mingi’s ’98 gt-r skyline, on the other hand, resounds off of the garage pillars with a deep-throated growl. everything about his car screamed loud—the throttle, the strikingly red paint, the spoiler. it was a bit much for your taste, but you knew he needed a car that matched him perfectly. he revs his engine once, taunting you to play into his game. with a roll of your eyes, you wrap perfectly manicured hands around the wheel, the hum feeding into the adrenaline pulsing under your skin.

the race is about to start just as it always does—everyone clamoring in the crowd over who they’ll place bets on, flag girls unfastening their bras for the starting line. your phone vibrates against the center console and you glance down, scoffing to yourself at the routine message you expected before every race against mingi.

[from: skyline] try to keep up this time.

now bitter at the mention of your narrow loss during your last race, you glance over at mingi and his broad, cocky grin. focusing on the exit of the parking garage that leads into the abandoned industrial complex, the noise grows quiet as you zero in on the flag girl that steps into the center. she’s perky, a dangerously bleached blonde with the tiniest miniskirt and crop top that leaves little room for imagination.

i’ll have to ask her where she got that skirt, is all you think to yourself as she lifts her hand in the air, lilac bra above her head at the ready. 

“ready!” she calls, the crowd cheering in response as if they were the ones about to take off.

“set!”

your grip tightens on the gear shift, foot tapping at the pedal as you keep the clutch disengaged. mingi’s engine roars beside you, eyes narrowed slits as he locks in.

“go!” she declares, lilac bra now left in the dust as you both launch out of the garage. the sound of the crowd grows distant behind you, now replaced with the scream of your engine and tires hitting asphalt. the course isn’t unfamiliar to you, a regular favorite when you and mingi would race.

like clockwork, you shift into second gear in one clean motion. the wind howls around you as the speed’s sheer force presses you into the seat’s leather. mingi hangs tight on your left, his car perfectly parallel to yours as you drive deeper into the complex of abandoned buildings. you can hear his gloating in your head, the way he tried so hard every meet to get under your skin and undermine your driving skills. it only fuels your rage—and your engine—as you pull past him, flames roaring from your exhausts as you trigger the nitro.

mingi does the same, and the shit-eating grin that graces your face reminds you that he’s probably cursing himself for not doing it sooner. the race continues around the complex in a roaring dance, waving and weaning through a mess of scaffolding and crumbling warehouses when you’re faced with one last turn to return to the garage.

he’s just milliseconds short of braking after you, throwing him a few feet wide as you barrel into the garage. your tires screech and echo throughout the floors, silencing as you slow to a stop and mingi pulls in just about half a car’s length after you. pulling your hair out of your face, your chest heaves as you fight to steady your breath. you don’t even take the time to look over at mingi, your eyes fixated at jongho as you await his confirmation.

biting down on his apple in hand, he chews through a final, “it’s hers.”

a contented sigh forces its way out of you, adrenaline pulsing against your veins as you pop through your sunroof with a resounding, “fuck yeah!”

the crowd hollers in response, your crew cheering from their section of the meet. you blow a kiss in their direction, graciously accepting the bottle of hennessy that yeosang runs over with to pour down your throat. the liquor warms your body, calming the nerves that had knotted your core before the race started. finally, you lock eyes with mingi.

he’s leaned against his skyline, clad in his crimson racing jacket that’s twin to his wrap. otherwise, his outfit is all black—much like your usual outfits of choice. to a stranger, you’d go together like it was nobody’s business. little would they know that there wasn’t a chance in hell you’d go for someone like mingi outside of a little friendly competition.

“what was that you said about getting used to losing to you after last weekend?” you call, cupping your ear in a mock attempt to hear him better. mingi scoffs, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head.

“getting lucky doesn’t count,” he answers, his own crew passing drinks around their section behind him as they tune into the banter.

“oh, i don’t think it’s ‘getting lucky’ when we’ve raced this complex … how many times now?” you pull yourself from the sunroof and step out so that you can meet mingi face-to-face.

he’s visibly annoyed, something that brings you a sense of accomplishment at the way you’re also able to get under his skin. yunho, his right-hand man, widens his eyes in anticipation for mingi’s response as he sips from his red solo cup.

“next time you want my attention, you don’t need to do all that,” he chides, making your blood boil. “just ask.”

“is this a really bad attempt at flirting or is this just how you cope with loss?” you ask, earning a chorus of ‘oohs’ from the forming crowd.

“could be both. multitasking’s one of my talents, you know.”

“apparently, driving isn’t.”

“damn!” wooyoung, another one of your crew members, calls out from the midst of the crowd and you fight against the smile that threatens to tug at your lips.

“careful, angel. keep talking to me like that and i might fall for you.”

“good luck. seems like you’ll need plenty of it before our next race.” with a coy wink, you wave goodbye to his crew and sift through the crowd so you can take your car back to your own.

you practically feel mingi’s eyes firing daggers into your back as you take off.

* * *

the next weekend follows the same pattern—the sun dips below the horizon, the garage lights come on, and the crowd begins to form. neon lights hover from the rafters, casting shades of blue and green over the modded cars that lined the center lanes in rows. there were no significant races expected for the night other than a handful of petty bets, meaning drivers were planning to spend the time dancing and drinking the night away.

not like they wouldn’t have done that, regardless.

the engine of your 370z hums as you pull into your usual spot, closest to the speakers and furthest from the entrance to the garage. most of your crew is already there, hoods propped up and liquor flowing as they pass tools with one hand and solo cups with the other. the air is warm when you step out, quietly admiring the outfit you’d chosen for the night—worn denim miniskirt (thank you, flag girl for the store recommendation), black crop top and your favorite leather jacket that matched your knee-high boots perfectly.

“supra’s looking nice, yeosang,” you call out, earning a wave from him with a wrench in hand as he hovers over the front of his car. “you’re gonna need to show me what you’ve done with the diff mounts.”

“for sure!”

“there’s our drift princess,” wooyoung cheers, handing you the bottle of hennessy. “or should i say, drift angel?” you toss him a dirty glance before throwing your head back and having a shot.

“call me that again and i’m walking off with your ecu. let’s see you try to race on foot.”

“pardon me!” he croaks, pretending to be hurt as he takes a sip of his own drink. “in all seriousness, i haven’t seen mingi tonight. his crew’s here, though.”

“probably nursing his hurt ego after losing last week,” you guess, the smile on your face triumphing over any real concern you might have had.

as if on cue, the roar of his skyline cuts through the music, wheels slowing to a stop as he pulls into his spot with his own crew across the lanes from you. he lifts himself out with a long stretch, one that makes him look a bit like a cat. his hair falls in his face in loose black waves and he’s wearing a black muscle shirt that keeps his arms on full display. you look for a second too long, something you notice as you tear your gaze away from him and back to yeosang’s description of the ignition coils he’d been installing.

the night carries on and you spend some time saying hello to other crews and to get updates on their latest mods. they’re all happy to see you, congratulating you on your win from the weekend prior. you feign modesty, hiding your gaze with a laugh. mingi keeps his eyes on you the entire night, even as he spends time doing the same.

now that’s something you didn’t notice.

suddenly, another engine’s roar cuts through the playlist and the music lowers as an unrecognizable car pulls in. the driver pulls to a stop just shy of your crew and your pores raise as you turn, now on high alert. everyone’s attention is captured by the newcomer, the chrome silver mazda rx7 a beautiful addition to the growing collection at the meet. you can feel eyes on you as you approach the stranger, about to confront them when wooyoung bolts out excitedly.

“seonghwa!” he cries out, fastening the latch on the hood of his own car before running over. the door opens, and a gasp slips past your lips unexpectedly. the driver—or seonghwa, you assumed was his name—was undeniably beautiful. his eyes meet yours behind a wispy curtain of black bangs, his gaze still piercing as he offers his hand to you.

“this is seonghwa,” wooyoung repeats. “he just moved to the city. he’s been into racing as long as i’ve known him.”

“a newcomer,” you reply, eyes never leaving seonghwa’s as you offer him your name. he repeats it, the sound of his voice like melting honey as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

“pleasure’s all mine,” he drawls, leaning against the side of your car. “wooyoung’s talked about you nonstop. told me you’re a real beast on the streets.”

“i get around,” you shrug, though the smile on your face almost hurts. “wanna see what i’m working with?”

“love to,” he answers, his smile twin to yours as he follows you to your 370z. the pair of you observe what’s under the hood, commenting on the nice work yeosang had done to help you tighten your turbo clamps. seonghwa hums in approval and props his hand on the edge of the fender, just shy of yours. not quite touching, but close enough for you to notice.

“yeah, she’s got a real nice turbo set up,” a voice interjects, and you grit your teeth as you whip your head towards mingi. he stands on the other side of the hood, arms crossed with a lazy smirk etched across his face. “shame it’s doing more for her ego than her torque curve.”

“funny,” you quip, turning fully to face him with a scowl. “didn’t sound like there was much of an issue with it when i smoked you last weekend.”

seonghwa laughs and your chest swells with pride. you can see the way that dogging on mingi in front of a newcomer hit a nerve. he sucks his teeth, his gaze darkening in the way that he glares back at you.

“like i said, lucky,” he bites back dryly. “let me know if you can do it again with this build when i’m done with my mods.”

“sounds like i’ll be okay,” you retort, stepping a little closer to seonghwa just to pry at mingi’s fragile ego even further. his jaw tenses, and you swallow.

“you know,” seonghwa interjects, glancing back at your engine bay with a smile, “she’s got a pretty clean set up.”

“figure anything’ll look clean compared to a factory rx7,” mingi replies dryly, and seonghwa raises an eyebrow.

“factory?”

“mingi,” you scold, setting aside your petty banter for one moment. seonghwa was a newcomer to the meet, which meant he was deserving of a fair shot at earning everyone’s respect without being subjected to ridicule by mingi. “don’t be an ass.”

“you heard me,” mingi answers, completely ignoring you in the process.

“well, which one’s yours?” seonghwa asks, folding an arm over his chest and tapping a finger against his chin. “no, wait—let me guess.” he pretends to scan around the garage, his gaze falling on mingi’s crimson skyline across the lane. “the skyline?” mingi nods. “i like the red. easy to spot in my rearview.” you can’t help but laugh at seonghwa’s insult and mingi huffs, the tension between the two men beginning to earn a circling crowd. 

“let’s test it, then,” seonghwa answers coolly, lifting himself from your fender and strolling to his own car just beside yours. he calls over his shoulder at mingi, “race me?”

for the next ten minutes, the tension crackles in the air as the two men line their cars up at the garage exit. seonghwa looks calm, collected in comparison to the rage that practically radiates off of mingi. you shake your head from your spot beside yeosang, taking another sip of your drink. you’d never seen someone beat mingi, save for yourself. you had to hand it to seonghwa—he had some nerve going up against one of the best drivers at the meet as a newbie.

“ready, set, go!” in a split second, a blue bra goes flying as the two men take off.

you knew mingi’s car like the back of your hand—he’d shown you himself the kinds of upgrades he’d made to his engine and it was a force to be reckoned with. on the other hand, you’d never seen seonghwa’s build and couldn’t imagine what was under the hood. they follow the traditional route for races throughout the complex, complete with the twists and turns that few cars had cut through in a time shorter than yours.

the garage is spared of any engine sounds for some time, music thumping when a flash of chrome reenters. you gasp at mingi pulling his skyline a split second behind seonghwa, his face like stone as the crowd surrounds them. if he were upset, he didn’t show it the moment he stepped out of his car and gave seonghwa a pat on the back.

“decent run,” is all he says, reclaiming his drink from yunho with a smile as he heads back to the corner of the garage with his crew. everyone seems dumbfounded for a moment by his reaction, a completely different response from when he’d lost races to you in the past. nonetheless, they all continue the party in full swing. seonghwa pulls his car back into the spot beside you, receiving a shot of tequila down the throat from wooyoung as his prize.

“impressive,” you call over to seonghwa, sat on the hood of your car with a bottle in hand. he grins, leaning over your hood so that he could get closer to you. “might need to take you up for a challenge sometime soon if you’re planning to stick around.”

“i’d like that,” is all he says, his eyes shifting slightly from your eyes to your lips. you feel your cheeks flush in response, glancing out the side of your vision at the way mingi had his eyes locked on you. in an effort to egg him on further, you giggle at seonghwa, leaning closer so that you were just a breath away.

“you’ll have to show me what’s under the hood,” you nearly whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.

mingi continues to glare from his corner, fighting against the rage that nips at his core. his drink is untouched, still in hand as his gazes remains fixated on you. the way you were in that little outfit tonight, his plans to tease you about your last race upended by an obnoxiously skilled newcomer. yunho senses the displeasure and leans against his shoulder.

“you good, bro?”

“huh? yeah,” is all mingi says, his eyes never leaving you. “all good.”

* * *

the next night, you opted to spend some time at yeosang’s garage to work on your suspension since he was out of town visiting his grandmother. his garage was peaceful, near an open stretch of land just outside of the city that you and the rest of the crew would do practice runs on. you admired the stars through the open bay doors as you worked under the headlights, a welcome break from the glaring leds.

the sound of an engine roaring outside throws you off, causing you to drop the wrench you were using to tighten another coil. cursing mentally, you put aside your tools and peer out of the opening to see who’d pulled up.

“yeosang!” a voice calls out, and you freeze.

what is he doing here?

“oh, it’s you,” mingi realizes, standing awkwardly in the doorframe with work gloves in hand.

“well, i’m not gonna bite,” you chide, pulling off your own gloves and moving over to him. “yeosang’s visiting his grandmother tonight. what’s up?”

“need him to take a look at my valve springs. he’s usually more light-handed than i am with them.”

“sure you don’t want my help?” you offer, already heading to his car before he can protest. “it’s not like i’m one of the best racers in our group or anything.”

“yeah, yeah,” is all he says, popping his hood for you to inspect. taking a closer look at his cylinder head, you almost immediately identify the issue with his valve springs.

“they’re fatigued,” you point out, noticing the wear-and-tear in his springs. “i’m guessing you might have put too much pressure on ‘em during the race yesterday. might want to replace them with tighter ones if you’re planning on getting angry and speed racing someone every time they insult old skyline over here.”

“what are you working on?” mingi asks, shifting his attention to your car instead. you scoff in disbelief at the way he shrugged off the way his ego crumbled the night before.

“trying to install larger injectors. need to sync it better to the new system.” you glance down at mingi’s engine, biting at your lip for a moment. “can i actually take a look at yours?”

slowly, mingi nods, as if he’s glad to take the attention off of his sore losses. he points out how he and yeosang worked on optimizing his fuel trims, the way that it was able to run his car more smoothly in turbo. that was an issue you’d run into before—it was difficult to keep your car consistently within a certain speed range when your fuel was less sustainable than in a car like mingi’s. he glances over at you, watching as you take in all of his information.

“matter of fact …” he trails off, glancing out at the dark expanse of open roads under the starry skies, “why don’t you test it out yourself? easier to feel it than me explaining it.”

“really?” you ask, a jolt of excitement at the idea of getting to handle a car as hefty as mingi’s. he almost smiles—really smiles—at the way you perk up at the offer.

“c’mon.”

settled in the driver’s seat, you suddenly feel a bit more nervous at the idea. mingi senses this, pulling your hand in his and over the gear shift. his hand is warm over yours, eyes focused on his odometer as you rev the engine. his voice is low, steady as he guides you into how to shift the gear so that you’d feel what he’d been talking about. your mind is muddled at his instructions, surprisingly distracted by the feeling of his skin on yours as you fixate on the readings in front of you.

“got it?”

“yeah,” you lie, shifting your focus to the drive ahead of you. like clockwork, you fall into the steady rhythm of shifting gears and listening to the differences in downshifting compared to your car. following the roads to the nearby lookout, you opt to test out how the shifts work on a curvier, steeper route.

mingi observes you in silence, the way that you confidently handle his car like it was nobody’s business. the wind whips your hair away from your face as you bite down on your bottom lip in focus. there’s something magnetic about it, the way you almost tame the beast that his car is. he was no stranger to loving the way handling his car felt, but seeing you do the same with such ease did something to him. his chest tightens for a moment as you round the corner, sparing a glance in his direction with a satisfied grin.

you bring his car to a stop at the edge of the lookout, city lights blurring into a myriad of twinkling stars down below in the valley. it was usually empty around this time of night and was a place you loved to come up to on your own. you lean back against the driver’s seat with a deep sigh before stepping out into the cool night air.

“she rides like a dream,” you comment, earning a raised eyebrow from mingi as he follows you to the front of the car.

“was that a compliment?” he asks, finding a seat on the hood.

“i’m complimenting the car, not the driver.” boldly, you take a seat beside him and continue to look out at the city.

“still can’t admit you like me,” mingi drawls, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head. he glances over at you, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes that you weren’t about to back down from. “it’s okay, angel.”

“i like watching you try hard to impress me,” you hum, trying to ignore the way that his hand over yours felt just moments prior. heat radiates off of the hood, a welcome warm embrace from the cold night. mingi rolls his eyes, turning his head to you.

“didn’t realize i was trying.”

your thigh grazes against his as you sit up, ignoring the way it sent a shiver down your spine. of all the weekends you’d spent at car meets together, bickering and going at each other’s throats, you’d never stopped to weigh the realities of what your connection to mingi was. you both were hotheaded, both cocky and full of yourselves.

“mmm, you were. trying so hard to race me all the time. the staring.” mingi’s eyes widen ever so slightly and you chuckle.

“i don’t stare.”

“you definitely do.” you lean closer, dying to push his buttons yet again. “if i didn’t know better, i’d say you were jealous of seonghwa yesterday.”

“of what?” mingi scoffs, his gaze shifting as you watch the thoughts race through his brain. “his rx7? he can keep it.”

“so, it didn’t bother you the way he was with me for the entire night?” you ask, finding newfound ammo in the way that you were able to make mingi jealous. whether it was because of some sort of feelings for you or sheer pride yet again, you didn’t know. you didn’t care.

“not when you’re on the hood of my car tonight, angel.”

“sure,” you scold, rolling your eyes and landing on the compression shirt that hugged mingi’s torso near perfectly. you look back up at him and notice the way his eyes had grown darker.

“what’s that look for?” you ask, smug. “you starting to sweat, mingi?”

“doesn’t faze me.”

“i suppose,” you murmur, eyes dragging over his face and lingering just a second too long on his lips. “but it gets under your skin.”

his jaw tightens. “very funny. keep testing me.”

“is that a threat?” you ask, unflinching as you hold his gaze. mingi exhales slowly, frustration evident on his face.

“you act like you’re so untouchable.”

“well, no one has,” you say, finally looking back out at the city as you brush your hand against his side in a movement that could either be a warning or an invitation.

“you just want someone to chase you.”

you arch an eyebrow, heat radiating from more than just the car at this point. your stomach tightens at the thought of mingi growing more frustrated, his muscles tensing beside you. it was a dangerous line to cross, one that you hadn’t even given much thought to beyond shattering his ego. “isn’t that what you’re doing?”

he sits up, his lips brushing against your ear. this is the closest he’s ever been to you, skin on skin aside from working on cars together (and the one time he’d held your jaw slack while wooyoung poured more tequila down your throat than you could recall). your heart pounds against your chest, almost like it’s threatening to escape. his body is warm beside yours as he leans in to you with a humorless laugh.

“chasing you?” he scoffs.

your smile doesn’t falter, fire still thrumming against your veins. “maybe you’re just worse than you think at hiding how much you want me.”

his laugh is low and sharp now, more breath than sound. you feel it more than you hear it as he lowers his gaze at you. “you just love running your mouth, huh?”

“you gonna do something about it?”

there’s a pause, your question hanging in the air as it pierces the tension you both have been dancing around for weeks.

hunger flickers across his face and his hand snakes around your waist, the other coming up to wrap firm fingers around your throat. it almost as if he wants to convince you he’s in control. he pulls you back against him, your spine arching slightly as his chest presses flush against you with ragged, uneven breaths.

“you think you can handle it?”

“i’m not scared of you.” you laugh, but you can feel how hard he’s breathing against his restraint. “just trying to see if you’re all talk or not.”

“get in the car, then.” his grip tightens and for a split second you feel him hard against your hip. the sensation makes you swallow as you feel his lips brush against your ear again.

“say please.”

mingi’s hand finally drops from your throat, only to grab your wrist as he hauls you off of the car after him. before you can catch your breath, he opens the passenger door and pulls you onto him as he settles into the seat in one swift motion. your knees dig into the cracked leather on either side of him, now with your hands on his neck. his palms instinctively settle on your thighs, forcibly pulling your weight against his. the friction lures a breathy moan out of you and a dark chuckle out of mingi. he shifts slightly, grinding his hips up into you hard enough to make you gasp. he smirks at the feeling of your nails pressing into the back of his neck.

“had plenty to say on the hood,” he snarls, lips barely grazing yours as he speaks. “i thought you—”

he’s cut off as you rock your hips against him, hands snaking to grab and pull his hair so that he’s forced to tilt his head back. the sound that he lets out is pathetic, something that sounds more like a whine than a groan. you scoff and press further into him, his cock hard against his jeans. his chest heaves as his hand leaves your thigh, reaching for the back of your head so that he could pull you close and capture your lips in a heated, messy kiss.

his lips are soft against yours but he is anything but. his tongue slips into your mouth, hands tangled in your hair as he presses against you. the friction becomes almost unbearable as he pulls away, catching your bottom lip in his teeth.

mingi laughs under his breath as you pull away from him, eyelids heavy from lust as you fight to meet his gaze. “out of breath already?”

“you’re the one making all those needy little sounds,” you coo, gasping at the feeling of his fingertips creeping up your thigh in slow, deliberate strokes. he gets dangerously close to your core, prying at the hem of your shorts so he could feel you through your panties. his fingers draw painfully slow circles around your clit, forcing you to jerk your hips against him.

“right,” he scoffs, relishing in the way you grind against the smallest of touches. “me.” mingi uses his other hand to pull you closer, his lips meeting your ears again in a desperate groan. “let me hear how good it feels, baby girl.”

finally, you comply after restraining yourself beyond the friction you allowed yourself. you let out a whine as his fingers brush against the hem of your panties, dancing between skin and fabric as mingi raises an eyebrow. he knows he’s getting a reaction out of you. even worse, he’s enjoying the fact that he’s the one causing it. you bite down on your lip, fighting off another moan as you glance down at him.

“finger me,” you coax in what’s more like an order, savoring how his pupils blow wide as you play into how filthy he’s acting. his lips part slightly, his breathing still ragged as he grabs your underwear in a fist and tears the fabric apart. you’re almost ashamed at how much it turned you on—almost. he retreats and extends his hand upwards, watching as you latch onto his fingers and glide your tongue along them obediently. groaning at the sound they make as they leave your mouth, he slips them into your folds without hesitation. 

your body trembles at the feeling of mingi’s fingers sliding in and out of you, pumping and curling at the right spot every single time. his thumb presses against your clit and your eyes nearly roll back, head hanging at the sensation as he lets out a breathy laugh.

“fuck, you look so good riding my fingers like that,” he groans, moving against the rhythm of your hips that began to buck against his hand. your mind is clouded from the pleasure, the car window growing foggier from where your hand was pressed to keep you steady. “such a good girl.”

mingi continues his pace, hitting the right spot over and over again so that he can earn another moan from you. you can barely form coherent thoughts, your body moving on instinct. he shifts slightly, free hand cradling the back of your neck as he says, “think you can take more?”

you scoff at his bravado, slightly—but not visibly—disappointed at the removal of his fingers. you grab his wrist, bringing his fingers back to your mouth and tasting every last drop of yourself. his eyes are hooded with desire, tongue darting at the corner of his bottom lip as he watches you.

as you finish, mingi lifts you off of him and steps back out of the car. you glance over at him, not skipping a beat as he gets onto his knees, denim on asphalt as he pulls your shorts off. he leans in to draw circles around your clit with his tongue, humming contently as he laps up how wet you’re getting under his touch. you pull your thighs together, his head flush against skin as he slips his tongue in deeper.

“fuck, mingi,” you call out breathlessly, grabbing at his hair with desperate hands as he lets out a low chuckle against you. the vibration causes you to arch your back in response, in need of more of his touch than his fingers or tongue. he gets the hint, pulling away and brushing his tongue across his lip with a slick grin.

“you want me to fuck you?” he asks, lifting himself off of the ground so that he hovered over you once more. you meet his gaze, eyebrows furrowed stubbornly.

“i’m not going to say it.”

he reaches for you again, pressing rough circles against your clit as you writhe under his touch.

“say it.”

“i—i won’t—fuck!” he’s got three fingers slipping in and out of you at this point, eyes wild as he looks down at you expectantly. trembling against the seat, you gasp down air in shaky breaths as you finally cave in. “okay!”

mingi pulls out again, hands now reaching to unfasten his jeans as he slips his belt out of the loops. he looks down at you for a moment, his own chest heaving as he steadies his breathing. before you can get another word in, he’s had you turned over onto your stomach and your hands outstretched towards the driver’s seat. his weight presses firmly against your back, his arms surpassing yours as he fastens his belt around your wrists and the gear shift. he pulls on it as tightly as comfortably possible, your hands unable to shift from their position.

“seriously?” you ask, face down and ass up on display for him as he slides off of you. he frees himself from his boxers and you almost pity the fact that you’re faced away from him and unable to see what he looks like. you just know he’s big.

brushing the tip of his cock against your entrance, you can hear the strain in mingi’s voice as he calls out to you.

“hold on, baby girl.”

before you can reply, he’s shoved himself into you in one swift motion. you were right, he’s big—even so far as to say too big. he doesn’t ease himself in, going at a rough, steady pace without question. your nails dig into the leather of the gear shift, filthy moans and gasps slipping past your lips at the way he’s pounding into you. you can barely hear anything over the sound of your own pleasure until mingi lets out a string of deep-throated groans, telling you how good you feel on his cock and how badly he wants to keep fucking you.

he grips the roof of the car with a frustrated groan, his other hand on your hip as he steadies you to drive deeper into you. the car rocks with every thrust, creaking under the weight of mingi’s force as he can barely keep himself upright. your mind flickers briefly to your previous banter with him, the tension that grew and grew until it combusted with you getting fucked stupid in the passenger seat of his car. you don’t even consider if someone is watching, and frankly, you don’t care at this point.

“god, i’m gonna cum,” you cry out, legs shaking as you feel his hand press against your stomach. you feel every inch of him thrusting in and out of you, the sound of his moans mingling with yours and clouding every rational thought in your mind.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his own pace starting to stagger. “cum all over me.”

mere second later, you feel the weight of the impending climax fall apart as you cry out, twitching and trembling from the way mingi thrusts even harder to urge you to ride out your high. your legs shake under his weight, weak from hypersensitivity as mingi continues to fuck you.

“i’m not done,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk on his face as he says it. his pace returns, harder and deeper than before. you’re overly shaken at this point, moaning every time his hips meet yours and your clit feels friction. he wraps his arm tightly around your waist, unleashing a final stretch of deep thrusts until his own orgasm finally approaches and a low, guttural moan slips past his lips. he’s dripping by the time he pulls out of you, settling himself and hurrying to his side of the car to unbind your wrists.

“thank you,” is all you mutter, reaching for your discarded shorts on the asphalt and ignoring the feeling of them against bare skin as you remember that mingi tore apart your panties.

the two of you sit in silence for a moment after getting dressed and settling, looking out at the city lights and the peaceful night that was a stark contrast from the kind of night you just had. mingi glances over, same as ever with his cocky grin and his hands lifted behind his head.

“hope you can come up with a few more compliments now than just my car’s mods,” he teases and you roll your eyes as you’ve finally come down from your high.

“we’ll see.”

[csolarstorm]

A Happy Ghast? Well Now I've Seen Everything.

For as long as I can remember, people have been asking for a rideable dragon to hatch from the Ender Dragon egg. But a good creator never does what the audience expects, because the audience's expectations are mostly informed by the past, and the creator must plan for the future.

So instead of a dragon, here's a rideable ghast. You know, like those mods that add "happy" versions of hostile mobs? It's like that. And instead of hatching a dragon egg, you have to soak a very thirsty hell squid. Enjoy!

It might seem like a random, quirky feature to some people, but I think the Happy Ghast is the first feature in a while to truly add to the game's progression. We've had new weapons, armor, and ore, but for the first time in a while, this is a new kind of asset that will help us navigate and build. The Happy Ghast will be on the same level as the Elytra as a late game feature everyone will want to have.

And arguably, the Happy Ghast outdoes the Elytra:

First, there's a very involved process to get it: you have to find it in the most dangerous nether biome, then bring it to the overworld to soak in water for a while, and then you raise it like any other pet. Once it grows up, you craft a harness, and then you're set. It's a fun journey just to get it.

It serves as a pet rather than just an item, adding a personal angle to it. The Ghastling is adorable, and the Happy Ghast is a novelty that just...makes veteran Minecraft players happy. You get your own Ghast. That's worth it even before you can fly on it.

The riding looks a lot more precise and smooth than the rapid thrill of the Elytra, and you can build while you're on it! That's arguably the best part - it's basically Creative Mode flying in survival. It's practically an accessibility feature, and it's a more liberating way to build tall structures in Survival Mode than putting up tons of scaffolding (or in my case, dirt that I'll remove later.)

Lastly, three other people can hitch a ride on your Happy Ghast. It's basically a flying minivan. Everyone will want a ride from the first person in the server to get a Happy Ghast. Your unsettling, pale cube of happy ectoplasm will be the envy of the server!

Who knows, maybe this game drop will actually come with an Elytra update to balance out the usefulness of our new friendly phantasm.

It's a really well designed feature, and I'm excited to try it out. I love it when Mojang really zeroes in on what aspects of the gameplay to update based on how we play the game. This is one of those new features that really shows off their creative team's strengths.

[demie90s]

paige x dancer reader, paige shows up for her comps ( like red bull freestyle battle type competitions) and is just being a huge simp and biggest supporter for reader and her hyping up reader goes viral

(Ion know shit bout dance but I watched honey and dance moms)

ᴘᴀɪɢᴇ ʙᴜᴇᴄᴋᴇʀꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

She Got That Dog In Her

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re known in the underground dance scene for tearing through freestyle battles like it’s personal. Paige is known for being one of the most composed players in college hoops. But when she shows up to your Red Bull-style comp and loses all chill—screaming, hyping you up, and jumping like a groupie—she ends up going viral right beside you.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, Humor, Real-Time Performance Chaos

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Crowd energy, public affection, lots of slang/hype

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.4k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: ‘You see that? That’s my girl’ energy, sports girlfriend turned hype beast, loud love in low-light rooms

The warehouse smelled like sweat, smoke, and something electric. Bass thumped through the floor in waves, rattling soda cans and old scaffolding. You rolled your shoulders out, jaw tight, headphones in, tuning everything out. Not because you were nervous—this was your thing—but because you knew who was in the crowd tonight.

Paige Bueckers. Hoodie low, curls tied up, pressed up against the barricade like a fangirl who swore she wasn’t gonna make a scene.

Yeah, okay.

You’d told her not to come. Not because you didn’t want her there, but because she doesn’t know how to act when it comes to you. You knew the second the beat dropped, she’d forget all about staying lowkey.

And she did.

The moment your name got called, the crowd screamed—but Paige? Paige was the loudest. “LET’S GO, BABY!” she yelled, voice cutting over the music. “YOU BEEN THAT. SHOW ’EM.”

The girl next to her turned, wide-eyed. “Isn’t that…”

“Mhm,” someone else said. “That’s Bueckers. And that’s her girl.”

You stepped into the cypher with your shoulders loose, body already catching the rhythm. The DJ dropped the beat—heavy, aggressive, drums hitting like punches. You locked in, footwork slick, arms sharp, each move calculated and wild at the same time. The crowd fed off it.

Paige? Paige looked possessed.

Phone out. Hoodie off. Screaming over every hit. “OH MY GOD,” she barked when you did a flip spin off the floor. “NAH, YOU NASTY FOR THAT.”

You cracked a smile mid-combo.

The DJ switched the track, and your opponent tried to match your energy, but it wasn’t close. You were cleaner, faster, more in control. Paige knew it too—she was already waving the imaginary white flag from the sideline, shouting, “Y’ALL BETTER JUST HAND HER THE CROWN NOW. WE AIN’T GOT TIME FOR THIS.”

By the time the final round came, she’d lost all composure. She was standing on the edge of the floor, barking like she was your damn hype man. “YUP—SHE ATE YOU UP. STAY DOWN.”

Her voice cracked from yelling. She didn’t care.

The final move? A spin into a low freeze, held just long enough to burn. You rose with a smirk, the crowd losing it around you.

And Paige?

She jumped the barricade.

Not far. Just enough to reach you the second you walked off the floor, hands on your face, kissing your cheek like you just dropped 40 in the Final Four. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen,” she breathed. “You bodied her. I’m talking buried her.”

You were sweaty, grinning, still breathing hard. “You were supposed to chill.”

“I tried,” she said, beaming. “You’re too good. I blacked out.”

What you didn’t know until later was the video. Someone caught the whole thing—Paige screaming, gripping the barricade like her life depended on it, yelling “THAT’S MY BABY” while you danced like you were on fire.

It went viral before you even got out of the building.

Comments rolled in:

“Paige Bueckers got no chill when it comes to her girl and I LOVE THAT FOR HER.”

“Imagine dancing like that and having Paige lose her mind front row. Goals.”

“They’re a power couple and I’m sick.”

“She don’t even act like that on the court 😭😭😭”

You saw it all later, sitting on the hood of her car, legs over hers, eating drive-thru fries. She held the phone up, laughing.

“Okay…I might’ve gone a little overboard.”

You leaned into her shoulder. “Nah. I like you loud.”

She kissed your temple. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t ever gonna be quiet about you.”

[sweetimpurity]

❀ൄ day 29 my loves!!! we're almost to the end wahhhh wc: 1022 cw: monsterfuck, Venom 2099!! rough and messy and dirty 𑈴 ❀ ͙𑱢

“You can’t hide forever… little spider…” His slobbering voice growls. Having a leech of a symbiote like venom isn’t all bad. Taking host in your boyfriend’s body and at this point you’ve had to form a relationship with the alien as well. After all, he’s become quite fond of you. And you of him. 

Whispering filthy words in Miguel’s head whenever you walk by. How much he envies him, wants to fuck you and fill you up. How he’d love to plug you full of his dick. Even encouraging Miguel to go harder and deeper, on the off chance he lets your boyfriend go solo. Just watching you get fucked from the inside of Miguel’s psyche. 

But tonight he’s out, wanting you to himself. Blue and red and a slobbering mess. Massive muscles bulging, veins crawling up his arms, hard sharp eyes tracking your movement. Making his way around the city after you, chasing you like a little mouse. Until the abandoned building by the docks, stalking and crawling around abandoned construction equipment and the half built structure. 

You look around, you can sense him, feel him like sweat on your back. A thrilling chill and a pulse in your chest, pumping and making you feel warm. The thrill of being hunted. Knowing you’re bound to be pinned and pounded by the end of it. It ignites something in you, something dangerous. 

Venom stalks onto the open roof, climbing his way up and catching the flash of colors swinging by. Your suit. He growls, getting down on all fours and following your movements, hearing your pants as you swing through scaffolding that he just tears down. “There you are!” He slobbers, long tongue protruding out in a ghoulish smile. Grabbing onto your ankle as you’re trying to swing away. Standing at his tall height, even taller than Miguel is normally, and dragging you down, holding your squirming form in his hands as you struggle to get away. Not wanting the chase to be over but at the same time so desperate for what follows. 

“Such a pretty face…” He hisses, slobbering and his long tongue licks a sticky stripe up the side of your face. You wince, gasping, feeling his hulking form push you down on the roof. “Pretty neck…” He growls, licking down your cheek and to your throat, his many teeth giving you a rush of thrill, of fear, intoxicating, a claw coming to your suit and easily tearing down the front. Your bare chest confronted with the cold night air. Bounding free from the material and your nips perking from the chill. “Delicious…” He hisses. Licking down your chest now, slobbering and drooling all over your tits, swirling his tongue around your sensitive mounds, making you moan and flutter, dripping for him. Images mixing in your mind as your eyes close. Miguel, Venom, Miguel, Venom, Miguel…

Red glowing webs extend from Venom’s wrists, spreading over your chest and arms to keep you pinned to the cold rooftop. Biting your lip, your mind going hazy. Loving how he takes you. 

He licks down the rest of your torso, dipping the tip into your navel and making your knees draw up at the sensation. To which he spreads your legs wide with his clawed hands, dipping his face down between them.

“Mngh-ahhnhh!” You squeal and gasp, reeling from the feeling. His tongue running down your dripping pussy. Lapping at your clit and making you squirm. Wiggling around like a worm in the dirt. His smiling sets of teeth grinning at you before plunging his long tongue into your cunt. Filling you out and jutting deep. You scream. The sound echoing off the boats in the harbor and through the abandoned building you’re stationed on. 

“Oh fuck-!” You gasp, loving every moment of this. The feeling of him slobbering and drooling all over your cunt, fucking you deep with his tongue. Soon once you’ve come on him twice, he’s licking back up, slotting between your trembling thighs. A dripping mess on the metal. “Such a sweet girl… taste like… candy…” He grins hellishly, a terrifying display of teeth and the glow of Miguel’s suit in this form. He presses against you, his monster cock now free and pushing against your sex. 

Feeling the veins and girth against your core, needing it, wanting it. Drooling yourself now, after all he’s already done. He pulls back, easing into you, pushing his monstrously thick dick into you. Carefully so as not to hurt you. For all his monstrosity, he does care for you, treat you as one of his own. And he can feel Miguel reaching him in the subconscious, telling him not to hurt you. But he would never do that anyway. 

“Oh! Ah!” You gasp, relaxing yourself to accept him, stretched out even after he worked you out before. Got you ready. But nothing could ever get you truly ready to take him. Crying out as he pumps into you, fucking you into oblivion. 

Your eyes flutter back, your mind filling with images of Miguel. Your love. Desiring his touch, his caress. Almost feeling his hands on your breasts now, knowing the feeling of his hands, his grasp. Sensing his lips down your sternum and back up to your neck. Managing your arm out of one of the webs and tangling your fingers in his hair. Eyes flicking open and seeing your boyfriend’s hulking shoulders over you as you’re being pumped full. 

It is him. Both arms pull free and around him, feeling his warm skin, the comfort of his warmth. Feeling him bury his face into your neck, Venom retracting down his body and back inside, letting your boyfriend have his turn. The black veins running down his skin as he comes back into form, disappearing back inside his body except for a few tendrils that slither and swirl around your tits, rub around the juncture of Miguel’s cock in your pussy, stimulating your clit and bringing you closer. Squeezing Miguel’s back muscles as you finally come. Gushing on Miguel and Venom’s tendrils that long to keep you filled, keep you satisfied. 

Taglist!! love my sweeties!

@spooky-sculder

@slushycoookie @xxyaoi-nationxx @snails-doodles22 @scaryplanetdestroyer @fate13

@divorcepaperz @yeahnohoneybye @zaunsin @tomalymme @drefear

@mrs-pondwater19 @saintdiior @aphinthestars @hyjionie

@palomanh @maxad99 @muuuwoppppp @reader-1290

@sp0ck136 @lazyninjaphilosopher

@pinkdizzyship @opalwitchart

if you'd like to be added/dropped from the taglist, please comment on my masterlist post. Or else I might not see it! thank you! 🩷

[novaursa]

Fire and Blood (reader's choice)

- Summary: For as long as Maegor could remember, you were denied to him by others. By his own father, by his half-brother, by the gods themselves. They saddled him off with a barren bride and locked you away on Dragonstone. And once Aenys died and Maegor has returned from exile to take the crown, he also takes you, as was his right. But before the wedding could happen, you disappear. You never arrive at the capital with your royal procession. And Maegor tears the realm apart.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne

The air was heavy with the heat of the afternoon sun, and the sky above King's Landing was an expanse of pale blue. The waters of Blackwater Bay sparkled under the light, and the wind carried the scent of salt and stone, mingling with the hum of the city behind. The Red Keep loomed in the background, a skeletal structure still rising from the hill, its walls unfinished, its towers yet to scrape the heavens as Maegor intended. The clatter of hammers and the creak of scaffolding were distant echoes, reminders of the power he was building, brick by brick.

But today, all of that faded into insignificance. Maegor Targaryen stood with his mother, Visenya, the only one who had ever stood by him. His bannermen, royal retainers, and lords stood at a respectful distance, their whispers nothing but gnats in his ears as he stared out at the empty horizon. You were supposed to arrive today, your royal procession expected any moment, the ships that carried you from Dragonstone cutting across the bay.

You. His bride. His blood. His right.

His gloved hands tightened around the pommel of Blackfyre, the ancient sword of his house, as his mind drifted, despite himself, back to all the times you had been denied to him.

His father, King Aegon the Conqueror, had made the first refusal. Maegor had been young then, but old enough to know what he wanted. You were young too, of course, but even then, Maegor saw the fire in your eyes, the way the blood of Old Valyria ran through you. You were his match in every way. He had stood before his father, demanding you be betrothed to him.

"It is not your place to demand, Maegor," Aegon had said, his voice calm, but his eyes cold. "Your brother's daughter is not for you. Aenys' children will be wed to strengthen the realm, not to satisfy your desires."

It was the first time Maegor had felt the sting of denial, but it would not be the last.

His half-brother, Aenys, had been no better. When he became king after Aegon’s death, Maegor thought surely now, with the crown on his brother’s head, he could finally claim what was his. You had grown by then, blooming into a woman with the beauty and strength of their ancestors. Maegor had approached Aenys, who sat upon the Iron Throne, looking every inch the weak ruler he was.

"You will not have her," Aenys had said, shaking his head. "She is promised elsewhere."

"To whom?" Maegor had demanded, his voice laced with barely contained rage. "Who could be more worthy of her than I, her blood and kin?"

"A match will be made in time, but not to you, brother," Aenys had answered, his tone patronizing. "I have other plans for her."

Other plans. The words still tasted bitter on Maegor’s tongue, as though they had been spoken only yesterday.

He had begged. Yes, even he, Maegor the Cruel, had begged. But only to one person. His mother, Visenya. The warrior queen, the woman who had conquered Westeros by Aegon’s side. The only person who had ever truly understood him.

"I will not be denied her," he had told Visenya, pacing the halls of Dragonstone in frustration. "Father, Aenys, the gods themselves conspire against me. They will not give her to me."

Visenya, regal and fierce, had looked at him with those sharp, violet eyes of hers, the eyes of a dragon, and she had smiled—a cold, knowing smile. "They fear you, my son," she had said. "They fear the strength of your blood. Aenys and his ilk think they can control you by keeping her from you, but they are fools. They do not see what I see."

"And what do you see, Mother?" Maegor had asked, desperate for the answer he knew only she could give.

"I see the future of our house," she had answered, stepping close to him, resting a hand on his armored shoulder. "And I see you at its head, with her at your side. The dragons of Old Valyria will rise again, Maegor. And no one—no one—will deny you what is yours."

Her words had kept him sane through the years of exile, through his marriage to Ceryse Hightower, a woman who had proven barren, and a marriage that had been nothing but a chain around his neck. All the while, he had thought of you. You, locked away on Dragonstone, hidden from him by his enemies, the gods, the world. But now, none of that mattered. Aenys was dead, the throne was his, and soon, you would be too.

And yet... the ships did not come.

The sun was sinking lower, casting ghastly shadows over the unfinished Red Keep, over the city of King's Landing, over the assembled lords and banners. Maegor’s patience was wearing thin, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface like wildfire ready to consume all in its path.

"They are late," he growled, his voice low, but his anger clear. "Where are they?"

Visenya stood beside him, silent and still as ever. Her presence was the only thing that soothed him, that kept him from mounting Balerion and flying to Dragonstone himself. But even her patience had its limits, and he could see the tightness in her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. She felt the delay, the insult, as keenly as he did.

"They will come," she said, though there was a note of uncertainty in her voice that Maegor did not like.

And what if they did not? What if something had happened? What if your brother, Aegon, or even that fool Rhaena, had interfered, whisked you away before you could reach him? The thought sent a surge of fury through him, and he gripped Blackfyre tighter, his knuckles turning white beneath his gloves.

"No one will keep her from me," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Not this time."

Visenya turned to him, her sharp gaze cutting through his anger. "If they try," she said, her voice cold and final, "then we will burn them all."

Maegor’s heart beat with the promise of fire and blood. They had all denied him for so long. His father. His brother. The gods themselves. But he was king now, and no one could deny the King of the Iron Throne.

You would be his, one way or another. The realm would tremble at his wrath if you were not.

But still, the horizon remained empty.

Maegor’s patience shattered like glass underfoot. The stillness of the harbor, the absence of the royal procession, and the delay that felt like a deliberate insult boiled within him until he could bear it no longer. His fury was a living thing, a fire in his chest that demanded release.

Without a word to anyone, Maegor turned sharply on his heel and stalked away from the gathered lords and his waiting bannermen. Visenya's gaze followed him, but she did not call him back. She knew what was coming, and she would not try to stop him. No one would.

He marched through the half-constructed Red Keep, past the workers who hastily moved out of his way, their eyes wide with fear at the sight of him. His blood thundered in his veins, his mind consumed by a singular thought: you. You were not here. Someone had kept you from him again, and he would have answers. One way or another, he would have answers.

Balerion waited for him, the great black beast shifting restlessly as though sensing the storm of rage within his rider. Maegor did not hesitate. He approached the dragon without a word, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he climbed onto Balerion’s back. The dragon’s scales were hot beneath his hands, and the air filled with the smell of smoke and brimstone as Balerion opened his massive jaws, letting out a low growl that reverberated through the air.

"To Dragonstone," Maegor commanded, his voice sharp and cold as steel.

With a mighty beat of his wings, Balerion launched into the air, and the city of King’s Landing fell away beneath them. The wind roared in Maegor’s ears as they ascended, higher and higher, until the Red Keep and the harbor were nothing but distant specks below. His eyes narrowed against the rush of air as they flew toward Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, a place that should have been your prison but was now the key to your disappearance.

The journey was swift. Balerion’s immense wings cut through the sky, and soon, the looming shape of Dragonstone appeared on the horizon, its dark, foreboding towers rising from the volcanic island like jagged teeth. The familiar silhouette of the castle did nothing to soothe Maegor’s fury. If anything, it fueled it. Whoever had dared to take you from him was hiding here, he was certain of it. And they would pay.

Balerion descended with a roar, his massive form casting a shadow over the castle courtyard as he landed with a thunderous crash. Maegor dismounted swiftly, his boots hitting the ground with purpose, and strode toward the keep without hesitation. The guards, clad in the black and red of House Targaryen, scrambled to stand at attention, but Maegor paid them no mind. His eyes were fixed on one figure—Alyssa Velaryon, Dowager Queen, widow of his late half-brother Aenys.

She stood at the entrance of the great hall, flanked by her own royal guards, her expression calm but her eyes wary. She had been expecting him.

"Where is she?" Maegor’s voice was thunder, echoing across the courtyard as he approached. His gaze was locked on Alyssa, his hands still resting on the hilt of Blackfyre at his side.

Alyssa’s lips thinned, but she did not answer immediately. Her silence was an insult in itself.

"Where is she?" Maegor demanded again, his tone darkening, his patience long gone. "The ships have not arrived. My bride is not here. Where is she?"

Alyssa lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his with a quiet defiance. "I do not know," she said, her voice steady, though her guards shifted uneasily around her. "She is not here, Maegor. I swear it on the blood of my children."

His anger flared like a flame doused in oil. He stepped closer, towering over her, his eyes burning with rage. "You lie. Do you think me a fool, Alyssa? Do you think I will believe your false words? You know where she is. Someone here knows."

Alyssa did not waver, though there was a flicker of fear behind her eyes. "I do not lie, Maegor," she said, her voice firm. "Your niece is gone, but I do not know where. You think you can demand answers, but the gods have taken her from you."

"The gods?" Maegor spat the word as if it were poison. "The gods have no power here. I am king. I am the only god that matters in this realm."

He drew Blackfyre from its scabbard with a vicious hiss of steel. The sight of the ancient Valyrian blade, its edge gleaming in the waning sunlight, caused Alyssa’s guards to stiffen, their hands moving to the hilts of their swords. But Maegor did not care. He had faced armies and dragons alike; these men would not stand against him.

"You will tell me where she is," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I will take this castle stone by stone and burn it to the ground. I will burn you all."

Alyssa stood her ground, but her defiance was waning. Still, she did not answer.

Maegor’s grip on Blackfyre tightened. "Very well," he said, his voice cold and final. "If you will not speak, then I declare war on you, on this entire realm, and on the gods themselves. I will rip the truth from your dying lips if I must."

He raised the sword high, and Balerion let out a deafening roar, his fiery breath licking at the sky, as if in answer to his rider’s fury. The ground beneath Maegor’s feet trembled as the beast’s wings unfurled, casting the courtyard into shadow once more.

"Do you hear me, Alyssa?" Maegor shouted, his voice carrying across the castle walls. "I will bring fire and blood to this land until she is returned to me. Every house, every banner, every village will burn. No one will be spared."

Alyssa’s face paled, but she held her tongue, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his rage.

With one final, furious look at her, Maegor turned and mounted Balerion once more. The dragon’s wings beat against the air as they took to the skies, leaving the castle of Dragonstone behind, but not forgotten.

War was coming. The realm would know the full wrath of Maegor Targaryen, and nothing would stand in his way.

Not even the gods.

The sky had darkened with storm clouds, a fitting shroud for what was to come. Maegor could feel the death in the air as Balerion, the Black Dread, flew low over the countryside, the sound of his massive wings beating like the drums of war. Beneath him, the land stretched out in peaceful ignorance—green fields, small villages, and the occasional hamlet, all unaware of the doom that was about to descend upon them.

His fury had not abated. If anything, it had grown, simmering inside him like the flames that Balerion carried in his belly. For days, he had waited—waited for some word, some message, some whisper of where you had been taken. But there had been none. Not from Dragonstone, not from King's Landing, not from any corner of the realm. Silence. It was as if the earth itself conspired to keep you hidden from him.

And so, Maegor had decided to speak in the only language he knew would reach them all—fire.

The town below was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of his rule. It had no great lords, no strategic importance. It was nothing more than a farming village, its people simple, its streets quiet. But that did not matter to Maegor. He was no longer a king seeking strategy. He was a dragon in search of blood.

Balerion let out a growl as they descended, and the townspeople, who had begun to gather in the streets, looked up with wide, terrified eyes. They had heard tales of dragons, but few had seen one in the flesh, let alone the Black Dread himself. Some screamed, others fled, scattering like ants before a boot.

But it was too late.

Maegor did not speak as they approached. He did not announce his arrival or give them time to prepare. His rage did not allow for such mercy. Instead, he gave the only command he had come to deliver.

"Dracarys."

Balerion unleashed his fury with a deafening roar. Flames erupted from his jaws, a torrent of fire that engulfed the first row of houses in an instant. The wooden structures went up like kindling, the dry summer heat making them burn even faster. Screams filled the air, high-pitched and desperate, as people fled their homes, only to be caught by the flames that licked at their heels.

The fire spread with terrifying speed, consuming everything in its path—roofs, walls, fields. The village was alight, a beacon of destruction visible for miles around.

Maegor watched from above, his face cold and impassive, his grip on Balerion’s reins tight as the dragon circled over the burning town. The people below looked so small, like insects scurrying for cover, trying to escape the inevitable. But there was no escape. Not for them.

A handful of soldiers, likely from a nearby lord's keep, arrived, rushing into the chaos with spears and shields. They might have hoped to protect their people, to fight off the monster in the sky, but it was a hopeless effort. Balerion roared again, and another wave of fire descended, swallowing the soldiers in flames before they could even raise their weapons.

Still, Maegor felt nothing. No satisfaction, no relief, just the same gnawing fury. This town was but the first of many. If no one would give him what he demanded, then they would all burn.

Balerion landed in the town square, his massive form crushing the few remaining carts and stalls beneath him. The fires crackled and raged around them, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. Maegor dismounted, his black armor gleaming with the reflection of the flames, and strode through the smoldering ruins. The people who hadn’t already fled or died in the fire cowered at the edges of the square, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their eyes wide with terror.

One man—a farmer by the looks of him, his face blackened with ash—dared to stand before Maegor. His legs shook, and his hands trembled as he held out a crude pitchfork, a pitiful weapon against the man who wielded Blackfyre.

“Please!” the man cried, his voice cracking. “We’ve done nothing! We don’t know where she is!”

Maegor’s gaze fixed on him, cold and unfeeling. “Then you are of no use to me.”

With a swift motion, he drew Blackfyre and swung. The blade cut through the air with a whistle, and the man’s head rolled to the ground, his body collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed. Blood pooled at Maegor’s feet, mixing with the ash and dirt.

He turned to the remaining villagers, their tear-filled eyes pleading for mercy. “Where is she?” Maegor demanded, his voice cutting through the crackling flames. “Tell me, and you will be spared.”

But there were no answers. Only silence, punctuated by the occasional sob or gasp. They knew nothing, and he could see the truth of it in their frightened, helpless faces. These people had never laid eyes on you. They did not know your name. They were caught in a storm that was not theirs, a storm they could not hope to survive.

“Then burn,” Maegor said, his voice flat, his heart devoid of pity.

Balerion roared once more, and fire swept across the square, swallowing the villagers where they stood. The screams of the innocent echoed in the night, but they were distant to Maegor, drowned out by the roar of the flames. He mounted Balerion again, his mind already turning to the next town, the next village. There would be no end to his wrath until you were returned to him.

As they lifted into the air, the once-quiet town was a sea of fire below, the smoke rising in dark plumes that would be visible for miles. The next town would see the flames and know what was coming. They would know the price of silence.

But as they flew over the burning ruins, a grim thought gnawed at Maegor’s mind: even this, even the screams of the dying, had not brought forth any word of you. No ravens, no messengers, no spies. It was as if you had vanished from the face of the earth.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes hard as stone as he looked out over the darkened horizon. Let them hide you. Let them try to keep you from him. He would burn every inch of this realm to ash until they had no choice but to deliver you back into his hands.

War had come, and the realm would know the full measure of his wrath before it was over.

And still, you remained lost to him, as distant and unreachable as ever.

The halls of Oldtown’s grand keep were filled with the scent of burning torches and incense, the air heavy with the weight of old stone and old gods alike. Maegor strode through the corridors, his armor clinking with each step, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. The lords of the Reach had gathered in the great hall ahead, awaiting his arrival, their banners lining the walls like silent witnesses to the war he was bringing to their doors.

He would have their armies. He would have their swords and their oaths. And soon, the realm would bleed for keeping you from him.

Yet, as he approached the towering doors of the hall, he was intercepted by a voice that grated on his already thin patience.

“Maegor.”

He halted but did not turn immediately. He recognized the voice, the cold, haughty tone that had once filled his ears with promises of alliances and power. Ceryse Hightower, his wife—the woman the Faith of the Seven deemed his lawful bride. The one who had failed him, who had borne him no heirs, no strength. She was a chain, an anchor from a life he despised. And now, she stood between him and the destruction he sought to bring upon the world.

With a slow turn, he faced her. She stood in the narrow corridor, her expression as cold as the marble pillars that flanked her. Her gown was white and gold, as befit a woman of her station, but there was no warmth in her. She had never had any warmth for him, nor he for her.

Ceryse’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, her chin lifted in defiance. "This madness must stop, Maegor. What you are doing—it is unholy. This war you wage for your niece, this obsession, it will bring the gods’ wrath upon you. Upon us all."

Maegor’s eyes, dark and brooding, bore into hers. "The gods?" he scoffed, his voice laced with venom. "Which gods, Ceryse? The Seven who gave me nothing but a barren wife? The gods who have denied me my rightful bride and my throne time and again? They are nothing to me. I am the king, and I will take what is mine."

"You are the king," she snapped, stepping closer, her voice rising, "but I am your wife. The only true wife you have before the gods. I was wed to you under the light of the Seven. I am your queen, not some girl you lust after because she shares your blood and your fire."

Maegor’s lips curled into a sneer. "Do not speak of things you do not understand. She is more than fire. She is mine by right, by blood, by destiny. You are nothing but a symbol of a failed marriage and the weakness of the Faith. Your gods mean nothing to me, Ceryse. They have never meant anything."

Ceryse’s face flushed with anger, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “The Faith is all that holds this realm together. The Seven bless our rule, and you spit on their favor. Do you truly believe this war you’ve started will end with your niece in your arms? The realm will turn against you, the Faith will rise—”

“The Faith?” Maegor’s laughter was dark, a cruel sound that echoed off the stone walls. “The Faith cowers beneath the strength of dragons. I have already broken their High Septon, and I will do it again if they dare stand in my way. Do not speak to me of the Faith when they have already bled under my blade.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “And what of me? Do I mean nothing to you, Maegor? I am your queen. I stood beside you when the world was against you, when you were exiled, when you returned to take the throne. I have endured your temper, your ambitions—everything. And yet you throw it all away for her, for a girl who should never have been yours.”

Maegor stepped closer, towering over her, his voice low and filled with menace. “You have never stood beside me, Ceryse. You have stood in my way, like all the others. The day you failed to give me an heir was the day your use to me ended. You are not my queen. You are a symbol of weakness and failure.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but her pride would not allow her to shrink before him. She held her ground, her chin raised defiantly. “This war is blasphemy. Even your late father would not stand for it. You break every sacred vow for this—this madness. And for what? For a girl who may be dead already, taken by the gods to punish your arrogance.”

Maegor’s hand shot out, gripping her throat, though not enough to truly harm her. His eyes were burning coals, his patience long gone. “Speak of her again,” he growled, his voice dangerously low, “and I will end you here and now, wife or not.”

Ceryse’s eyes widened, but she did not flinch, even with his hand at her throat. “Do it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady. “Do it, and see how the realm turns against you. They already whisper of your cruelty, your madness. Kill your wife, and you will become the monster they fear.”

For a long, tense moment, Maegor said nothing. His grip tightened slightly, the temptation strong, but he released her with a shove, sending her stumbling back a step.

"You are a fool if you think I care for their whispers," Maegor said, his voice filled with disdain. "I will rule through fear if I must. The realm will submit to me, whether they love me or hate me. And you will stay out of my way, or you will burn like the rest of them."

Ceryse straightened, her hand to her throat, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and fear. She had pushed him as far as she could, and she knew it.

“You will destroy yourself,” she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to hide it. “This war, this rage... it will consume you.”

Maegor turned his back on her, his cloak swirling in the dim torchlight as he moved toward the doors of the great hall. "Then let it," he said coldly, without looking back. "I would rather burn the world to ash than live in a world where I am denied what is mine."

The heavy doors of the great hall swung open before him, and Maegor strode inside, leaving Ceryse standing alone in the darkened corridor, her hands shaking, her heart pounding with a fear she had never known before.

The lords inside turned as one to face him, their faces pale with the knowledge of the man they served. Maegor took his place at the head of the long table, his eyes sweeping over the gathered men like a predator surveying its prey.

"You will gather your armies," he said, his voice echoing through the hall, "and you will march with me to war. I care not for the gods, nor for the Faith. Those who stand against me will burn, and those who submit will live. But I will have my bride, or I will see this realm consumed by fire."

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared defy him. They knew the price of disobedience under Maegor’s rule.

"Are there any who would challenge me?" Maegor demanded, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light.

Silence fell over the hall, thick and suffocating. Not a single voice rose in opposition.

"Good," Maegor said, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Prepare your men. The realm will bleed until she is mine again."

And with that, the great hall of Oldtown descended into preparation for war, while outside, Ceryse Hightower stood in the shadows, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her words had fallen on deaf ears.

The battlefield stretched wide before Maegor, a patchwork of torn earth, trampled grass, and bloodied banners. His army stood in sharp contrast to the smaller force across the field, led by his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a bloody hue over the land, as if the gods themselves had abandoned all hope of peace.

Balerion, the Black Dread, shifted beneath him, his great black wings stretching wide as the dragon growled, sensing the impending battle. Maegor’s grip tightened on Blackfyre, the weight of the ancient sword familiar in his hand as he surveyed the field below. The banners of House Targaryen and Velaryon fluttered in the wind, a cruel mockery of what should have been unity between their blood. But unity had long been shattered.

On the opposite side of the field, Aegon sat astride Quicksilver, his dragon a flash of silver-white scales that shimmered in the dying light. Aegon’s army was smaller, but it was fiercely loyal—men who believed in the legitimacy of his claim, men who called Maegor a usurper and a tyrant. Men who were willing to die for a boy who had been denied his crown.

Maegor’s jaw clenched as he gazed across the field at his nephew, the boy who had dared to raise arms against him. Aegon had your blood running through his veins, and that alone made Maegor’s rage burn hotter. But it was not just Aegon’s challenge to the throne that stoked Maegor’s fury—it was his insolent defiance in keeping you from him.

The armies stood still for a breath, the wind carrying the sound of clinking armor and the distant neighs of restless horses. Maegor’s soldiers waited, their faces grim, their hands tight on their weapons. His bannermen were eager for the bloodshed to begin, eager to crush the boy who dared challenge their king.

But Maegor had eyes only for Aegon, who met his gaze across the field with the same cold intensity. Even from a distance, Maegor could see the steely resolve in the young man’s face. Aegon was no longer the boy he had once dismissed, and that truth gnawed at him.

Without a word, Maegor spurred Balerion forward. The great dragon let out a thunderous roar, his massive wings lifting him from the ground in one powerful sweep. The air around them seemed to hum with tension as Balerion soared into the sky, circling high above the battlefield, casting an enormous shadow over the armies below.

Aegon wasted no time. With a sharp command, he urged Quicksilver into the air, the silver dragon shooting upward with graceful speed. The two beasts circled one another in the sky, the gathered armies below looking up in awe as dragon met dragon.

Maegor’s eyes locked onto Aegon, his blood boiling with the need for victory. He would crush this boy, as he had crushed all who had stood in his way. Blackfyre was already in his hand, the sword gleaming as he prepared to strike.

Quicksilver let out a high-pitched roar and dove toward Balerion, claws outstretched. Aegon, no doubt thinking speed would be his advantage, urged his dragon forward with a deadly precision. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon—he was the Black Dread, the most fearsome of all Targaryen dragons, and his size alone was enough to instill terror in any opponent.

With a bellowing roar, Balerion met Quicksilver head-on, jaws snapping as the two dragons collided in a flurry of wings, fire, and claws. The sky around them lit up with dragonflame, bright orange and yellow in the fading light. The sound of their clash echoed across the battlefield like thunder, and Maegor felt the familiar thrill of battle pulse through his veins.

Aegon swung his sword at him, their blades clashing as Quicksilver veered away, trying to outmaneuver Balerion. But Maegor was relentless. He urged Balerion onward, following the silver dragon, breathing down its neck with every beat of its wings. Aegon was skilled, but Maegor could see the hesitation in his strikes, the uncertainty in his eyes.

"You will never have her, Uncle!" Aegon shouted over the roar of the wind and the battle below, his voice laced with both fury and desperation. "She is free of you! The gods will never let her fall into your hands."

Maegor’s face twisted into a snarl, his fury consuming him as he swung Blackfyre toward Aegon with all the strength he could muster. Their blades met again, the force of the strike sending sparks flying between them. "The gods be damned!" Maegor roared. "You think they care for your claims, boy? I will have her, and no man or god will keep her from me!"

Aegon’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his eyes flashing with defiance. "You’re a fool if you think she would come to you willingly," he spat. "She despises you. She will never be yours."

Maegor’s rage flared hotter than dragonfire. He urged Balerion forward, closing the distance between the two dragons, but Quicksilver darted away, its speed giving it the advantage. Maegor’s strikes were powerful, but Aegon’s precision allowed him to evade, always one step ahead, always just out of reach.

Below, the armies had clashed. The sounds of battle—clanging steel, screams, and the thunder of hooves—rose from the ground, but Maegor cared little for what happened below. His focus was entirely on Aegon, on the boy who had denied him his rightful bride, on the nephew who dared to defy him.

Suddenly, Quicksilver darted upward, high into the clouds, and Aegon disappeared from sight. Maegor cursed, pulling Balerion up after them, but by the time he broke through the clouds, Aegon and Quicksilver were gone.

A howl of frustration escaped Maegor’s throat. He scanned the skies, his eyes searching for any sign of the silver dragon, but Aegon had vanished, leaving nothing but the roar of the wind and the distant sounds of the battlefield below.

"Damn you, Aegon!" Maegor bellowed into the empty sky, his voice echoing across the heavens. His blood boiled with fury, his vision clouded with rage. Once again, Aegon had slipped through his fingers, just as you had been denied to him time and time again.

He descended with Balerion, landing amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his soldiers still locked in fierce combat with Aegon’s forces. But it was not enough. The battle, the bloodshed, the cries of dying men—all of it paled in comparison to the rage burning inside Maegor. He had come for victory, for vengeance, for you—and he had been denied once more.

The soldiers around him fell to their knees, their faces streaked with blood and mud, their eyes filled with terror at the sight of their king. But Maegor’s gaze was distant, his thoughts consumed by the promise Aegon had made before vanishing into the clouds.

You were free of him, Aegon had said. You would never be his.

But Maegor was not a man who accepted defeat. Not now. Not ever.

The realm would continue to burn until you were in his hands, and not even his nephew’s empty threats would change that.

With a final, chilling glance at the battlefield around him, Maegor mounted Balerion once more, his mind already racing with thoughts of what was to come. The war was not over. Aegon may have escaped, but Maegor would hunt him down. He would tear the realm apart, piece by piece, until there was nowhere left for his enemies to hide.

And in the end, you would be his.

Whether you wished it or not.

The second clash between Maegor Targaryen and his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned, was inevitable. The gods had no place on this battlefield; only dragons, fire, and blood would decide the victor. Beneath the clouded skies of the God's Eye, the two riders faced one another atop their colossal beasts. Quicksilver, the pale silver dragon, hovered in the air with Aegon astride him, eyes blazing with defiance, while Maegor sat atop the mighty Balerion, the Black Dread, a shadow over the land, a force of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

Aegon was no child, but neither was he the match of his uncle. And yet, as they circled high above the waters of the God's Eye, you could almost feel the weight of his resolve. Maegor could sense it, too—a determination to stand, to fight, to protect what little remained of his claim. But Aegon was a fool to believe he could stop what was coming. Maegor had returned, stronger than ever, and no man, no dragon, no usurper would deny him what was his—neither the throne nor you.

The dragons roared and circled, Balerion’s immense shadow darkening the sky. Maegor’s heart was black with fury, the rage of the denied, of one betrayed by his own kin. For years, he had been denied you, stolen from him by a weak brother and a cowardly nephew. Aenys had never been strong enough to hold the kingdom together, nor had he the will to make the hard choices. Now Maegor would show Aegon the price of such weakness.

“Tell me where she is,” Maegor bellowed, his voice a force of its own, carrying across the winds between them. “Tell me, and I’ll make your death quick.”

Aegon’s expression hardened, but his lips remained sealed. He said nothing, his jaw tight, the defiance in his eyes unbroken. It was clear that he would rather die than betray your whereabouts, and for a brief moment, Maegor almost admired the boy's stubbornness. Almost.

But that would not save him.

Quicksilver lunged first, his bright scales gleaming like molten metal in the dim light. His teeth snapped, his wings beat the air, and Aegon drove him forward, spear in hand, hoping to catch Balerion’s flank. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon, and Maegor was no ordinary rider. The Black Dread twisted mid-air with terrifying speed, jaws snapping shut around Quicksilver’s wing. The smaller dragon shrieked, a sound that echoed over the lake like thunder, and his body faltered as he was dragged downward, closer to the earth.

Balerion's fire erupted, black and red flames that swallowed the sky. Quicksilver was engulfed, his silvery scales turning black as smoke and ash filled the air. Aegon fought back, his dragon resisting, but it was clear to all who watched that there could only be one outcome.

With a final, sickening crunch, Balerion’s teeth sank into Quicksilver’s neck, tearing through flesh and bone. The dragon screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing cry that seemed to go on forever. And then, with a sickening crash, Quicksilver and Aegon were flung into the earth below, the ground trembling from the impact.

Maegor descended slowly, his eyes never leaving the crumpled form of his nephew. The once-proud Aegon, Uncrowned and unbroken, now lay battered and broken beside his dying dragon. Maegor dismounted, stepping down from Balerion’s back as if descending from a throne. The grass beneath his feet was scorched from the battle, and the air smelled of death and fire.

Aegon coughed, his body shattered, blood pouring from wounds too numerous to count. His breaths were labored, each one a struggle. Maegor stood over him, the weight of his fury and triumph heavy in the air.

“Where is she?” Maegor demanded once more, his voice like steel.

Aegon lifted his head weakly, his eyes meeting Maegor's with the last of his strength. Blood bubbled on his lips as he smiled—a bitter, bloody smile.

“You’ll never find her,” Aegon rasped, defiance even now.

The anger that surged through Maegor was all-consuming, a wildfire burning through his veins. He had half a mind to rip his nephew’s head from his body then and there, but he knew Aegon would welcome such an end. No, his death would come soon enough. But it would not be swift, nor merciful.

With a final look of disgust, Maegor turned his back on the dying boy, mounting Balerion once more. There was no more time to waste on the Uncrowned. He would find you, with or without Aegon’s cooperation. And when he did, nothing and no one would ever separate you from him again.

After the battle, as Maegor's forces regrouped, a rider approached him. The man, bloodied and worn from the fight, bowed low before his king.

“My lord, we have received word,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “It is said... she is being held in Lys.”

Maegor’s eyes narrowed, his blood roaring in his ears. Lys. So far away, beyond the sea, beyond his immediate reach. But no distance was too great. He would cross oceans, burn cities, and tear apart entire kingdoms if need be.

“Prepare the fleet,” Maegor ordered, his voice like iron. “We sail at once.”

Balerion let out a low rumble, as if sensing his master’s intent. There would be no peace until you were his, no rest until the blood debt was paid in full. The dragons were coming, and all of Lys would burn if it meant bringing you home.

The sun had long begun its descent when the black sails of Maegor's fleet appeared on the horizon, darkening the waters that surrounded Lys. The city, gilded with beauty and wealth, stood as a gleaming jewel in the far east. But to Maegor, it was a den of thieves—those who had dared to steal what belonged to him. As Balerion descended from the skies, casting a vast shadow over the city, panic spread like wildfire through its streets. The people of Lys had never seen the likes of such a beast, nor the wrath of a king who had come to reclaim what was his.

You had not expected him so soon.

The small tower in which you were held offered little more than a view of the sea and distant freedom, but you knew that no bars or walls could hold you forever. You had seen the men sent to guard you, faces hardened by greed and violence, yet even they had begun to whisper in hushed tones over the past days—of dragons, of black sails, of the King who would come. Maegor.

For weeks, you had wondered if it was only a matter of time before your captors sold you to another—or worse. But it was not the men of Lys who had taken you—it was Aegon. Your own brother. He had sent you here, far away from Maegor, far from the throne. He believed it was for your own good, to keep you safe from the king who had burned through the realm to take the Iron Throne. To keep you from the man who had claimed you as his.

But your brother had gravely underestimated the lengths to which Maegor would go to have you back.

And now he had come.

The tower trembled beneath your feet as Balerion’s roar split the sky, shaking the very stones of Lys. The dragon’s fire lit the horizon, the harbor a hellscape of flames and destruction. You could hear the distant cries of men fleeing from the wrath of the Black Dread, and in that moment, a strange calm settled over you. You knew Maegor. You had known him since childhood—his strength, his darkness, and above all, his possessiveness. He would burn this city to the ground for you. He would raze every last building, tear every stone apart brick by brick, until he had you back in his grasp.

The door to your chamber flew open, splintering as it slammed against the wall. The guard who had been stationed outside was gone, replaced by men bearing the black and red sigil of House Targaryen. They moved aside without a word, and there, standing in the doorway, was Maegor.

He was just as you remembered him, but now there was a fierceness in his gaze that you had never seen before. His armor, still streaked with blood from battle, glinted in the dim light. His silver hair, windswept from the flight atop Balerion, framed a face carved from stone, hard and unyielding. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes burned with a hunger, an obsession, that had only grown stronger with time. He had come for you.

Without a word, Maegor strode into the room, his presence filling it like a storm. He did not wait for pleasantries, nor for explanations. He reached for you, his hand closing around your arm with a grip that was firm but not painful, his eyes searching your face as if to assure himself that you were real, that you were truly here.

"You’re coming with me," he said, his voice low and rough. There was no question, no hesitation, just the ironclad certainty that had always driven him.

"Maegor," you began, your voice quiet but steady. The words you had rehearsed in your mind seemed to dissolve as you looked into his eyes. The fury, the relief, the need—it was all there, laid bare. He was not a man to be denied.

"You will never be taken from me again," he growled, his fingers tightening slightly around your arm as if to emphasize his point. "I’ve burned half the world to get to you. No one will stand between us now."

You had heard tales of what he had done—of how he had torn through Aegon’s forces at the God's Eye, of how he had set the seas aflame in his pursuit of you. But you never imagined that it would come to this—that your own brother would try to keep you from him. And now that he stood before you, towering, unyielding, you realized that there was no escaping the inevitability of what came next.

"You were mine from the moment you were born," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And they kept you from me. All of them—my father, your brother, the gods themselves. But no more. You will be my queen, and no one will ever take you from me again."

His words, raw and fierce, echoed in the space between you, and for a moment, all you could hear was the distant roar of Balerion outside, the great beast that had carried him across the skies to find you.

You met his gaze, and in that moment, something shifted within you. You had known Maegor your whole life. You had seen the violence in him, but you had also seen the man beneath it—the one who, for all his ruthlessness, had always looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. And now, standing before him, you understood that there was no escaping him, not now, not ever.

"Then take me," you whispered, your voice soft but clear. "I’m ready."

Maegor’s eyes darkened, and in one swift motion, he pulled you into him, his lips crashing against yours with all the pent-up fury and longing that had driven him to Lys. His kiss was fierce, possessive, and you knew then that the man who had come for you was not just the king, but the dragon itself—untamable, unstoppable, and wholly yours.

When he pulled away, his hand still cradled the back of your neck, his eyes locked on yours. "We leave now," he said, his voice a low growl. "There’s nothing for you here. Nothing but ash."

He led you from the room without another word, the tower and all its horrors fading behind you as you stepped out into the night. Balerion waited, his massive form dark against the sky, and as Maegor helped you onto the dragon's back, you knew that whatever fate awaited you, it would be by his side.

And so, with a single command, Balerion’s wings unfurled, and together you soared into the night, leaving Lys in flames behind you.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 21 | END

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warning: Dark, Mystery, Betrayal.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

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By the way, my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing is FREE on Kindle for a few days. Check it out!

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 💖💖💖

You can’t leave. Not when he’s already found you. And now… you have no choice but to play Bucky’s game.

You force a smile, even though your hands are trembling. Your heart races, thudding against your chest like it’s trying to escape. Bucky steps closer and shrugs off his jacket, placing it gently around your shoulders like it’s nothing—like he didn’t just appear out of nowhere in the dead of night.

“You must be freezing,” he says softly. His voice is full of fake concern, the kind that would melt anyone else. “Where are you going this late?”

His eyes are too kind. Too knowing. His tone might fool another woman—but not you.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “My dad’s doctor just called. The surgery’s happening sooner than expected, so I was going to check in.”

Bucky exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “I knew it. I had this feeling something would happen tonight. I’m glad I followed my instincts.”

Bullshit.

You glance at your phone, trying to pretend everything’s normal. “Mind if I join you guys back to the hotel?”

Bucky smiles again, that warm, practiced smile that’s all mask and no soul. He pats Thor’s shoulder. “Of course. Let’s go.”

Inside the car, you sit in the back, clutching the jacket tighter around you even though it makes your skin crawl. Bucky slides into the passenger seat like a king reclaiming his throne. Thor starts the engine without a word.

For the first time tonight, you’re glad this town is small. Your broken-down car wasn’t that far from the hotel. Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes, you tell yourself.

To kill the silence, you blurt out, “When do you think the renovation at my house will be done?”

Bucky doesn’t turn around, but you can hear the smugness in his voice. “Probably next week.”

“Next week?” Your voice rises a little too quickly.

“Not fast enough?” he asks, amused. “I’ll tell the crew to finish in three days.”

“No—no. Next week is fast enough,” you quickly backtrack. Don’t push. Don’t make him suspicious.

You pass the new hospital under construction. The steel skeleton towers in the night, surrounded by floodlights and scaffolding. It’s quiet, too quiet—like something in a dream that doesn’t feel real.

“When it’s finished,” Bucky says with pride, “I’m bringing in the best doctors in the country. Tom won’t have to leave town again.”

You go still. He’s not just talking about your father. He’s talking about you. He’s building a town no one can escape from. A town where he decides who stays—and who belongs to him.

“That’s... great,” you say, voice thin. “No one will have to worry about their health anymore.”

The car pulls into the hotel parking lot. Relief swells in your chest like a wave—until you remember it’s only temporary. You’re still trapped.

Bucky steps out first, then circles around to open your door with exaggerated politeness. You hesitate before accepting his hand. You wish your nails were sharp enough to cut him. But now’s not the time. You have to play nice.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He studies your face. “You look pale. Want me to have dinner sent to your room?”

Your stomach twists. The last thing you want is him at your door tonight.

“No thanks,” you say quickly. “I’m not that hungry.”

He nods slowly, eyes narrowing for a split second. “Alright. But if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“All right. If you need anything, just call,” Bucky said, his voice smooth like velvet—warm on the surface, but something colder lurked underneath.

You forced a smile. A shallow curve of the lips. The kind people give in tense family dinners or awkward public events—where they have no choice but to play along. You turned from him, heels clicking against the polished tile as you walked toward the lobby.

Each step felt like walking through molasses.

You couldn’t breathe. You needed air, distance—space to think. But no matter how fast or far you tried to go, he was always one step behind. Always.

And then you heard him. The heavy footfalls. He was following.

The elevator was waiting at the end of the corridor. You tapped the call button and stared ahead, not daring to look back. You could feel him close, like a shadow stitched to your spine.

The doors slid open with a soft metallic shhhk. You stepped inside. Of course, he followed.

Now it was just the two of you in a small box of mirrors and steel. Trapped.

The hum of the elevator filled the silence. You could hear your own heartbeat. You kept your eyes trained on the digital numbers above the door. As if they were your countdown to safety.

Then his voice sliced through the stillness—calm, casual, like he was sharing a bit of gossip. “Oh, right. Since what happened to Tony… the director’s seat at the hospital is empty now.”

You blinked, confused for a second. “What?”

Bucky turned to face you slightly, his expression unreadable. “Drysdale was supposed to be the hospital’s biggest investor. But after what happened to him…” His jaw tightened just a fraction. “That’s on me.”

A chill crept up your spine.

His voice remained calm—steady—but there was something cold behind it. Like he wasn’t confessing. He was warning.

“And now that you’re here,” he continued, “it makes sense for you to take over. The hospital needs someone smart. Someone trustworthy. Someone close.”

Your throat tightened. Every alarm in your body was screaming.

You nodded quickly, trying to keep your voice level. “I’ll… think about it.”

The elevator dinged, and you didn’t wait. The doors weren’t even fully open before you slipped through the gap, striding down the hallway with quick, clipped steps. Your hands were shaking.

“Good night,” you tossed over your shoulder.

Behind you, Bucky still hadn’t moved. Still in the elevator. Still watching.

But just as you reached your room, you heard him again—so soft it sent goosebumps crawling across your skin.

“Get some rest. I have to go pick up your car.” Pause. “I’ll make sure it gets fixed properly.”

You glanced back once—just once.

He was still in the elevator. Still smiling. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just followed you, hadn’t just dropped a cryptic statement about a man who mysteriously vanished.

You swallowed the fear rising in your throat and turned away, heart hammering.

You fumbled the keycard into the slot with shaking fingers. The green light blinked. You slipped inside and slammed the door shut with your body pressed against it. You threw the bolt, locked the chain. Every click of the lock felt like placing a weak bandage over a bleeding wound.

The room was dim. Quiet. But not peaceful.

You weren’t safe here. Not anymore.

You backed away from the door, breathing hard. Your fingers trembled as you grabbed your charger, plugged in your phone, and called Jake.

No signal.

Your blood went cold.

You stared at the phone. That couldn’t be right. You’d used it here before. You called your lawyer from this room a few nights ago. Texted your lawyer. Checked your emails. There was always signal.

You stepped closer to the window, holding the phone up. Nothing.

Tried again. Nothing.

“Come on. Come on,” you muttered, biting your lip as your hands shook. You tried toggling airplane mode. Tried Wi-Fi. Tried every trick you knew.

Still nothing.

It didn’t feel like bad reception.

It felt… deliberate.

“Did he—” You couldn’t even say it aloud.

Was this part of it? Did Bucky somehow jam the signal? Cut it off? How far had he planned this?

You dropped the phone onto the bed and sat beside it, rubbing your hands over your face.

You felt sick.

Your body was trembling and your chest was too tight. This wasn’t a coincidence. Too many little things. Too many gestures that looked sweet on the outside but were twisted underneath. Too much control hidden in kindness.

The hospital. The car. The signal. Everything. Controlled.

You had to get out. You had to find a way to leave this town before it was too late.

Because now you understood— This wasn’t protection. This wasn’t affection. This was possession.

And you were already in the cage.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

You woke long before the sun rose. Not that you’d slept.

You'd laid in bed for hours, body still but mind spiraling—trapped in a loop of every unnerving detail from the day before. The silence in your room wasn’t comforting. It was thick. Suffocating. You kept glancing at the door, half-expecting it to rattle.

By the time light began to seep in through the curtains, dull and gray like an old bruise, you were already dressed and ready.

You tiptoed to the door, your fingers brushing over the chain lock before sliding it free. Quiet. Don’t wake him.

You cracked the door open and peeked into the hallway. Empty.

Still, your heart pounded as you slipped out, carefully pulling the door shut without a sound.

Bucky lived just across from you. Too close. Every creak of the hallway floor felt like a flare gun going off. But his door didn’t move.

You made it to the elevator and hit the button. The wait felt eternal. Ding.

You stepped inside. The doors closed with a soft hiss. The moment they sealed shut, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

For the first time in hours, you were alone. And for a moment—just one trembling moment—you felt safe.

At the Restaurant

The scent of coffee and baked goods drifted toward you as you stepped into the hotel’s restaurant. The soft clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations felt oddly surreal—normal, almost—like the world hadn’t shifted under your feet.

But then you saw him.

Jake had just walked in, brushing rain off his jacket. You didn’t wait. You marched straight toward him.

“Jake.”

He turned, surprised. “Hey, you called me—” You grabbed his wrist.

“Upps.” He chuckled, but you didn’t.

Without a word, you pulled him into a quiet corner of the restaurant—out of view from any guests, and more importantly, out of reach from the hotel’s security cameras.

“I called you last night,” you whispered, eyes darting around. “Because I need your help.”

Jake frowned. “What happened?”

You shivered.

Not from the cold.

From the memory. From the things you were piecing together. From the weight of knowing—really knowing—who Bucky had become.

Jake’s brow furrowed. “Y/N… are you okay?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Jake… Bucky is evil.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, I know what he did to you before. But he’s changed now. He seems—”

“No,” you cut him off. “This is different. He’s the mastermind of it all.”

Jake’s expression shifted. He was quiet. Then: “Mastermind?”

You hesitated. You had no proof. Just instincts. Fear. The way every piece of the puzzle seemed to lead back to Bucky’s hands. His watchful eyes. His reach.

“I need your help,” you said, pulling a crumpled paper from your pocket. “Call this number. When someone answers, just say: The contract has terminated. That’s it.”

Jake looked at the paper, confused but trusting. “Okay… But we might have to wait. I heard on the radio this morning—the transmission towers are down.”

Your breath caught. “So it wasn’t just my phone?”

“No. It’s town-wide. Radio, calls, internet… Everything’s messed up.”

You stared at him. Your last thread of hope thinned. “Can you do something? This is urgent, Jake. Please.”

He studied your face. Something in your eyes must’ve told him this wasn’t paranoia. This was real.

“I… I’ll try,” he promised.

You let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

Jake stepped forward, voice softer. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

Then— A voice behind you. Smooth. Inevitable.

“Hey,” Bucky said. “Turns out you’re here. I was knocking on your door.”

You froze. Your pulse jumped. Jake turned stiffly. “Oh, hi Bucky. Y/N was just helping me with… calculating my taxes.” He talked too fast, shit. He's a bad actor.

“Simple, actually,” you added, voice tight. “I’ll see you later.”

You bolted. Walked quickly into the breakfast hall. But you didn’t have to look to know—he followed.

Breakfast Hall

You filled your plate slowly, eyes focused on the scrambled eggs and toast like they held state secrets.

Bucky stood close behind. Too close. His hand brushed the small of your back as he leaned forward.

“There’s no signal,” you murmured, testing. “I can’t make any calls.”

He sighed as if it annoyed him. “Yeah. Something happened at the network tower. I don’t get the details, but the mayor issued an order to fix it fast.”

Of course he did. You nodded slowly. Pretending. Smiling. Playing the part of the patient guest. But your fists clenched around the tongs.

You sat down with your tray, picking at your food. Bucky, as expected, joined your table.

You laughed at the right moments. Asked polite questions. Let your eyes soften when he talked.

And the whole time your skin crawled. Like you were being watched by something wearing a mask.

Eventually, finally, he stood. “Duty calls. I’ll check on the staff.”

You didn’t breathe until he disappeared down the hallway.

At the Information Desk

You moved fast. Straight to the information desk. Your voice low but urgent.

“Could you call a taxi for me? I need to get to the train.”

The young man behind the desk looked apologetic. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. The trains can’t operate either. Network’s down. Even the scheduling system is frozen.”

Your chest tightened. “The train, too?”

“Yes… Sadly, yes.”

Shit. Everything was locked. Controlled. Every way out cut off.

But then you remembered— Natasha. She mentioned heading back to the city later today. Maybe she hadn’t left yet. Perhaps she could help.

It was a long shot.

But it was the only one you had left.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The arcade reeked of sweat, old popcorn, and something faintly metallic—like rusting wires. The light inside buzzed unevenly overhead, stuttering as you stepped in. The manager sat hunched over a cracked monitor, his eyes bloodshot from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. His chair creaked as he turned slowly to face you, his face already sour with contempt.

“You,” he growled. “It was because of you she quit this morning.”

Your chest tightened. “Really?”

“Ah-ha. She came in, said she was done, and left. Packed up her locker in five damn minutes.” He tossed a grimy towel over his shoulder. “Can’t say I blame her.”

You hesitated. “Do you have her address?”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t answer for a moment, just stared at you like he was trying to burn a hole through your skull. But eventually, maybe because he didn’t care enough to fight it—or maybe because he wanted you gone—he scribbled the address on the back of a receipt and shoved it toward you without another word.

You followed the address. The roads were quiet, too quiet, like the entire town had shrunk in on itself. When you finally reached the apartment building, the air felt different—heavy, charged. You barely raised your fist to knock before the door swung open.

There stood Natasha, her jacket half-zipped and a battered suitcase dragging behind her.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp. Defensive.

“I thought…” You swallowed hard. “I thought I could come along with you.”

Her eyes narrowed, scanning you like she expected something to explode. But then, something in her posture loosened. If you were with her, it might actually work in her favor. You were well-spoken. Clean-cut. You’d be the best walking recommendation letter she'd ever have.

She sighed. “Sure. But you’re paying for gas.”

“Of course.”

Her car was old, faded yellow paint peeling at the edges, the kind that creaked when you opened the door like it might snap in two if pushed too hard. Inside smelled like gasoline and stale fast food.

As the engine sputtered to life, Natasha grumbled, “Seems like the universe fucked me. No signal. No train. So I’m stuck driving this antique.”

“You tell me.” You looked over your shoulder again.

Natasha noticed. “Why do you keep checking behind us?” Her voice was calm but probing.

You hesitated. “Did someone chase you?”

“You have no idea,” you muttered, eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

Ten minutes out of town, the needle on the fuel gauge dropped to red. Natasha swore under her breath.

“Shit. We have to refill.”

You pulled into the nearest gas station—an old, creaky thing at the edge of nowhere. A single flickering fluorescent light buzzed above. Natasha stayed near the car, lighting a cigarette, shoulders hunched against the wind.

Inside the convenience store, the air was warm but stale. The cashier looked bored, flipping through a magazine with chipped nails. You approached the counter.

“I’d like to fill up. Can I use a card? Do you have signal here?”

The cashier looked up slowly, puzzled. “Of course. Why? You don’t have signal?”

“No. Do you?”

“I’ve got full bars. No issues.”

Your stomach twisted.

Something wasn’t adding up.

You handed her your platinum card and forced a smile. “Can I… borrow your phone for a second? I need to call someone. It’s important.”

She hesitated. Looked at the card. Platinum. Her eyes softened. “Sure.”

You took the phone in trembling hands and typed in the number. It rang. You clenched your jaw.

“Come on. Pick up. Please. Please…”

Through the window, something caught your eye.

A black SUV rolled in. Smooth. Expensive. You recognized it instantly.

Thor stepped out first.

Your blood froze.

You watched in horror as he reached for the passenger door. Natasha’s eyes went wide, but before she could react, Thor was dragging her out of the car, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other twisting her arm behind her back.

“No,” you whispered, panic crashing over you in waves.

And then— The call connected.

“Hello?” a deep voice answered on the line.

You didn’t hesitate. “The contract is terminated. The contract is terminated!” The words fell from your lips like a lifeline.

You shoved the phone back to the stunned cashier and snatched your card.

Your legs moved before you could think.

You ran for the door—

—but he was already there.

Bucky.

He stepped out from behind the SUV like a ghost, too calm, too fast. His eyes locked onto you with that unreadable expression, his mouth flat, his body blocking the exit.

You turned to bolt the other way, but his hand clamped around your wrist like iron.

“Let go of me!” you screamed, struggling, but his grip didn’t even flinch.

Customers turned. The cashier looked up, startled.

“Ssst…” The sound was soft. Almost gentle. You barely had time to register it before you felt a sharp sting in your neck.

Your eyes went wide. Your limbs jerked instinctively, a burst of adrenaline flooding your system—but it was already too late. The syringe was already in.

Bucky’s grip tightened just enough to steady you. Not enough to bruise, not enough to panic the few people watching. But firm. Practiced.

Your mouth opened in a breathless gasp. The edges of your vision blurred almost instantly, like ink spreading across paper. The world tilted.

“You always made things difficult,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low, almost fond—almost.

Your knees buckled. He caught you before you hit the floor.

He held you for a second, making sure the sedative had taken full effect. His eyes scanned your face, watching the last flicker of consciousness flicker out like a dying candle.

Only then did he exhale—slow and controlled, like a man who’d been holding his breath too long. Relief and possession curled around his expression like smoke.

He turned, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. The cashier blinked at him in confusion, the silence pressing in like thick fog. Your limp body in his arms turned a few heads. The other customers froze in that awkward half-awareness, unsure if this was an emergency or a domestic drama.

“She ran away from the hospital,” Bucky said calmly, adjusting your weight in his arms. He gave the cashier a reassuring smile, that picture-perfect charm that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s not dangerous. Just scared.”

The cashier’s brows drew together. “O-oh.”

He smoothly pulled a laminated card from his coat and handed it over. The name. The logo. The government seal.

“Here’s my card if you want to confirm anything,” he added. His voice was velvet, but underneath it was the unmistakable edge of control.

She took the card with trembling fingers, eyes flitting between the official badge and your unconscious form.

“I… okay,” she murmured, uncertainty etched into every syllable.

Before he turned to leave, he paused, still wearing that polite, terrible smile.

“Mind if I ask something?”

She nodded, slowly.

“What did she say when she called?”

The cashier swallowed. “She said… ‘The contract is terminated.’ That’s all. Just that. Nothing else.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t flicker. But something behind his eyes changed. A beat. A calculation.

“Really?” he said with a mild curiosity that didn’t match the way his jaw ticked ever so slightly. He reclaimed the ID, slipped it back into his pocket, and nodded once.

“Well. Thanks for your cooperation.” His voice was soft. Final.

He walked out with you cradled in his arms like a sleeping child, but the way he moved—sharp, focused, efficient—was the farthest thing from tender.

In the parking lot, Bucky opened the back door, laid you down gently beside Natasha, and closed it with a soft click that echoed louder than a gunshot in the still air.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, expression unreadable now.

“Contract’s terminated?” he repeated under his breath, starting the engine.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

He had no intention of letting that happen.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

You woke up slowly.

Your head throbbed, and your body felt unnaturally heavy. You blinked up at the pale ceiling, watching shadows shift as soft light filtered through drawn curtains. The air was still. Too still. There was no buzz of city traffic, no hallway chatter, no hum of a minibar. Just silence—thick, padded silence.

You sat up a little. The sheets smelled clean, unfamiliar. The bed was too soft.

Where is this?

This wasn’t a dungeon. There were no chains or stone walls. But it wasn’t your hotel room either. Not the one you remembered. The muted wallpaper, the furniture—none of it matched. For one terrifying moment, you thought: Maybe it was just a dream. Maybe you’d imagined running away, the syringe, the gas station.

You closed your eyes, trying to will the panic away.

Then came the voice.

“You’re awake.”

Your eyes snapped open.

Bucky was sitting in a chair beside your bed. Close. Too close. His posture relaxed, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting on his knee like he’d been waiting for hours.

Your heart shot up into your throat. You pushed back, inching away, your hands clutching at the blanket like it could protect you.

He saw it. The fear in your eyes.

And it hurt him.

“I would never hurt you,” he said, softly, like a promise he wished you could believe. But you didn’t. And he knew it. That terrified look on your face—it wasn’t part of the plan. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were supposed to understand. To forgive. To stay.

“The one piece missing,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “is you.”

You forced your voice out, your throat dry and scratchy. “Where is Natasha?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, like he was weighing how honest to be. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“She’s fine,” he said at last. “Unless you try to leave me. Then maybe not.”

Your breath hitched.

“I admire you, you know,” he continued, tone unnervingly gentle. “Even after everything she’s done to you… you still helped her. You still cared.” He leaned closer, voice almost reverent. “You’re different. Completely different from all of us.”

There was something too smooth in his voice now. Too careful. He was speaking sweetly, lovingly—but it tasted like poison. The tension in the air was unbearable. It coiled around your throat.

“Why… why are you doing this?” you whispered.

He blinked. Then his eyes widened, surprised you even had to ask.

“Is it not clear enough?” he said, softly.

He leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. And then—finally—he let it spill.

“I never apologized to you. Not once,” he said, eyes unfocused, voice lowering. “I made your life hell. I ruined it. Because I blamed your family for stealing my dad.”

Each word came like a confession he’d been holding for years. His face twisted, as if the weight of it all was finally too much.

“I made everyone hate you in school. Every cruel rumor, every whispered lie—I was the one pulling the strings. I was the designer of your misery.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Couldn’t.

“But then I found out it wasn’t your family’s fault.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Your mother had cut ties with Alex. Your mother never wanted anything to do with him again. It was him. My dad. He was the one who couldn’t let go.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“He listened to her wish… but he never stopped watching her. Wanting her. Imagine that—seeing the woman you love every day and knowing you can’t have her.” He looked up at you, and this time, there was something broken in his eyes. “That’s how I feel when I see you.”

You stared, frozen. It was too much. Too fast.

“After graduation, I ran. Left the town. I was ashamed. I studied overseas to get away. But I never stopped thinking about you.” He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “I lost my mind. I know that. I went too far.”

He looked back at you. “I orchestrated everything. Jake, Natasha losing his job. Thor and Steve—those accidents weren’t accidents. I’m the reason their lives fell apart.”

Your stomach dropped. “You… you’re the one who—?”

“I’m the mastermind,” he said without flinching.

You felt cold spread through your entire body.

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because they deserved it. I deserved it.” His voice cracked—finally cracking.

You wanted to scream. To run. But your voice caught in your throat. You stared at the man in front of you—this boy who once haunted your high school halls with smirks and whispered threats—now grown, twisted, obsessed.

He leaned forward again. “All I ever wanted to hear from you… just once… was this: ‘Thank you, Bucky, for what you’ve done. You punished everyone who made my life hell.’”

You looked at him, blinking through the disbelief.

“…No,” you said quietly. “You’ll never hear that from me. You’re not a judge. You’re just obsessed with rewriting the past.”

His face faltered. His expression cracked open like a window in a storm. Disappointment flashed like lightning across it. For a long, long second, he didn’t say anything.

Then he stood.

“Just rest,” he murmured. His tone was resigned. “Soon, you’ll appreciate what I’ve done.”

He walked to the door and closed it behind him with a heavy click.

You sat frozen for a beat, then launched yourself from the bed. Your legs trembled but you forced them to move. You ran to the window—locked. You rattled the door—also locked.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself. You finally realized. You were trapped.

Days passed.

You didn’t know how many. The room blurred into itself—same sheets, same soft lamps, same suffocating stillness. Bucky came every day. Brought food. Always calm. Always too sweet. Like this was normal. Like you belonged here.

You never ate.

Until one day, he set the tray down and said:

“Do you want me to put a strap on you so you can eat?”

That made your blood run cold.

“No,” you said quickly.

You picked up the spoon.

After that, he changed. Loosened.

You weren’t confined to the room anymore. You could walk. Breathe.

And when you finally stepped out—barefoot, heart hammering—you realized the truth.

You weren’t in a facility. You weren’t in a bunker.

You were in his home.

A beautiful, sterile house tucked away in the woods, where no one could hear you scream.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The house was quiet—too quiet. Every footstep echoed like a warning. The walls were white, sterile, with picture frames that felt too curated to be real. As you followed the faint sound of murmuring, your heart thudded louder with each step.

Then, you saw her.

Lydia sat in a dimly lit lounge, slouched in a faded armchair that had likely once been elegant. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in thin slashes of daylight that made her skin look almost translucent. Her frame had withered into itself. Collarbone sharp, wrists too delicate. A robe hung off her body like it belonged to someone else. On the table before her—dozens of pill bottles scattered like forgotten chess pieces. Half-empty. Some knocked over. Some with their labels torn off.

You froze. You didn’t mean to stare, but the shock rooted you.

She noticed. Her bloodshot eyes flicked toward you. Her voice was raspy, drained from something that went far deeper than exhaustion. “I wish I never gave birth to him,” she said, like she was coughing up venom.

You blinked, stunned—but only for a moment. “Every child is a blessing,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected. “He became like this because of you. And your husband.”

The slap came in words. “You bitch!”

The hiss of her voice cut the air just as—

“Mother.” Bucky’s voice, sharp and low, sliced through the tension like a blade.

Both you and Lydia turned. His shadow filled the doorway. The moment his eyes landed on you, something in them flickered—panic, protectiveness, maybe even guilt.

“Don’t you ever speak to her like that again,” he said, jaw clenched. He stepped further inside.

Lydia didn’t flinch. She scoffed, picked up a pill bottle, turned it in her hand. “It’s not like she understands your feelings. Just like her mother. Playing every man’s heart like a toy.”

The room dropped ten degrees.

He exhaled—long and heavy. A quiet fury, tightly reined in. Then, with a hand lightly on your back, Bucky guided you out.

The hallway swallowed the confrontation behind you. He didn’t speak until you were out of sight from her door.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said quietly. “She won’t talk to you like that again.”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes stayed ahead. His hand lingered on your back like it belonged there—but it didn’t.

There was a pause. Then he tried again, gentler this time. “I’ve prepared dinner. For the two of us.”

You stopped walking. His words hung in the air, brushing your skin like invisible wires.

Your stomach curled at the thought—but what were your choices? Say no and risk another version of a locked room? Say yes and play the part?

You nodded. Just once.

That was all he needed. His entire face softened with relief, lips curving in a small smile—as if your silence meant progress. As if he believed he was winning you over.

He didn’t know your silence was survival. He didn’t know every nod you gave was calculated.

Still, that smile... it chilled you more than his threats ever did.

The dining room was beautiful, and wrong.

A chandelier spilled warm light over the long table, casting soft shadows that danced on polished wood. The clink of cutlery, the glow of red wine in crystal glasses, and the soft music playing somewhere far in the background tried to sell a lie: that this was normal. That you were just another couple sharing dinner in a grand home.

The food was plated perfectly—steak, mashed potatoes, a side of greens. The wine bottle stood tall between you, uncorked. But your appetite was buried beneath nausea.

Bucky poured the wine with practiced ease. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms relaxed—but his eyes never left you.

He smiled. “The mayor will retire this year.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I’ll replace him,” he said calmly, as if it were already set in stone. “You’ll be the hospital director. Both of us… ruling this town. Like it’s meant to be.”

You stared at him, fork trembling in your hand. “I don’t want to.”

He set down his glass, jaw twitching. “This is a good thing. Why do you always reject me?”

“Because you’re not giving me choices, you’re giving me cages.”

“I gave you everything!” His voice cracked against the walls. “Respect, power, a future! And you act like I’m the villain!”

“You are the villain!” you shouted, shoving your chair back. “You stalked me, drugged me, locked me up—! You think because you cooked me dinner, I’m supposed to fall in love with you?”

His face contorted. “Don’t you—don’t you dare pretend like you didn’t ever want this. That you didn’t dream of getting out of your pathetic little life and being someone.”

Your heart pounded like a war drum. “Never.”

Then silence.

Your hand moved before your thoughts caught up.

CRASH. The bottle of wine shattered against the side of his head.

Bucky staggered back, red staining his temple—wine or blood, you didn’t know. He crumpled to the floor with a groan.

You didn’t wait to see if he’d get back up.

Your breath hitched as you turned and ran.

The house twisted around you like a labyrinth. You turned corners blindly until you burst into the lounge again—and saw Lydia, still slouched on the couch.

“Lydia!” You rushed to her, shaking her gently. “We have to go!”

She didn’t move.

You leaned in—her chest didn’t rise. Her skin was pale. Eyes open, staring at nothing.

Dead.

“Kyaaaa!!” The scream ripped from your throat. You stumbled back, hitting the table, collapsing to the floor as your body curled in on itself. Your stomach turned. Did he do this? Had she overdosed? Did she… give up?

Your eyes darted. A lighter sat next to her on the side table. You grabbed it. You didn’t know why. Maybe you wanted to burn the whole damn house down.

You ran again, frantic, feet flying over hardwood.

“Natasha!” you shouted, voice cracking. “Natasha!!”

“She’s dead too.”

You skidded to a stop, turned—

Thor. He stood at the end of the hallway like a nightmare, too broad, too quiet, too solid to move past.

Your stomach dropped. No. No, not him too.

You ran. He followed.

You ducked into the study, your lungs screaming. Bookshelves loomed around you, walls of knowledge offering no safety.

You threw yourself into the wardrobe, door creaking shut behind you. You held your breath.

Darkness swallowed you. You crouched in silence, heart hammering like it might betray you. And then—something cold pressed against your back.

You reached slowly. The shape, the curve, the steel.

Footsteps creaked into the room. Thor's voice rumbled, cold and close. “Give up. You can’t run away.”

You didn’t breathe. But you whispered, just loud enough:

“Behind you.”

A pause. His boots shifted. He turned.

BANG. A sharp crack exploded in the air. Thor jerked, eyes wide in shock, as the bullet tore into his chest.

He dropped like a tree.

You stepped out of the wardrobe, hands trembling but steady enough to hold the cold weight of the shotgun. The bullet belt was slung across your shoulder, heavy against your chest, metal clinking with each slow, deliberate step.

Thor lay on the floor, still breathing—barely. Blood soaked through his shirt, seeping into the carpet, dark and thick. His broad chest rose and fell with ragged effort. His eyes met yours—wide, glassy, full of disbelief. The great enforcer of the house, brought down by you.

He choked, mouth twitching with one last breath.

“Where is she?” Your voice was ice. No fear, just fire beneath your skin.

His throat clicked as he forced out his final words.

“In the basement.”

You didn’t thank him. Didn’t hesitate.

You marched through the twisted halls, shotgun clutched in your hands, past the portraits of smiling liars and rotting love. The house felt alive now, breathing smoke and secrets with every creaking board.

The basement door was hidden behind a curtain, locked with a deadbolt. You smashed it open with the butt of the gun. The staircase creaked beneath your feet as you descended into the dark. Each step down was a step into the pit of your nightmares.

The air was damp. Cold. The hum of a single flickering bulb buzzed above you like a dying insect.

And there she was.

Natasha. Strapped to a wooden chair.

Her head slumped to the side. Her skin was pale. Lips faintly blue.

You dropped the shotgun.

“No—no, no, no…” you whispered, stumbling forward. You fell to your knees in front of her and shook her shoulders. Her arms dangled limp.

“Nat, please—” Your voice cracked into a sob. “Please wake up. Please." You cried for her. A future ahead of her was taken away. She could have started a new chapter.

You pressed your fingers to her wrist. Nothing.

You let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream, but wasn’t human either. The kind of grief that breaks something in you forever.

You stood, staggered back, fists clenching.

You hated him. This house. This bloodline. This lunatic fantasy he built on the bones of others.

Your eyes scanned the basement—rage sharpening your vision. You saw shelves of chemicals. Canisters. A broken-down workbench. Oil drums.

You grabbed one. The liquid inside sloshed like gasoline. You ripped the lid off and poured it over the floor, over the walls, over Natasha’s lifeless cage. You grabbed another. And another. Until the stench of fuel choked the air.

Your hands found the lighter in your pocket. You flicked it.

Click. Flick. Flame.

The fire danced to life—hungry, beautiful, merciless.

“You wanted an empire,” you spat through your teeth as the flames caught. “Here’s your goddamn legacy.”

The fire swallowed the basement like it had been waiting for this moment. Flames curled up the walls. Smoke billowed toward the ceiling, thick and black. The heat pulsed against your skin.

You grabbed the shotgun again and ran.

The house moaned as you sprinted through it, fire chasing your heels. Furniture cracked. Glass shattered from the heat. Flames kissed the staircase and licked the paintings off the walls.

You reached the front door, lungs burning. Just as your fingers touched the doorknob—

“Click.”

“BANG!”

The shot rang past your head, grazing the wood beside your face.

You turned—heart in your throat—and there he was.

Bucky. Blood ran down his temple, staining his white shirt crimson. His left eye was swollen, but he still held the shotgun like it was an extension of his body. His smile was twisted, more unhinged than ever.

“I see you’ve found my grandfather’s treasure.”

The fire crackled behind you. The heat rose between you both like hell itself opening wide.

The barrel of your shotgun tilted up just slightly. The smoke clawed at your throat, but you didn’t blink.

“It’s a good toy,” you said, cold and calm, voice carrying over the snapping fire.

Bucky’s face broke into a wide grin, teeth flashing like a madman’s mask. “Hahaha… this is the Y/N I remembered.” His laugh twisted into something unhinged, echoing through the burning house. Then, abruptly, his tone dropped, eerily calm again—like the switch of a broken man trying to hold on. “I won’t hurt you. Just put the gun down… and we’ll start over.” His voice softened. Hopeful. Like nothing around you was turning to ash.

Your grip tightened on the shotgun.

“We?” you whispered. “There’s no we.”

His smile faltered. And that was all it took.

Something broke behind his eyes.

“Well, since I asked nicely…” He lifted his shotgun with mechanical precision. “I’ll use the hard way.”

“Shit!” You threw yourself behind the overturned dining table as a blast ripped through the air.

The house shook as both of you started firing—BOOM! BOOM! The walls cracked, glass shattered above you, and the fire groaned like it wanted blood. You ducked behind a pillar, breath short, heat blistering.

“Who taught you how to shoot?” Bucky shouted from behind a smoky corner.

You peeked through the flames and yelled back, “Ransom’s grandfather.” Another shot. Another duck. “I spent summers with the Drysdales. Harlan taught me how to shoot wild animals.”

You could almost hear Bucky’s eye twitch.

“Tsk.”

The moment he emerged—you fired. The shot caught his shoulder.

“Arrrgh!” He screamed and crashed into the wall, gripping his bleeding arm. He looked down at the blood like it betrayed him.

His voice was hoarse now, but desperate. “Why do we have to hurt each other? Don’t you understand why I’m doing all this? It’s for you!”

You crouched low, creeping behind the smoke-thick curtains, hands slick with sweat and soot. You found a corner with partial cover and aimed again.

“Why?” you demanded, voice cutting through the chaos.

Bucky stood crookedly, one arm limp at his side. “Because I love you.” He said it like it justified everything. His voice cracked. His eyes burned more than the fire ever could.

You stared at him from across the scorched room.

Your lips parted.

Your voice dropped, quiet but lethal.

“We can’t be together. Not in this life… or another… not even in your dreams.”

The words hit him like a second bullet.

He didn’t scream.

He laughed.

But it was broken—manic—a dry, cracked hysteria. “HAHAHAHA!” Tears welled in his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, shaking with laughter that wasn’t joy. “After everything I’ve done for you…” His smile collapsed into grief. “It won’t matter. Nobody will believe you. I’ll burn it all down. I’ll frame you. I’ll make it look like you killed Lydia… Natasha… Thor. You know what I’m capable of.”

The flames hissed louder, licking the ceiling. A chandelier fell behind him, shattering into sparks.

Silence fell, thick and heavy.

Then your voice returned—low, confident, and chilling.

“Are you sure about that?”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

Then—a voice played. His voice.

From a recorder buried deep in the folds of your jacket. From somewhere you left playing just loud enough for him to hear.

“…so you’re the one who made Jake and Natasha lose their jobs, made Thor and Steve have that accident that ruined their careers?”

His voice. Calm. Boastful. Careless.

Then: “Yes. I’m the mastermind.”

Bucky’s eyes widened in horror. His mind couldn’t keep up with the trap snapping shut around him.

And then—he laughed again. Not maniacally.

This time, it was hollow. Like everything had finally cracked.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured. Almost with reverence. Even in his dying moment, he can't keep up with you.

You stood a little taller, your finger near the trigger. “You still have the chance to pay for your sins. To stop. To do one thing right.”

But the fire was already consuming the hallway. The walls behind him were collapsing.

And then he spoke.

His voice was quieter now. “It’s too late for me.” He wasn’t yelling anymore.

The world had gone quiet—but not in peace. It was the silence of something dying. The kind that came before a scream.

All around you, the fire surged higher, roaring like a beast finally let off its leash. Heat pressed in from every direction. The wallpaper curled. Beams cracked overhead, moaning as the structure gave up.

Then— CRACK—THUD!

A burning wooden beam split from the ceiling and crashed just inches from your body.

“Kyaa!” You stumbled back, shielding your face from the embers that flew like angry sparks. Your lungs choked on smoke, and your heart pounded so violently it rattled your ribs.

Then—his voice cut through the inferno like a ghost reaching out.

“Y/N.”

It wasn’t angry. Not like before. It was… still. Too calm.

“Could you look at me?” he said gently. “I won’t shoot you.”

You froze, back against the singed remains of a bookshelf. Slowly, you lifted your head.

Your eyes met his.

He stood on the staircase above you, framed by flames, his shadow long and flickering behind him. Ash clung to his hair. Blood soaked through his shirt. His shotgun hung loosely at his side.

But his eyes— They didn’t hold rage anymore. Only something final.

“You have to go out now,” he said, voice strained but firm.

Your throat tightened.

“You too.”

He shook his head once, slowly. That same soft smile lingered on his lips, cracked and bleeding.

“There’s no redemption for me.”

The floor beneath him creaked—sickening, ready to collapse. You stepped forward anyway, fists clenched.

“Y/N, listen.”

You stopped. Your eyes burned—not from the smoke.

And then he smiled. That broken, tender smile. Tear stains cut through the soot on his face, streaks of something too human for a monster.

“Remember me like this,” he said, voice trembling. “Just this last time. I love you. Even after you shot me… burned my house… my love for you never changed.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

You stood in the glow of the inferno, unable to move, unable to breathe. Maybe it was the smoke. Maybe it was the heartbreak.

He sighed—a long, tired sound. Like he had hoped for something that never came.

And even now, you still wouldn’t say it.

His expression didn’t shift. Not this time. There was no anger, no madness left.

Just… surrender.

“Goodbye.”

He didn’t hesitate.

In one swift movement, Bucky brought the shotgun to his chin.

BANG!

The sound shattered the air like thunder.

“BUCKY!” you screamed, a raw, guttural sound that ripped from your throat.

His body crumpled backward—limp, weightless—before the flames swallowed the staircase whole. You ran toward him, but the fire surged up the bannister like it wanted to keep him. Keep his secrets. Keep you out.

“BUCKY!!”

But he was gone.

The smoke clawed at your lungs, the heat forced you back. You stumbled out of the collapsing house, the sky above black with ash, your scream echoing long after the fire silenced everything else.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

The house, a shell of its former self, was now nothing but a smoldering ruin. The fire had devoured everything—walls caved in, timbers fell in a fiery collapse, leaving nothing but ashes. The sirens from paramedics and police vehicles pierced the air, but even their arrival seemed distant, the weight of what had happened still pressing down on you.

They didn't even bother to check on you. The paramedics only moved in to assess the damage, eyes steely and distant. The local police moved past you with barely a glance, their focus solely on the charred remains of the house.

You stood there, isolated, the weight of the world in your chest.

Then, a voice broke through the haze. “Y/N!”

It was Jake’s voice—loud, relieved, and so familiar it almost made you crack.

You turned and saw him, rushing toward you with Ransom, Steve, and your dad right behind him. They were a shield, a reminder of something you thought you'd lost.

“Guys…” you whispered, a tremor running through your voice.

Jake’s face softened, but his brow furrowed in concern. He reached out for you, but before any of them could get too close, the local sheriff stepped forward, blocking them with a hardened stare.

“She’s the prime suspect,” the sheriff said flatly, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Ransom’s jaw tightened. His eyes, always calculating, now burned with anger.

“Prime suspect? She's a victim here! She was kidnapped! We've been looking for her!" Ransom spat, stepping forward aggressively. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

The sheriff didn’t flinch, his stance unwavering. But Ransom wasn’t done. He turned to Jake, who was still standing back, his expression a mix of disbelief and frustration.

“We’ve got a lawyer here. The Chief of Police is already on their way.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “And that’s supposed to mean something?”

Before anyone could respond, a black SUV pulled up, its tires screeching on the gravel. The door swung open, and out stepped a tall, authoritative figure in a dark suit—Chief of Police.

The sheriff’s expression shifted, uncertainty flickering for just a moment. His shoulders stiffened, a visible sign of tension as the Chief of Police approached.

The Chief of Police ignored the sheriff entirely and walked straight up to you, his eyes locking with yours for a brief moment. He gave a small nod, a silent signal that you were no longer alone in this.

“Chief…” the sheriff stammered, unsure of what to say.

The Chief of Police didn’t answer at first. Instead, he turned his gaze to Ransom, who had a smug look on his face.

“That’s enough, right?” Ransom asked, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

The Chief of Police raised a hand, signaling for quiet, then finally spoke.

The local sheriff and his deputies stood frozen, their mouths agape as they watched the Chief of Police back you up. This was clearly a scene they weren’t prepared for.

You sighed, the weight of everything slowly lifting from your shoulders. You reached into your jacket bag and pulled out the evidence—the recording.

You handed it to the Chief of Police, watching as his eyes scanned over it. Bucky’s voice crackled through the speakers, his confession echoing in the silence around you.

“This is it,” you said quietly. “He was behind it all.”

Ransom leaned in, crossing his arms, a satisfied smirk still on his face. “You know what to do next.”

The Chief of Police paused for a moment, then looked at the sheriff. “That’s enough. She’s free. You can��t touch her.”

The sheriff’s face twisted in confusion and anger, but he couldn’t do anything. Not now.

The Chief of Police turned to you, offering a rare, genuine smile. “You’re safe now.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, and you let out a long breath, finally feeling the release you so desperately needed. This fight—it was over.

But there was one last thing you needed to say.

You caught Ransom’s eye, and without a word, you slipped him a small nod. A code only the two of you would understand.

'The Contract Has Terminated means I’m going to die. Help.'

The remainder of those dark days, the dangerous people you’d encountered, flashed briefly through your mind. Working in investment had always meant navigating treacherous waters.

You were free. And, for once, you didn’t have to run anymore.

Finally, this nightmare of yours is over.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

Epilogue

1 Year Later

You returned to work with Ransom again. After everything he’d done to you, you felt like you owed him a lot. Yet, over time, you noticed a change in his behavior towards you. He didn’t want you to get hurt anymore. His actions were more protective now, almost as though he cared in ways he hadn’t before. And he's less of an asshole than before. Perhaps there could be romance between you two? There's a chance.

As for Tom, your dad, he had recovered from his kidney surgery. He decided to stay in the city and live with you, enjoying his retirement. He found a new community at a local golf club, which you had encouraged him to join. There, he met many new friends—surprisingly, more than you had. Living in the city seemed to suit him well.

Steve, on the other hand, had become a famous artist, just like he’d always dreamed. He traveled the world, and he made sure to pay what he owed you. He never forgot how you opened the door to him when he needed it most. Sometimes, Mr. Rogers would even travel with him, and they would share stories about their adventures.

As for Jake, with your evidence and the help of lawyers, he was able to clear his name. He got his old job back, while his mother continued her travels around the world on a cruise.

Everyone had moved on, yet you couldn’t shake the memories of what had happened in that town. The scars it left on you were deep. You still went to therapy to work through the trauma, but even now, there were nights when the haunting images resurfaced. The weight of those moments stayed with you, lingering in the corners of your mind, reminding you that some things, no matter how hard you tried, would never truly leave.

Until one day, Steve visited you and handed you a letter. It was from Bucky. You didn’t want to open it. You placed it on the table, where it remained untouched for a month. Eventually, you found the courage to open it. Taking a deep breath, you read the letter:

“I can’t think of a better way to defend what I’ve done for you. It was bad. I acted like a judge to punish people.

Still, you don’t deserve it. I robbed your childhood, your teenage years.

Every day, I thought to myself: What if I never meant to you? What if we were friends? What if you never hated me? What if we loved each other? What if you don’t hate me after I’m gone?

I write this letter to you in case I’m gone. My love for you never changed.

Hate me all you want, but I knew you would never be able to forget me. Just like the town where we grew up, the one we hated the most.”

You regretted opening the letter. You couldn’t stand reading his words anymore. Grabbing a lighter, you burned it, watching the paper curl and blacken in the flames.

How you wished you could make him see how wrong he was.

After that day, everything in the town began to change. The mayor’s corruption was exposed, the illegal casino shut down, and the bodies that Thor had buried in the forest were discovered. Bucky’s schemes, the ones that led to his own mother’s death, Natasha’s murder, and the malpractice by Dr. Stark, were all unveiled. Both he and the mayor would rot in jail for the rest of their lives.

As for Natasha, you built a grave for her. You couldn’t hold on to the past anymore because, in the end, Natasha was also a victim—just like you.

Ransom was furious and wanted to rid the town of its rotten core. He transformed the once-dying town into an exclusive area, completely changing its landscape. The Barnes residence, a symbol of Bucky’s twisted life, was turned into a flower park. No business, no reminders—just peace.

The town was unrecognizable, and the letter Bucky sent was nothing but a lie. It felt wrong in every possible way.

You realize that you've kept living and breathing since that day, and everything is different. You don't let that day make you afraid. You’re still able to go outside, meet people, and work. And that damn town has changed too.

You raised your middle finger to the ground and muttered, “Fuck you, Bucky. Rot in hell.”

-The End.-

Woohoo... finally, it's done!!!

I never thought I could complete this story. I realize that writing mystery stories is more difficult than the other stories I’ve written.

Thank you to everyone who has been following this story from the beginning.

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing is FREE on Kindle for a few days. Check it out!

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Make The Jump

This is a new Four/ Tobias Eaton imagine from Divergent, I hope you will all like it.

Please let me know what you think.

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Main Masterlist

Summary: While out patrolling the wall and trying to do her work, (Y/n) ends up getting hurt. But she tries to look after herself and make her own way back to Dauntless.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain had finally stopped. (Y/n) liked it when it rained; at least when she was inside and it was raining out. Lying in bed like this, listening to the sound of the rain battering against the windows and beating along the old building they lived in, it was soothing. The rain was sensory.

The only time (Y/n) didn't like the rain was when she was out and trying to work. Climbing buildings or trying to climb up scaffolding to get on the train to get back to Dauntless was harder when it rained. Hands slipped, shoes lost their grip, it was easier to plummet down and break bones or gain cuts or sprain limbs and it was much harder to get back to their faction when they were hurt.

The other factions weren't as dangerous as Dauntless. They didn't have to run and climb and scale buildings to get back home. They didn't have to climb the fence to guard the city. They didn't have to try and shoot targets and aim guns and weapons and throw knives when it was raining. The rain made it harder to find targets and see clearly.

But right now, as (Y/n) laid in her room, it had been calming to listen to the rain before it finally ceased.

The clouds were starting to clear now, and the sun was just beginning to rise. It wouldn't be long before she had to get ready; Dauntless always rose with the morning sun.

With her head angled down and her right elbow propping her up, (Y/n) stretched her left hand out towards the other person laid in bed with her.

After starting off as an initiate and having to share a dorm with over ten other people for weeks on end, going back to having a room of her own almost didn't seem real. It felt odd. But (Y/n) didn't have a room of her own, not technically. She shared a small apartment with Tobias, now that she was officially in Dauntless and not at risk of becoming factionless.

(Y/n) liked it. She liked having the apartment to themselves, a space they could call their own that they didn't have to share with anyone else and where they could be alone. And having a proper bed rather than a flimsy cot bed that was crammed in between other bunks, it was so much better.

And the view. Their apartment had windows, something the initiates didn't have in the dorms and although the view of the city was both beautiful and haunting, being able to witness the rain or see the sun rising and setting behind the clouds, it was something special. Tobias liked the view too, despite his well hidden fear of heights.

(Y/n) tried her best to be quiet and careful when she trailed her hand out towards Tobias. He was laid on his front with his face buried in the pillow and one leg dangling off the side of the bed. And with the cover halfway down his back, it allowed (Y/n) a good view of the ink displayed across his back.

Her touch was light, almost like a feather gliding over the lines penned into Tobias's back. She traced the straight and slanted lines like she was drawing over them or colouring them in before the pad of her index finger pressed down against each of the five circles going down over the columns of his spine. The factions. Each a part of Tobias, each a home he could have chosen to go into if he wanted to.

When she traced her hand back up over each of the symbols, (Y/n) switched back to drawing over the lines which curved over his shoulders and crept around his neck like snakes. (Y/n) liked the way the lines crept around Tobias, they were almost like armour to protect him. And she liked that it curved around his waist and over his hips too and how the pointed end of the lines rested on his abdomen, but she couldn't see those points with how Tobias was currently sleeping on his front.

She wondered what it must have felt like when Tobias got this tattoo done, the pain must have been overwhelming to get all of this ink done in one session. And she wondered what he told the artist who did this for him. Did he tell them that he got this because Dauntless protected the rest of the factions?

Surely he couldn't have told them the truth. If someone knew he was Divergent, they wouldn't keep it to themselves. He would be taken to the inner city and locked away if people knew what he was.

"What're you doing?" Tobias didn't bother to open his eyes as he muttered the words under his breath.

His words caused (Y/n) to take a sharp breath and she paused her administrations, keeping her hand lightly placed on his shoulder where she had been tracing the top of his tattoo.

After a moment, (Y/n) glided her hand down from his shoulder so she was tracing along his bare arm instead. She didn't answer because they both knew what she had been doing. She had traced his tattoos a few times before and he always caught her staring whenever he got dressed. It was artwork, after all, and (Y/n) loved admiring art.

"That tickles, you know." This time, Tobias finally opened his bleary eyes and tried to look up at (Y/n) but it was a strain since she was sitting up and he was burrowed down into the pillows. He didn't mind, but she had started to tickle him.

(Y/n) murmured a quiet "Sorry," as she pushed off her elbow and shimmied down until she was laid back down beside him again.

Her hands rested on her chest and began to fiddle with the loose threads on her shirt while her head turned to the right so she was looking over at Tobias. And her feet began to press down and tap into the mattress while her knees pushed up into the air.

It wasn't often that (Y/n) would wake up before Tobias, or indeed before their alarm. But when (Y/n) partly woke up earlier and heard the rain, she decided to stay awake and watch the weather.

"Never said it was bad, just that it tickled. You okay?"

With little effort, Tobias stretched his right arm out until it was draped across (Y/n)'s waist. He used her as an anchor, shuffling closer until he was almost laid on top of her with his head shifting off the pillow and onto (Y/n)'s shoulder instead. He let his eyes fall closed as he inhaled her scent and wrapped himself around her like a blanket, threatening to fall back asleep even though he knew they both needed to be up soon.

"Yeah… wish we didn't have to get up soon though." It wasn't that (Y/n) didn't like the work they did here in Dauntless or that they got up early, that didn't bother her. But when they both got peace and privacy here in their apartment and they were so settled with each other, getting up and leaving this sanctity to go out into the city was a lot of effort and it was draining.

She felt Tobias murmur "Me too." into her neck which he pressed a subtle kiss to while he draped his leg over her thigh as if to ensure she couldn't escape his embrace anytime soon.

"What have you been assigned today?"

"Guarding the walls. You're training, aren't you?"

When Tobias hummed in agreement, (Y/n) turned her head a little more so she could attach her lips to his temple.

She didn't like going on guard duty, she found it boring. The city had large walls encasing them in for safety, and electric fencing and barbed wire. Dauntless were tasked with patroling the walls and making sure that no one tried to get out, and no one could come in. Not that there would actually be many people able to survive out there on the other side.

(Y/n) found it tiring to be switching from post to post around the walls, climbing the different look out points, checking the fencing. It wasn't as entertaining or fulfilling as going and getting supplies or cooking or making weapons and essentials or training the initiates.

But at least (Y/n) didn't have to do it all the time. If her job each and every day was to guard the walls, (Y/n) would go insane. But she got to do lots around the city, just like Tobias switched between training and getting supplies. They liked to keep Tobias mainly to training and learning the initiates because he was one of the best.

"It'll be over before you know it." Tobias knew it was the least favourite job (Y/n) liked doing, and he knew it could feel like the day was dragging on into an eternity. But at least it was just one day, and (Y/n) wouldn't be scheduled on that job again for days, probably even weeks.

(Y/n) hoped he was right. She hoped it wouldn't drag out into an eternity today. She just wanted an easy shift with no drama.

Her lips stayed pressed against Tobias's temple and her hand began to feather up and down his arm from his shoulder down to his elbow and back up again. At least for now, they could stay like this until the sun was higher in the sky and it was time to go.

***

Was boring the right word for this job? (Y/n) wasn't sure, but it seemed rather appropriate right now.

Her arms folded over the metal beam in front of her and her back arched out as she leaned forward, looking out onto the horizon. (Y/n) crossed one leg over the other as she stared down at the city that stood out like a bright shining star against the back drop of the wilderness behind them.

(Y/n) didn't like to turn around and look in the other direction, look on the other side of the wall she was currently stood on. There was nothing but dry, deserted land and crumbling buildings, long forgotten and ignored. Darkness stretched out on the other side of the city walls even in the middle of the day.

There was no point looking that way when there was no one out there and no one would be trying to break into the city. (Y/n) preferred to look this way, to keep an eye out for anyone who might try and sneak out of the city or cause havoc and mess around this close to the edge of their world.

She had been up here for a while now, observing and watching like a predator trying to find some prey to stalk.

There were a few other Dauntless scattered about on the other platforms lined along the city wall and even more doing patrols down on the ground on foot. They would rotate soon, someone would come and take (Y/n)'s place and she would get to have a wander about before she could finally go back home.

(Y/n) could feel her mind wandering away without her as she stared aimlessly ahead of her, not really looking at anything in particular.

But her senses came flooding back to her and her interest peaked when she heard the beginning of raised voices. Her head turned to the right and she narrowed her eyes, scanning her surroundings until she realised what was going on.

There were three teens, looking not much older than sixteen or seventeen, and they were trying to climb up one of the other viewing platforms along the city wall.

It wasn't clear from this distance what they were trying to do, whether they wanted to climb up and see the view, whether they thought they could mess around and try to be on patrol up here too. Or if they were trying to find a way to get over the wall. (Y/n) wasn't sure, but she knew that they needed to leave. No one was allowed out here, only the few people from Dauntless assigned to guard the walls could be here. No one else in the city could just wander this far out into the desolate areas and hang around or try and break out. It didn't work that way.

With a sigh, (Y/n) straightened up and clicked her back into place before she turned and climbed over the edge of the platform.

It didn't take her long to scale down to the floor and once she was down, she jogged towards the next platform. The closer she got, the more comotion she could hear and it made her sigh. At least this would make her day more interesting.

(Y/n) flexed her fingers and began the climb up the tower, it was much like climbing the scaffolding to get onto the train platform. Dauntless were known for not taking the easy route, they climbed and hiked and used unusual methods. Stairs were too simple for them.

She heard them arguing before she saw them. Halfway up the platform, (Y/) could hear the teens, and she could hear Jay telling them to go back to where they had come from. Jay was a new Dauntless member who had barely gotten past the first phase by the skin of his teeth. (Y/n) wouldn't have put him on guarding the wall if it had been her choice.

"Come on, let us go and take a look."

"We wanna go past the wall. What's out there?"

"Nothing's out there." Jay didn't sound very convincing, which was odd in itself when he wasn't lying but he didn't sound like he was telling the truth either. There was nothing out there. Nothing that could be seen by the naked eye and it would take hours, days, possibly weeks to even find any sort of remnant out there.

Once (Y/n) finally got up the side of the platform, she climbed through and looked at the three boys. From looking at them, the only thing (Y/n) could tell was that they weren't from Dauntless. She didn't recognise any of them, and their clothing was very mix-matched with dark colours and a small hint of white peaking through. Maybe they didn't want anyone to know what faction they belonged to.

"You can't find anything exciting out there. You go over this wall, you don't come back so you'd better go home and pack a bag if you're serious."

(Y/n) folded her arms over her chest and angled her head to one side as she stared at the three of them, unamused.

If they wanted to go over that wall, they couldn't come back. Those were the rules set out by the Government and Dauntless had no choice but to uphold those rules. If they wanted to go, they needed to go and get some supplies because they wouldn't last very long out there.

One of them, the one who seemed to be the ringleader, looked (Y/n) up and down with a grimace before he shrugged and tried to look unabashed.

"We want to look."

"At what? The sun sets on the other side of the city." (Y/n) pointed behind them to signal where the sun would be setting in just a few hours. It set directly opposite them, if they wanted to watch the sunset from a view they had to go climb a building on the other side of the city. And there was no rubble or broken buildings or any form of life to see from here if they looked over the wall.

When the three of them peered over the wall, straining on their tiptoes to try and see absolutely nothing but dirt and sand, (Y/n) sighed.

"You've had a look, now go home."

(Y/n) wasn't sure which one of them started it.

She didn't know which one uttered 'or what?' under his breath and which one made the first shove, but it didn't matter in the end. What mattered was that one of them shoved Jay, another swung for (Y/n) and the third managed to get on the edge of the platform and climb onto the fencing on the wall. He scuttled rather slowly up the metal fencing, as if he would somehow be able to worm through the barbed wire without any tools or scissors or anything to help him.

And when (Y/n) looked across at Jay, she found herself sighing when he looked up before he turned away and reached out for one of the other boys closest to him. He didn't want to climb up the wall.

This was his post, this was his drama to deal with and yet (Y/n) was now embroiled in because she had been bored and she knew he couldn't handle this on his own.

With a grunt, (Y/n) took the gun off her back and rammed it into Jay's hand so she could climb up onto the side of the platform and clamber onto the fence. It had been a long time since she had tried to climb the wall and (Y/n) forgot just how much it hurt and dug into the palm of her hands when she gripped and started to scale the wall.

"Don't be an idiot." (Y/n) called out as she managed to catch up to the teen rather quickly.

She could see that he was out of breath already and he was struggling to keep climbing with how rough and sharp the fencing was and just how much further he would have to go if he truly wanted to make it to the top.

(Y/n) gave him a chance. When he looked down at her, she paused and let go with one hand so she could point down and signal for him to start going in the other direction. She wouldn't give him a hard time if he started to climb down rather than scale up.

He didn't seem to agree. He had committed and therefore he would try to continue. But it didn't work. He took another two feet up before (Y/n) simply grabbed him by the ankle and tugged. It was clear he wasn't the best with agility or balance and one yank on his foot caused his other foot to slip. Clinging on by his hands was too hard when the metal wires that made up the fence bit into his flesh from the strain.

With a scream, the boy let go and started to slide down the fencing, grappling for something to cling to without causing himself anymore pain.

It was pure luck that his foot got caught and (Y/n) looped her right arm through the fencing so she could reach her left hand out and grab his arm. She tugged on his arm until he got the hint and scrambled to hold onto the fencing again.

"Get down." She punctuated each word while she let go of him and started to slowly clamber down because she knew he wouldn't try again.

(Y/n) kept going ahead so she was beneath the boy, just in case he slipped or lost his balance again and she would be able to slow his fall and reach out for him. But he did better going down than he did trying to climb up.

That was, until they reached the platform.

Just as (Y/n) reached her foot out to try and stand on the wooden edge of the platform that was now vacant- since Jay had gotten the other two boys to get down to the ground- the boys above her slipped.

A screech left his lips and this time he let go of the fencing completely. His arms flailed out at his sides and his legs swung out to try and kick something or hook into the fencing, just do something to slow his fall. But all he managed to do was send his foot crashing into (Y/n) before she was safely on the platform.

The boy landed with a thud on the wooden platform, crashing into his back as he winded himself and lost the ability to breathe.

(Y/n)'s eyes snapped closed when his whole leg crashed into her shoulder and arm and he sent her crashing off balance. All the air in her lungs escaped her lips in a scream when she tumbled over the side of the platform and there was absolutely nothing (Y/n) could do or reach out for.

She had no choice but to fall.

Her arms encased to her chest and she twisted in the air. It felt like she was on the zip rope, gliding through the air, coursing through the city, in between buildings and through abandoned houses. For half a second, (Y/n) felt like a bird in flight.

Until she landed.

It felt like she landed on a bed of nails, and (Y/n) heard a definite crunch tear through her ears and tremble through her body. Something had broken and everything suddenly felt useless.

Tremors rattled through (Y/n)'s body and a broken cough spluttered past her lips along with a vain attempt at breathing which sounded more ragged and desperate than ever. It took more effort than (Y/n) would have liked for her to move her arms which had been pinned against her chest and when she flopped from her left side onto her back.

Her legs were shaking up and down and her body writhed as she coughed, tears streaking down her face. She couldn't pinpoint where the exact pain was, it felt like pain was just circulating through her blood making every inch of her body ache and twinge and feel like they had been severed.

By the time (Y/n) managed to sit herself up, a girl called Callie who had been on foot patrol around the wall, had rushed over. (Y/n) figured that Jay had set off after the boys since none of them were here anymore, they must have run and he followed after them. She wondered if he knew she had fallen and had run off anyway or if he had been in pursuit by the time she hit the ground. Not that it really mattered anymore.

"Oh God, (Y/n)! Are you alright?!" Concern dripped from Callie's voice as she slumped down to her knees.

She tried to reach out for (Y/n), but she coiled away before she could be touched. (Y/n) bowed her head forward and closed her eyes, still gasping for breath as she swayed from left to right, desperate to gain her sense of balance again as she tried to figure out what injuries she had.

Her right wrist felt tense and when she tried to twist it from side to side, a horrible shooting pain tore right up towards her fingernails. She had definitely sprained it.

She moved her hand towards her chest and started to feel around, but touching the left side of her ribs created a horrible burning pain like flames licking at her skin and she whimpered. So that had been the crunching noise; one or two ribs had snapped like twigs.

"H-help me up?" (Y/n) hated how quiet and desperate her voice sounded and she coughed and croaked, trying to seem more like herself again as she looked over at Callie.

She held her hands out, grateful when the blonde moved to crouch rather than kneel at her side and carefully stood up, pulling (Y/n) up with her.

Once she was on her feet, another blinding wave of pain tore through (Y/n) and she morphed a scream into a choked groan when pins and needles flooded her left leg. One hand reached down to feather across her knee and up her thigh. It might have dislocated in the fall, and something didn't feel right with her upper thigh, possibly another damaged muscle or tendon.

A muttering of "Oh fuck," spat beneath her breath and she bent her left foot until only the toe of her boot was touching the floor. All of her weight shifted onto her right leg and (Y/n) coiled her arms back to her chest, trying to balance herself on one leg.

"We need to get you back to Dauntless."

"I- I'll get someone to help me back, but you need to get him back to his Faction. Smart-arse tried climbing the wall." (Y/n) pointed up to the platform where the young boy hadn't bothered to get up or attempt to climb down yet.

He needed to be escorted back home so his parents and his faction knew what he had been trying to do. And if he was hurt, he would need to be taken to a doctor too.

(Y/n) could make her own way home, and if she found someone from her faction along the way who would help her get back, then that was okay. But (Y/n) didn't want to call out and ask for help. Everyone was busy and she could hobble back.

She was Dauntless, getting hurt didn't gain them the same sympathy and help that it did in other factions. Being in Dauntless meant powering on even when they were in pain. It meant doing their jobs and making their way back home or back into the city. Dauntless were the people that everyone relied on for strength and protection. It took a lot for (Y/n) to get into this faction and call it her home, she didn't want anyone to think or see her as weak.

Callie seemed sceptical about leaving (Y/n), but when she heard the young boy up on the platform weakly call out, she didn't seem to have a choice. She watched (Y/n) for a moment or two, making sure she was indeed alright hobbling away from the wall and trudging along the path before she climbed up the platform to help the boy.

(Y/n) stopped wiping the tears from her eyes after a while. She just let them fall because with each step of her right foot, she had to drag her left foot along the floor and yank her leg along behind her like a useless limb, a weight slowing her down. Baggage.

Her arms bound around her chest which seemed to both help and ignite the pain in her chest, but she didn't care. Her leg was her main issue and it was slowing her down. Although she was leaving her post early and heading back home, so it didn't matter how long it took her to get back. All that mattered was that she got herself back home. Somehow.

Getting back to the city streets rather than being in the grassy outskirts was a relief, but all the noise and the comotion made (Y/n)'s headache ignite.

It was getting harder to keep her eyes open and stop herself from squinting due to the headache behind her eyes. Everything was aching and pulsing, she could feel her heartbeat throbbing under every inch of skin and pounding in her ears like a drumbeat trying to block out all the other noises around her.

Screams built up at the back of (Y/n)'s throat but she managed to keep them at bay by sinking her teeth into her tongue and bowing her head so she didn't get too many strange looks from the few people she passed by.

She wanted to sit down, but she knew if she did, she wasn't going to be likely to get back up again and she couldn't just sit and wait for someone to find her and take pity on her and get her back home.

Dried and fresh tears stained her cheeks and her nose was running by the time she got back to a familiar street. Back to the scaffolding that held up the train line.

But when (Y/n) tilted her head back to look up for the train platform, a sudden thought crashed into her like lightning.

Oh God, how was she going to get up onto the train?

There weren't any stairs around here. She would have to walk at least a mile if she wanted to get to the one platform in the city that was still standing and still had stairs and a ramp to get to.

The train was only used by Dauntless, it took them home and circled around the city, everyone else used cars and the main streets, but the train was much quicker for Dauntless. And they all just climbed up. They each knew where the train would stop along the tracks so they could get on and this was one of those stops.

But (Y/n) was going to have to climb up the scaffolding to get onto the train.

She shook her hands out at her sides, feeling an ache in her chest that started to pulse now she didn't have her arms bound tight around her middle. Her right wrist clicked and spasmed but (Y/n) kept trying to move and rotate the joint. With a damaged leg, she needed all her upper strength to pull herself up there.

"Pretend Four's watching." (Y/n) mumbled to herself as she continued to stare up at the scaffolding.

If she thought about Tobias, it might make it easier to drag herself up there. Whenever she trained in front of him, (Y/n) always wanted to do her best. She wanted to show him her worth and make him give that small smile and the curt nod of his head that showed his approval.

Maybe if she imagined Eric watching her too, she might do this a little better. (Y/n) always hated when Eric watched because he wasn't like Tobias, he would pick out the problems with everything (Y/n)- or anyone else- did. Eric would tell her where she went wrong and when he observed her, (Y/n) felt like she made a million mistakes. He made her nervous, Tobias made her calm.

Her left hand was her stronger one right now, so (Y/n) reached up for the highest beam she could. And with her right hand, she looped her arm around the back of a pole, using her elbow to hold herself up rather than her hand or wrist.

Once her right foot was resting on a beam, (Y/n) glanced down and decided it would just be best to let her left leg hang limp like it was paralysed.

She tried to work in a rhythm, grab with her left hand, hook her right elbow and then hoist herself higher. But each time she moved up, her left leg banged against the scaffolding and sent shockwaves through her that almost made her let go and topple to the ground. Again.

"No, no please!" She could hear the train.

The scaffolding was starting to vibrate with that familiar sense of the train rumbling along the metal tracks further down the line. If she missed the train she would have to wait over half an hour for it to come back round again. She would have to stay up here like a sitting duck, waiting for the train to roll back around to her.

(Y/n) tried harder to go faster, but she was gasping and mewling at the agony pulsing through her entire body. The tracks started to shake even harder just as (Y/n) poked her head over the top of the beams.

Spit froffed past her lips and her nails scratched into the metal as she spread both arms out in front of her and gripped the beams. She used whatever muscle and force she had to drag herself up, banging her chest against the beams which made her cry out and scream.

Her right leg hooked over the side and she shuffled along her stomach until she was at the edge of the platform.

The train didn't come to a stop, not fully, but it slowed down significantly and that was all (Y/n) needed right now. She pushed up onto her right knee with her left leg stretched out behind her and with a deep breath, she lunged forward and army-rolled into the open door.

Broken sobs left her lips and her body was vibrating and pulsing on the floor of the carriage that was thankfully empty. Not another soul except (Y/n)'s broken form laid on the floor like a murder victim.

Her head ground back into the damp, cold floor and her arms bound around her chest as her legs stretched out and laid flat against the floor.

It took less than five minutes for the train to roll around to the Dauntless building where (Y/n) would need to get off.

How do I jump without gaining another injury? What about my leg?

A wave of sickness rolled through (Y/n) and she turned her head to one side, taking deep, bubbling breaths as she tried to calm herself down, but it wasn't working very well.

She would have to jump to get off the train. It wouldn't stop at Dauntless, it never did. But if she jumped, she was undoubtedly going to hurt her already damaged leg and she couldn't afford to do that or to gain another injury. And it wasn't as if she could just roll out of the train either, there was a gap between the track and the building. She would plummet to her death.

(Y/n) might need to stay on the train and loop around the city this time while she thought of a plan to get off.

It wasn't going to be easy.

***

Tobias rolled his head from left to right and clicked his neck into place while he pushed his weight onto his right foot that was pressed forward. He could see the train rolling around and his hands curled into fists as he got ready to climb aboard.

He took the plunge and jumped as soon as the first open door was in front of him. It wasn't the same as jumping on or off the train from the Dauntless building. That was a much bigger leap with a risk of falling, whereas it was near impossible to miss the train from here.

Once he was on, Tobias rolled his neck again and shook his hands at his sides. It had been a good change to venture out into the city today on a last minute errand rather than being stuck training the newest members of Dauntless.

But when Tobias just happened to glance around the train he thought- or rather presumed- would be empty, his brows furrowed and a slight jerk rolled through his system.

(Y/n).

What was she doing on the train this early? Why was she on her own? More importantly, why was she laid on the floor?

"Baby… what are you doing?" Apprehension flooded Tobias's voice as he quickly moved over to kneel down beside (Y/n). She was sat on the floor with her back up against the wall and her arms cocooned around her waist, but it was the fact that she was trembling which set Tobias on edge.

And when he leaned a bit closer and realised tears were drenching her cheeks, he felt his heart seize and miss a beat.

He reached his hand out and gently cupped (Y/n)'s chin so he could tilt her head back so they were finally looking at each other.

"Are you okay?"

(Y/n) wanted to nod, but she couldn't bring herself to lie to him, not when she knew Tobias wouldn't buy it for a moment. She settled on tilting her head down into his hand while she moved her hand out to curl around his wrist. She tried not to cling to him too tightly and she sat forward just a little so she wasn't slouched against the wall anymore.

Her eyes dragged up and down his frame, noticing the way he was crouching beside her with his knees parted out to the sides and his head inclined further towards her until their noses were almost touching.

"How long have you been on here?" Something told Tobias that (Y/n) hadn't gotten on this train at the stop before him. It was too far into the city when (Y/n) had been guarding the walls- if indeed that was where she had been this morning and she hadn't been diverted somewhere else like him.

He watched the contemplation in her eyes, mixed in with a flood of pain that made the unease inside Tobias multiply.

"A circuit, I think." (Y/n) lifted her other hand and spun her finger in a circle near her head to imply that she had gone around the whole loop on the train.

The train was an endless track, it went round and round the city and if you missed the last stop which was Dauntless, you had to wait and go round the whole track. (Y/n) had tried to think of a plan of action to get off the train, but all she had done was cry a little and rest and close her eyes while the motion of the train made her feel sick with every jostle and shake.

"Okay, care to tell me why?"

Confusion was the main thing Tobias felt as he tried to balance his weight from his toes to his heels. His head angled to the side while his thumb traced along (Y/n)'s cheek.

She had gone round a circuit on the train, something he knew his girlfriend would never do. She wasn't one for sitting and dwelling, especially not on the train. It wasn't exactly a fun ride to go round and (Y/n) wasn't sat here to think things over. That wasn't what she did.

His thumb continued to glide across her skin while he held his breath ad tried to calm his system down. He could feel himself starting to panic because something was clearly wrong and he didn't know what to do about it or how to make it better.

"Had an accident today, couldn't find the energy to make the jump." (Y/n) couldn't look up at Tobias as she spoke, so she moved her free hand to point to her leg which was stretched out in front of her.

Tobias hadn't thought to look for injuries. With the way (Y/n) was sitting, he presumed she was panicking about something or upset.

He shuffled a few paces back so he could reach down and look at her left leg that was next to him. He couldn't help but wince when he carefully rolled up the cuff of her trousers as much as they would go. Her ankle had twisted, it looked like it was swelling and the lightest touch made (Y/n)'s breathing pattern change.

But her knee looked worse. Her knee was swollen and clearly dislocated and locked in place so Tobias didn't want to risk touching or trying to move her leg. He hadn't done any medic training, he wouldn't be the best person to put her joint back into place and he didn't want to try.

"Well the knee is busted. Any other injuries I need to know about baby?"

When (Y/n) muttered "Maybe a broken rib," and moved her hand to her chest, Tobias rolled his lips together to supress a sigh.

She had gotten quite a few bad injuries today, and Tobias hadn't even been there with her. She had been going around on this train with a busted leg and some broken ribs and Tobias dreaded to think what might have happened if he hadn't of turned up when he did. She might have gone around a few times trying to come up with a plan. She may have tried to brave the jump and gotten hurt again or worse still, she could have missed the jump and fallen.

"Then I guess we'll have to make the jump together, won't we?"

(Y/n) cast her eyes up towards Tobias and looked between him and the window. They didn't have long before the train would reach their stop, and they would have to move quick but be careful at the same time. If they jumped wrong (Y/n) could hurt herself further or land on Tobias and hurt him by mistake.

Reaching out, (Y/n) moved her arms and carefully looped both arms around the back of Tobias's neck, reeling him in closer. She took a moment to rest their temples together and pressed a kiss to his lips. If he hadn't of gotten on the train, if Tobias hadn't been moved at short notice to come into the city for an errand, then (Y/n) would have done this alone.

There was always a chance she wouldn't have managed it, and she didn't want to speculate what could of happened to her. But it was a saving grace, a relief, that Tobias was here now.

He wasn't going to tease her like some of the others in their faction might. He wouldn't roll his eyes or huff or be cruel like Eric and tell her to do it herself without help and prove herself, even though she wasn't an initiate anymore.

Tobias would help because it was in his nature to look out for others, and because he loved her. (Y/n) hadn't asked for help, but she didn't need to. He wouldn't watch her suffer or try and get through this on her own when she didn't have to. He was here and he was going to help her.

He almost lost himself in the feeling of her fingertips grazing along the back of his neck and scratching at the short hairs up and down his neck and the back of his skull. He could of stayed there for hours, crouching in front of her with her arms around his neck and their lips becoming bruised as their kisses got deeper and harsher.

But he pulled back, struggling for air and feeling like his lips were swelling up and his dark eyes stared into (Y/n)'s while his mouth formed one of those sensitive smiles that only (Y/n) got to witness.

"Let's get you up."

(Y/n) kept her arms looped around his neck while he settled his hands on her waist and tried to balance his weight on his toes. Once Tobias pushed up, (Y/n) tried to lean some of her weight forward onto him so it was easier to stand on her right leg. As before, she had to bend her left knee, causing the joint to creak and pulse like it was being stabbed directly into the cartilage and (Y/n) smothered a groan as best she could.

She pressed her face down into Tobias's shoulder, breathing through clenched teeth as she bent her foot so the toes of her boot were pressed down into the floor to stabilise herself.

"Are you good?" Tobias kept his voice so quiet (Y/n) could barely focus on what he'd said and the gritty edge to his words would of made her knees shiver if one of them weren't locked in place.

(Y/n) tried to nod, despite the way Tobias pressed his lips against her temple for a second.

"Our stop's coming up." (Y/n) ticked her head to the left towards the window; they didn't have long before they would have to try and move or wait another circuit to try again.

"Alright, come on." Tobias let go of her hips to take a step back and look (Y/n) up and down. "You can't jump or push off on that knee, so climb up and I'll jump off."

For a moment, (Y/n) wasn't sure what Tobias meant. But then she watched him turn around so his back was towards her and he was looking at her over his shoulder. He bent his knees and hunkered down so (Y/n) got the hint. She couldn't jump, she could barely walk and Tobias couldn't jump and try and pull her along with him at the same time.

But he could jump with her on his back. He could do the jump for her and hold her as long as (Y/n) helped to stabilise his landing so he didn't fall or land on her and cause any further damage.

(Y/n) felt bad, she didn't want Tobias to have to jump across the gap while carrying her. But she didn't have much of a choice and she knew he could manage it.

Hobbling forward, (Y/n) gripped her hands on his shoulders and leaned her chest onto his back. She pushed up onto her toes until she could jump a little and sit herself on his hips. Tobias gripped the back of her thighs and grinned when he turned to look up at her.

It was encouraging when (Y/n) kissed his cheek and he whacked the button to open the doors before he stepped back towards the windows opposite the open doors.

"Alright, here we go."

Tobias leaned forward while (Y/n) secured her arms around his neck and pressed her lips and nose against his neck. She held her breath and tried to steady herself.

Her thighs squeezed against his hips and she kept her right leg hooked around his front while her left leg stayed limp behind her. She made sure her leg wouldn't be in the way when Tobias started to move, but she couldn't bend her knee or lift it high on his hip.

The moment Tobias saw the familiar landmark building coming up, a slight grin took over his features and he lunged. He sped forward, his boots crashing against the floor as he surged forward, pushing off his right leg once he was on the edge and he leapt across the ledge.

It always felt like flying, but this time, with (Y/n) attached to him, it felt different. It was almost like taking a strange leap of faith together. She trusted him enough to cling onto him and let him jump and risk both of them plummeting to their deaths.

The grit beneath his boots crunched and scraped when Tobias cleared the ledge.

Usually he would land differently. He would reach a hand down and steady himself against the floor or he would tuck and roll or do a strange army roll on his side. He couldn't do any of those with (Y/n) on his back or he would give her another injury.

Their landing was strange. One foot hit the ground, his body leant forward and just as his other foot scraped the floor, (Y/n) slid from his back and landed on her good leg, keeping her hands on Tobias's shoulders so she could pull him back. She was his leverage, leaning him back and weighing on him so he wouldn't topple forwards or fall.

Once she was no longer attached to his back, Tobias stretched his arms out to gain his balance before he looked over his shoulder.

He tried to catch his breaths back, but he couldn't refrain from smiling. They cleared the landing, and (Y/n) didn't have any worse injuries. That was a win in his eyes.

His heart almost seized up in his chest and stopped working altogether when (Y/n) leaned her chest against his right arm, despite the ache it caused in her ribs. And when she gripped his shoulder and reached her other hand up to cup his cheek, Tobias almost melted on the spot. He could barely breathe as her fingers caressed his skin and she pushed up on her good foot to kiss him so sweetly.

"Thank you," She murmured softly against his lips before she kissed him again and again.

She felt Tobias twist in her arms so he was properly facing her, their chests pressed together and his hands firmly placed on her hips again.

"You don't have to thank me, you know I'm always gonna look out for you." Tobias would do anything and everything for (Y/n), he would never leave her when she needed him and if she needed help she didn't even have to ask.

His eyes dragged up and down (Y/n)'s frame once again, and just looking at her knee made his stomach clench. "But I think we need to get you inside baby, someone's gotta look at these injuries."

The longer they waited, the worse (Y/n) was going to feel. They needed someone to check her knee and put it back into place before the swelling got any worse or it fully seized up in place. And her wrist and ankle would need to be bandaged and her ribs would need checking. Not to mention some pain relief to make her feel more at ease and comfortable.

With a nod of her head, (Y/n) shuffled her weight onto her right leg again and tried to take a step forward.

Tobias watched her hobble for a few paces, trying her best to walk without him and prove she could. After all, she had gotten to the train and got herself up onto the track without help. But that wasn't the point here. She did that because she had to, because she didn't have any help. Tobias was here now, and it would be quicker and easier and less painful if (Y/n) let him help.

A smile graced Tobias's lips as he stepped forward and carefully took (Y/n)'s left arm. He looped it around the back of his neck and deadlocked his right arm around her waist. He carefully hitched (Y/n) up, taking her weight so she was only resting on her right leg. This way, they could walk in tandem and he could take some of her weight so she could walk easier.

"I've got you." He murmured against her hair as they headed towards the door leading to the stairs.

It was going to take them a while to get downstairs, but that didn't matter. They were doing it together, and Tobias was going to look after (Y/n) and make sure she was okay.

[emmg]

Only, Only, Only

Oh look, it's the Emmrich-crying-after-a-handjob one shot that has haunted me for two weeks.

Read below or on AO3

Some things fade, some things harden. Emmrich had learned this early. His family was buried under a collapsed roof before he was even old enough to understand the shape of loss. Fine. Well—not fine, but irreversible. The world yawned forward. 

There are two ways to have a family: by birth or by acquisition. The first had failed him. The second required effort, but effort could be elegant. And Emmrich was elegant. In youth, prettiness had been his scaffold, a fragile, lacquered thing—white teeth, kohl at the eyes, wrists perfumed just so. He had known, instinctively, that beauty was a door left ajar, and slipping through it was only a matter of timing. But beauty alone was flimsy, ephemeral. The real trick was what came after. 

He had been good at what came after. He had learned how to be a mirror, how to reflect back desire, how to build not just love but the idea of love, to construct it from suggestion and possibility. Later, when youth’s shimmer had dimmed into something more polished, he acquired. With acquisition came leverage, and with leverage, a different kind of beauty. One did not need to glow when one could glint. He could extend a hand, let the gold catch the light, let the rings speak in the hushed, implicit way that wealth always did. Stability, security. The prettiest promise of all. 

So he did not get married. It never happened. What of it? Girls, those spun-glass things, dreamed of marriage before they understood the weight of it, the slow suffocation of arrangements made with a blind eye to happiness. The nobler the girl, the bleaker the dream. The lesser ones, at least, had necessity to excuse them, and necessity, he had found, was sometimes kinder. His mother had married outside of it and yet she had smiled more, laughed more, despite the rawness of her hands, than any aristocrat pacing gloomily through town, swallowed by velvet and regret. 

And boys? Boys dreamed too, though not like him. He was of a different order, a creature with too many wants, too many hungers. He did not reach; he engulfed. His hands, splayed wide, could take anything, everything, fold it inward, knead it into something resembling love. The question was never whether he would one day say marry me?—only how quickly the words would leave his mouth.

“How did you lose your virginity?” Rook asks, peering over the rim of a glass filled with something that is, in principle, wine but in practice more of a solvent, stolen from Lucanis’ pantry-bedroom. 

“Oh,” he says, caught slightly off guard. “The usual way.” 

“Which is?” 

“With love, darling.” 

A beat. Then, again: “Which is?” 

He sighs, tipping his glass, watching the sluggish swirl of liquid. How was it? So long ago now. A tangle of hot hands, warm breath, the enthusiastic fumbling of inexperience. That singular astonishment—the body no longer enclosed, no longer entirely one’s own. Mouths parted not only for kisses. The more he prods at the memory, the more it softens at the edges, dissolving into something distant, something already half-forgotten. And what had come of it? A few repetitions, hurried and half-lit, until the whole thing ended so politely they might as well have signed papers and shaken hands. A miscalculated venture, yielding little but two rather undistinguished little climaxes. 

“I believe,” he says at last, “I was briefly incapacitated.” 

“Ah. Came too quickly?” 

He exhales, faintly amused. A flicker of a smile, nothing more. “Rook,” he says, shaking his head. “One really ought to maintain a certain discretion.” 

“You know how it was for me,” she insists. 

“I do.” 

“Because you were there.” 

“Indeed.” 

“And you did not marry them?” she presses. “Emmrich, you bought me gold earrings after I sucked your—” 

“No,” he says, neatly severing the sentence. Then, after a pause, “I did not.” 

There is a reason one does not make decisions in the steep descent of pleasure. Thought falters, limbs slacken, everything becomes terribly possible. The haze lingers for a moment, then lifts—for most. But for him, it never quite lifted. It remained, a kind of giddy fever, a half-conscious certainty. I think I might love you before. I certainly do love you after. Shall we pick out rings in the morning?

And yet, every time he might have said it, the words were swallowed—by lips pressed to his, by a hand at his throat, by laughter, the kind that smooths over awkwardness. Year after year, decade after decade, something always arrived just in time to silence him. A coincidence, surely. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they had all, in their own quiet way, agreed: Not from you, Emmrich. Not quite like that.

A moment ago, he had been young—precisely as young as Rook, or so it had seemed. But now, quite suddenly, the illusion dissolves. Age settles in, not in any particular ache or stiffness, but in the quiet awareness of time itself, of a widening distance between himself and the careless way she moves. 

He watches as she stands and discards her glass. She stretches, arms lifting, spine lengthening, her ribs briefly visible beneath the fabric of her blouse. A shift of weight, heel to toe, as she hums something airy and formless, a tune he does not know. 

Then, as if completing some personal choreography, she takes his glass as well, drains what remains, taps his knee—twice, quick, impatient. He hesitates just a moment before uncrossing his legs. And with that, she drapes herself into his lap, as if he were nothing more than a conveniently placed chair. Long hair spilling over his shoulder, long limbs finding their arrangement, long years ahead of her—years she does not yet know to count. 

“So it wasn’t love,” she concludes. 

“Pardon?” He blinks, as if waking. 

“Your first time,” she clarifies. “Or you would have married them. You do everything with love, Emmrich. And everyone. Heh. Get it?” 

His gaze drifts past her shoulder, settling on a thin crack in the wall, the kind that appears slowly, until one day it is simply there, fully formed, waiting to be noticed. 

“Oh,” he says finally. “Yes, yes, the love was there.” From him, yes. Always from him. 

Rook hums, softly, absently, the sound barely shaped into melody, more like breath passing through parted lips. It settles around him, light as dust in a shaft of sunlight. He could fall asleep like this, her mouth moving somewhere above his ear, forming notes without thought, without meaning, as his mind drifts elsewhere. 

To the after. The quiet, improbable after. When the gods are dead, when she no longer carries whatever nameless burden she believes is hers to bear. When there is no cause left to champion, no duty pressing at her heels. Then, perhaps, he could be selfish; lean in, tilt his head just so, and say, Shall we go to Nevarra, darling? Leave all this behind? Forget about obligations, about debts that are not our own?

If she will come, of course. And he very much hopes she will. 

The moment turns, shifts on some invisible hinge. There is an elegance to it, but not the kind one learns; rather, the thoughtless grace of a cat that sometimes lands well and sometimes does not. She touches his chin, frowns slightly, as though adjusting something misaligned, and then, quite abruptly, rests her palm against him through his trousers. 

“Oh,” he says again. 

It is embarrassing, really, the immediacy of it. More from the thought of her, the mere fact of her. An erection for possibilities—ridiculous. A climax, potentially, at the idea of picking out matching pillowcases. To be undone not by her mouth, not by the warm embrace of her body—well, yes, by those too, inevitably—but also, absurdly, by the way she looks at him, by the way she smiles, wide and guileless, for him, just for him. 

At this rate, he might not even need her hand next time. Perhaps he’ll just dissolve entirely when she asks if he’d like another cup of tea. Would you like sugar, darling? Oh, wonderful, an orgasm of domesticity.

"Does this feel nice?" she asks, freeing his cock. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, though it hardly matters, the answer already evident. 

She releases him just long enough to blow a breath of warm air against her palm, but it dissipates too quickly. Dissatisfied, she presses it to his cheek instead, leeching the heat directly from his skin. He laughs, turning his head just enough to graze her wrist with a slow kiss.

He closes his eyes, tilts his head back slightly, surrendering to the moment as she touches him again, fingers curling around him, now warm, now sure. A few slow strokes, languid and sweet, before she pulls away.

Then, a sound: the wet parting of lips, a flicker of tongue, the thin, elastic stretch of saliva snapping. He does not have to look to know what she is doing. When her hand returns, slick and soft, it glides over him so easily, so perfectly, that he shudders at the sensation.

"What if I told you I'm jealous of them?"

“Of who, darling?”

“Those people you loved,” Rook says.

She twists her wrist, tightens her grip, snaps at the air between them like a dog biting at a bone just out of reach. The motion alone is enough to make his hips jolt forward, his cock pushing blindly into the tight heat of her hand. It shudders against her palm, slick with sweat, with saliva, with its own leaking want. She spreads it, works it in, fingers tightening, releasing, tap-tap-tapping against the sensitive ridge just to watch him flinch.

“Oh.”

He wants to say something better than that. Something articulate, something lovely and precise, about how those old loves are nothing now, how their outlines have blurred, their names lost to time, how nothing before her seems to have truly happened. But all he manages is, “Oh,” again and again, a broken refrain.

Because he is watching her lips now. Pink and parted, a flicker of tongue just visible between them, poised as if about to speak, or taste, or ruin him completely. And he remembers—oh, how he remembers—the way they feel around him, the warm, obscene pressure, the way she sucks, licks, hollows her cheeks just so. The way she always pauses first, takes him in hand, lets the flat of her tongue drag slow over the head, tasting him before swallowing him down. He remembers, and he whimpers, wrecked by the thought alone.

He is, after all, like any other man. It is a humiliating realization, though not a new one. A mouth, an opening of thighs, a flash of tongue, the yielding softness of a cunt, the stiff insistence of a cock—these things could undo anyone. But for him, for him especially, it is worse. It is words that ruin him completely. Sweet ones, meaningless ones, even badly chosen ones, so long as they are offered up with the illusion of sincerity. Because he is sentimental, embarrassingly so, because he sees the world in pale, translucent pinks, because he imagines fingers intertwined over matching wedding bands, because he is the sort of man who believes that being loved—even briefly, even falsely—might be enough to justify everything.

He has spent years preparing for that. Decades of practice. He knows the gestures, the arrangement of words, the precise architecture of romance. He knows how to select flowers with the right meaning: tulips for declarations, lilies for purity, lavender for quiet, enduring devotion. He knows how to make himself desirable. He has built his whole life around it.

And yet, the moment she touches him, all of it dissolves. Whatever carefully curated refinement he has spent years cultivating—wasted. His spine bends into a crude, instinctual arch, his breath stumbles, his thoughts blur into static. The moment her hand curls around him, the moment she strokes, slow and assured, all that is left of him is want, absurdly simple and absurdly predictable.

He can only hope that when the moment passes—when the blood leaves his cock and returns to his brain—there is something else in him she will still find worth keeping.

Eventually, somehow, he finds words.

“There is only you—oh—only you.”

“I know,” Rook says. Nods. Smiles. Tightens her grip. Strokes him harder. “I want you to only fuck me, only kiss me, only come in my mouth, only bend me over your desk, only, only, only—” She bites her lip, almost thoughtful, then breathes out a small laugh. “Only me to sit on your cock, to rub myself off on you until I’m soaked, only me to squeeze you so tight you can’t even think, only me to ride you until you’re shaking, until you’re begging, until you hurt or I do.”

His fingers twitch at his sides.

She is breathless now, though not from effort; her hand does not falter. If anything, her rhythm steadies, as though she is determined to wring something from him, something more than this.

“I want,” she says, then again, rasping with urgency. “I want to be hoarse in the morning because you fucked my throat so hard it left a bruise. And I want it to be something you’ve done only to me.”

He watches sweat gather at the base of her throat, the damp fabric of her shirt clinging, pressing to her breasts in translucent patches. He could tear it. He could pull it away with one sharp motion.

“I want—” she starts again, her voice slipping, stuttering, as if she is losing the thread of thought even as she speaks it. “I want to go to your Grand Necropolis and let it be only me. I want them to look and think—and think—and want you—” she swallows, blinking, chasing her own logic, “—and know you are only mine.”

Rook wants the way a dragon does: completely, devastatingly, without dignity or proportion. And so does he, though it has taken him longer to admit it. He has spent years dressing the thing up, polishing it until it gleamed, presenting it as something dainty, something civilized. He has hidden it in bouquets, in well-chosen words, in gifts wrapped so finely they might be mistaken for gestures instead of claims.

It is a thing with weight, with hunger, with an awful, clinging need. It does not sit lightly in the chest. It does not allow for division. He has never wanted affection portioned out, balanced, tempered with reason. He has wanted to be swallowed whole, wanted the ones he loved to love him back with the same singular, unthinking devotion—to make a shrine of him, to strip themselves of anything that was not his. He realizes this now, with startling clarity, as she works him closer to orgasm. It is not right, he knows. It is not sane.

But he wants it anyway. Wants it exactly as she does. Wants it the way poets want their muses, the way men kill their gods in fits of heresy. Wants it as much as he wants to lay offerings at her feet, to press flowers into her hands, to lace jewels through her hair.

Only, only, only.

He has his own onlys. Only her to stroll with through the quiet, gold-lit streets, to turn her head toward shop windows. Only her to introduce to Nevarran customs, watching as she absorbs them, twists them to suit her own purposes. Only her to drape in gold, in rings, in bracelets, in necklaces delicate enough to snap between his fingers if he ever pulled too hard. Only her to choose something as absurdly domestic as a new rug with, standing in a marketplace, pretending she cares about the weave pattern. Only her to take to bed, to press down into the mattress at night, to split open, to fill, to adore. Only her to stretch beneath him, body pliant, flushed, her breath coming fast as he spills deep inside her, slow and heavy, until it leaks out of her, down her thighs, maybe—if fate is feeling particularly indulgent—settling into something permanent.

As she said: only, only, only.

He barely feels it coming, barely registers the inevitable cresting of it, the creeping heat, until suddenly it breaks over him, shattering whatever thin thread of restraint he had left. A sharp gasp leaves him as his body tenses, as he presses in close, buries his face in the curve of her shoulder, breath wheezing, breaking, whistling.

And then he is spilling over her fingers in thick, pulsing bursts—again, and again, and again. His cock twitches helplessly in her grip, and she does not let go, does not stop, only slows, lets her fist tighten, strokes him through the aftershocks, dragging out every last tremor. His hips jerk upward, lazy and unthinking, chasing the sensation even as pleasure fades into something unbearably sensitive.

He feels warm, feverish, his body strangely weightless, as if he might slip right out of himself if he let go. Then the opposite—a sudden awareness of his grip on her, of the way his fingers have pressed too hard, have left their shape in her skin. He loosens them, exhales. Watches as she lets go of his cock, now softening in her hand, lifts her fingers, tilts her wrist to observe the slow, glistening trail of him running down her palm.

She hums, thoughtful, then licks it away, unhurried, making sure he is watching. Her tongue follows the path all the way down, tracing it to her wrist, collecting every last drop with the kind of idle efficiency one might use to clean sugar from their fingertips. When she is satisfied, she smiles and leans in to kiss him. He dodges, turns his head at the last second, hides his face against her neck instead. His lips press there, soft, aimless, as he feels his eyes mist over.

It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. He would stop it if he could, would hold himself together, make himself presentable, but the tears arrive without permission, without reason, a slow gathering before the inevitable spill. The sobs are quiet, barely shaped into sound, but undeniable. He wishes he could explain it—offer some neat, comprehensible reason—but he cannot even explain it to himself.

It is happiness, yes, but happiness at such a magnitude it ceases to be light. It is weight, warmth, excess. It is the unbearable pleasure of existing in this moment, of being seen, of being wanted. It is the way she looks—so flushed, so content, as if she has won something. The way she smells, her skin carrying traces of salt and sweat and something almost floral, though he knows that is just her. The way everything seems suddenly, painfully clear in the soft blur of the after.

So he kisses her throat, presses his face against the delicate heat of her skin so she does not have to see him—again.Her pulse thrums beneath his lips, steady, indifferent to his unraveling.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“You,” he confesses, and the word stumbles out on a wretched little hiccup. "Oh, I love you, Rook, I love you."

Into her shoulder, her collarbone, the sharp little ridge of her chin. It is always like this when they take their time. He is overcome, disassembled into words, and she lets him speak, lets him spill his fevered little future into the space between them, lets him press love into her skin as if he might leave it there, like a bruise, like something that cannot be washed away.

I love you tangled with you will like Nevarra, you simply do not know it well enough.

I love you and what is your favorite gemstone, my darling, tell me, so I may drape you in it, so I may weigh you down in it.

I love you and yes, of course, white is a real color, you are right to prefer it, you are always right, I would argue the sky is green if it pleased you.

I love you and oh, let us get you a grave dowry of your own, gold, gold, the only metal fit for permanence, the eternal one…

On and on, breathless and half-senseless.

He feels her lips press against the top of his head, a fleeting warmth, her breath stirring through his hair before she pushes him back, gently, just enough to see him properly. Her hands find his face, cradle it between them, and he feels it—the faint, tacky imprint of her palm, the one that had worked him to pleasure, now pressed against his cheek. The scent of himself lingers there, musk and salt and his favored soap. He breathes it in, caught between embarrassment and satisfaction, as she watches him with that slow, considering gaze.

“You sweet man,” Rook murmurs. 

He shuts his eyes a little tighter, as if that might stave off whatever comes next. It does not. 

“Do you know,” she inquires, fingers sifting through his hair, “how to remove something from the surface of the eye when it refuses to be dislodged by any other means?” 

“You could attempt to flush it out,” he supplies. 

“No.” 

She waits until he looks at her, properly yet reluctantly, before placing a kiss high on his cheekbone, then another. Over his eye, his closed lid, the damp fringe of his lashes. A sigh, a small thing. She parts her lips and pushes the tip of her tongue past the crease of the palpebral fissure, past the soft resistance of his lashes, until the wet muscle makes contact with the convex surface of the sclera. A slow, dragging stroke over the waterline. Warm and slick, collecting the saline residue, the mineral tang of dried tears, the body’s quiet mechanisms of defense. Her breath, close and humid; her smile, somehow wide.  

She pulls back, just barely. Just enough to make him want her to do it again.

“I want you to fuck my thighs,” she says, kissing his forehead. “And I want you to come on my breasts. Paint my face with it. Make it filthy. Make it disgraceful. And—” She hesitates. “Fuck, I don’t know.” Another kiss, heavier this time, lips catching on his skin. “I want to do everything you’ve done with all those others until they don’t exist.” She kisses the tip of his nose. “Anything. Everything. All of it, Emmrich. You made me bleed once. You can make me bleed again, if you want.”

He remembers. Of course, he remembers. The red bloom on the sheets, the sharp flare of it against pale fabric. How she should have cried, how it was he who had hidden his face in his hands. The clumsy, amused way she had reassured him, her I’ve never wanted anyone before you, anyway, let's go eat now.

How, days later, he had lowered himself between her thighs, pressing his face into the flushed heat of her, not as apology, not even as atonement, but as something far more base. How the scent of her filled his lungs, how the first press of his tongue against her was slow, searching, before he found his rhythm, before he found what made her gasp, what made her fingers twist hard in his hair. How she lifted her hips, seeking more, how her legs tensed, flexed, her thighs threatening to close around his head.

How she had asked, does it taste nice? and how he had answered, of course, of course it does, so very frantic and earnest. Then, because words were not enough, because words could be questioned, he kissed her, so she would know, so she would never doubt.

And afterward, unspooled, too loose-limbed for silence, he had spoken, ever verbose. How her hair was neither one color nor another, something between, something shifting, just like her eyes—not quite gray, not quite blue. How long it was, how it could be woven into three perfect braids, how he could do it, he was good at it, very good at it, would she like him to? Would she sit between his knees, would she let him gather the strands, twist them carefully, neatly, the way he had once learned, the way his fingers still remembered? Would she let him braid her hair in the morning and unbraid it at night?

She had only hummed, smiling absently, eyes half-lidded. Suddenly how about I suck your cock now? He had nearly wept, had wanted to say no, no—yes, yes—please, yes, of course, yes, but only if you want to, Rook, dear, only if you truly want to, though I want it, how can I not, but I also want to sit with you in the morning and pour you tea, or coffee, and talk about the weather, about books you cannot read, about nothing at all, I want—

And then oh, she had done it, and his brain cracked apart like an egg against the edge of something sharp, and everything spilled out in a gasping, mindless chorus of thank you, thank you, thank you.

Rook’s mouth finds his closed eye again.

He forces himself to think clinically, to name each part in anatomical terms, as if reciting from a textbook. Cornea, aqueous humor, sclera. The smooth convexity of the eye, the way the thin membrane of the conjunctiva seals over it like a second skin. If he does not—if he lets himself think in any other way—he will cry harder. His face will flush in blotches, his breath will stutter, his nose will run, and worst of all, he will whisper Rook, Rook, Rook until she tells him to shut up and leaves. Because no one has ever told him I love you like this, without the words. No one has kissed away the tears left in the wake of an embarrassingly quick orgasm. No one has smiled as he silently arranged their life together in his mind, measuring out their future like fabric meant to be cut.

He ought to laugh—ought to flinch, ought to fold back into himself—but instead, another tear escapes, slipping down his cheek, chased by a sharp, ugly sob. She catches it with her lips, her breath hitching slightly as she presses closer. 

Lick, lick, lick. Kiss, kiss, kiss. 

Perhaps she could take more. Sink her teeth deep, rupture it, let the viscous ruin run hot down her tongue. Perhaps she could swallow him piece by piece, until something of him remains there, behind her teeth, held fast. That would be lovely. 

“Did I get it?” she asks, drawing back 

“Yes, darling,” he breathes, faint and deliriously happy. "You did." 

[specialagentlokitty]

Bobby Nash x reader - our own family

Heyyy, if you ever find the time could you please make a hurt/comfort bobby nash x platonic!reader who is a fighter based off of the prompt “ I’m not your dad” “I know…do you know that”. I’d love some more bobby as a parental figure material please and thank you. 😊 - @purplecrayola 💜

You had woken up in the hospital, you didn’t have much recollection on how you ended up there or why.

Everything was still really hazy, and but the pain you could feel radiating from your abdomen was definitely real, you could feel it.

It wasn’t bad, maybe the IV in your arm had something to do with that, you had no clue.

You laid there taking small breaths, just staring up at the ceiling, and you heard the door open.

“Hello…?” You asked softly.

You didn’t want to risk sitting up, so you waited for the nurse to come over, and she smiled warmly at you.

“Well hey you, you’re awake again.”

You furrowed your brows a little bit in confusion.

“A..again…?”

“Yes, you woke up a week ago, not for long, only a few minutes. Can you sit up for me?”

You nodded, and the nurse helped you in slowly sitting up.

She checked your vitals, took some blood and checked your injury sight.

“Do you.. do you know what happened to me?”

“You came in about two weeks ago, you had major trauma to your abdomen. Do you not remember?”

You thought for a moment, forcing the memories to come to light.

You remembered the flames, you had been called out to a huge fire at a construction site, where a couple of people were said to still be inside the building.

You had gone in to try and find them, you were with Eddie and Hen.

You heard a loud creaking noise, and you barely had time to react when scaffolding fell, and then you remembered the pain.

People screaming your name.

Rain hitting your face.

You furrowed your brows a little bit.

Was it rain?

You felt a tap on your shoulder, and you snapped out of your head to look at the nurse.

“Are you alright? Are you in pain?”

“No I uh.. I remember what happened…”

She nodded her head.

“We need to keep you in for another few days, but after that you can go home, would you have anybody you can stay with?”

“I uh.. my chief, Bobby Nash. Has he been here?”

“Oh yes, comes by every day after work.”

“Can you ask him if he can take me? I live closer to him so it’ll be easier.”

She smiled, nodding her head and you went back to think.

While you were thinking, you went back to the last thing you remembered.

You were sure it wasn’t rain, it wasn’t supposed to rain that night, maybe it was water from the trucks? But that didn’t make sense.

Why would they keep you so close to the trucks if you had been hurt?

You shook your head, taking a sip of the water that was put next to you.

You shuffled back down, deciding to get some more sleep.

You spent a lot of the time sleeping, up until the point where Bobby came to take you home, and you still sat in your own head.

He helped you to your apartment, slowly sitting you down on the couch.

“I’ve been given a strict list of what medications you’re supposed to take and when, how to look after your wound and signs of infection.”

You slowly nodded your head.

“Right now you need some food that isn’t hospital food.” He smiled.

This made you laughed a little bit.

“Can we order Chinese?”

“Oh no, you’ve got to stay away from takeout right now. So, we’re going to do some simple chicken and rice and see how that goes.”

You grumbled a little bit but said nothing.

Bobby walked to your kitchen.

“I did some shopping before coming to get you.”

“I have food.”

“You have meals you throw in the microwave, we’ve been through this (Y/N) that’s not healthy.” He scoffed.

“But cooking is effort.”

“You live five minutes away from me, you could just come over you know.”

You shrugged a little bit, shuffling down so you could lay down and you placed a hand over your stomach.

You closed your eyes, the pain medicine taking hold, letting you fall asleep again.

You weren’t sure how long you had been asleep for, but somebody was gently shaking your shoulder.

“Hey kiddo, hey.., come on..” Bobby whispered.

You opened your eyes, and you stared at him.

“It was you…”

“What was?”

Bobby helped you sit up, placing your dinner in your lap.

“I.. I thought it was raining, but it was you, crying. I.. I said something but I can’t remember what. I’m trying to remember the accident.”

“Don’t rush yourself (Y/N), you went through a lot. Just let it come back naturally.”

Bobby sat down with his own dinner, and you looked at him.

“What did I say bobby?”

He sighed.

“You called me your dad.”

You glanced back down at your plate, that part of the accident rushing back to you.

You were begging and pleading about how you didn’t want to die, about how much it hurt, begging Bobby not to leave you.

You kept calling him dad.

Bobby cleared his throat, and you looked up at him.

“I’m not your dad”

You nodded your head a little.

“I know…do you know that?”

He looked at you confused.

“You’ve been sleeping in my hospital room, the nurse told me. That’s not something a chief does for his fighters.”

“You don’t like being alone. That’s why you’ve got a cat, who by the way will be returned in the morning by Chim.”

“That doesn’t change what I said…”

“We’re not talking about this.”

You nodded your head, setting your plate down, not having touched a single thing on it.

“I’m really tired…”

You pushed yourself up with a great deal of pain, hand over your stomach.

You slowly padded away, making your way to your room and you laid down on your back, placing an arm over your eyes.

You didn’t mean to get annoyed at him, but on the medication and the pain you weren’t thinking right now.

Bobby stayed in your living room, truth be told you were like a kid to him, but right now that was a conversation for later.

His main thought was making sure you got better

[thoughtsafterdark]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[bobluvbot]

sweet nothing

pairing: remus lupin x f!reader  summary: you thrive in filling everyone’s cup. remus makes sure your cup gets filled too. wc: 2k cw: descriptions of food, eating a/n: written after a long writing break pls be nice heheh p.s. thank you for all the love for my sirius angst fic!!! i saw yalls comments and messages and appreciate them sm!! i don't have plans at the moment to write a sequel/pt. 2 sorry :'( someday when i get inspiration i probably will but for now it's a standalone <3

The pesto pizza was a big hit.

The news of the heatwave came a month early so it gave ample time for James to rein in the necessary house improvement tasks: yard weeding and tidying, adding small stone steps for the toddler, and ordering the inflatable slip and slide pool for the sweltering summer days. And he was adamant to do it all by hand, no magic, so he “could get the full experience”. Lily likens it to being married to a professional landscaper and contractor at once, thankful that her decision to go on a date with James Potter during seventh year continues to be a great lifelong investment. 

You can still recall Remus’ early morning grumbles when james calls him over for help. It came to a point where he’d beg you to pretend to be mad at the setup, reasoning that “ james is taking him away from his lovely pretty girl” when his best friend calls him at 6am to start the day mowing the lawn. 

James would roll his eyes at excuses falling off of Remus’ lips, but he’d sincerely take your concerns to heart. Lovingly, you’d wave Remus off and give him pecks on both freckled cheeks, encouraging him to go and learn how to tackle on house repairs so he’d be well prepared when it’s your turn to build a family home. 

This usually gets him going, Remus’ secret lover boy tendencies kicking in, but not without grumbling and frowns thrown haphazardly (easily treated with touching and kisses). 

Sirius was off travelling the world for most of the month, much to Remus’ dismay, as he was then promoted as the first-in-line friend in James’ contacts. He did however send over a fancy outdoor pizza oven in lieu of his absence, and it completed the space. 

On the days where you finish work early, you’d join Lily as she picks up her little boy from nursery and take a leisure walk around their quiet neighborhood, a babbling toddler in tow. Then you walk into the perfect setting: the gentle hum of the AC, sunrays reflecting on the white marble countertops, a nicely prepared spread of afternoon snacks for the three of you, and the floor to ceiling glass wall separating the living area from the backyard offering a glorious view of two sunkissed shirtless men doing hard manual labor. Lily nudges you, handing a bowl of pistachios. “A snack for the show.” You return her glance, eyes both twinkling with playful mischief. Maybe the summer days aren’t as bad as it seemed.

But then the first draining day of the heatwave hit. There were minor adjustments to be made still, like some scaffolding to be tidied and hedges to be trimmed, but the heat had a special way to beat down the morale of any living thing exposed to it for a while, and it finally hit James. Early on a Saturday morning, you decided to accompany a still groggy Remus on his usual Potter house renovation shift to make him feel a bit better that you were also losing sleep with him. To both your surprise, James comes from the garden to meet you, looking worn out but wears a proud grin. “It’s all done,” he claims, clapping his hands together and you see him holding the wooden culprit that magically finished hours of yard work in a few minutes. So much for no magic. 

“Get some sleep and come back in the afternoon for the party.” Remus grabs your hand and apparates back home in record time, before James gets a chance to recant his words. 

Completing a full 8 hour sleep cycle does wonders to the mind and soul. A well-rested Remus was filled with high spirits, doting on you as you both get ready for the party. He showers you with compliments the moment you step out of your closet, giving him a twirl. Once the bashfulness sets in, you run to him and try to nuzzle your heated cheeks on his chest, anywhere to escape his lovely sappy gaze. He sits on the bed so you can’t hide, and looks up at you like you hung up the moon. It was maddening.  

“You look stunning, my love,” he says, hands on the back of your knees, sliding up under the hem to meet the soft skin of your thighs and resting them even higher. It took immense strength not to buckle down and fall into him. You’d foreseen this response the moment you decided to wear that white babydoll dress, but actually going through it is a terrible nightmare. As much as the idea of bailing on the summer party and letting Remus do whatever he pleases with you in this dress sounds very appealing right now, you had promised Lily that you’ll help with the cooking and food, and ghosting your best friend for a dick appointment sounds very juvenile. So against your questionable judgment, you grab your boyfriend’s face, give him a chaste kiss, and murmur against his lips, “james and lily will kill us if we ditch.” 

Even though it was an intimate gathering of close friends to celebrate the finished yard, you forgot to account for the amount of kids, partners, and pets that your friends have accumulated since graduation. James had to transfigure the already long dinner table even longer and double the number of chairs to accommodate everyone. The slip and slide also was transfigured into an actual waterpark, complete with a lazy river that kids seemed to enjoy after going on the slides. 

While it was definitely chaotic, it didn’t feel suffocating like packed events usually make you feel. It’s likely because of the familiar faces wherever you look, the ease of conversation just flows. Remus was anchored to your side until he wasn’t, whisked away by both James and Sirius as they announce to everyone who’s listening how his valiant efforts in renovation has resulted in the beautiful yard they were in today. You giggle at the endearing sight of your boyfriend furiously flushing pink while his loud best friends continue to brag about him. It’s just how the marauders would be back in Hogwarts, with you watching their shenanigans from afar whilst nursing a terrible, terrible crush on Remus. Only difference now is that you get to take him home. 

You eventually get whisked away too, thankful that Lily came right on time as you were starting to melt in the heat. The inside of the home smells and feels like heaven, as the chilly air from the AC carries the scent of freshly prepared ingredients and whatever concoction Lily’s currently tending to in a pot. Careful not to disrupt the comfortable quiet, you give her a back hug, a silent thanks for fixing up everything you’ll be needing for the pizza you vowed to make, before getting to work. 

You’ve gone over the recipe and prep so many times that you could do this with eyes closed. The pesto sauce was freshly made a day prior, a delicious result of your raid in your aunt Molly’s garden and fridge. Before you knew it, the only thing left to do was place the pizza into the oven, to which Sirius was very happy to do so he could flex his expensive purchase. 

The chatter didn’t die off even when the dishes started rolling out of the kitchen, everyone now raving of how good Lily’s cooking have been, James not helping by proclaiming, “'m pretty sure my heart isn't the only thing she's stolen—she's got everyone's taste buds wrapped around her finger with her cooking too.” Making his wife flush pink and hit his arm playfully. 

When it was time for your dish, the stakes were quite high and you were feeling a bit nervous. At home, Remus practically inhales everything you make which provides you a good ego boost, knowing that you don’t need to be the best, as long as you don’t accidentally poison someone from your cooking. 

Soon enough, the scent of freshly baked pizza filled the air, mingling with the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. You stand by the head of the table, hands deftly making slices enough for everyone, continuing to scan the crowd, ensuring that everyone is being taken care of.

"Here you go, aunt Effie,” you smile, handing her a generous slice. “Here’s a bunch for you, Fred, careful not to spill and please share with your brothers!" you try to say quickly, but only see a spur of red hair and small hands before they run back to the water slide. 

You soon get a groove going and start to move down the line of smiling guests and waiting plates. Too distracted that you jump a little when you feel a warm presence at your side. Without ever needing to look, you knew it was Remus, who’s now carrying a plate with a slice you don’t even remember handing him. 

Without a word, he picks up the steaming slice and brings it to your lips. You welcome the taste, finally understanding the praise everyone seems to be throwing at your wake. You make a mental note to thank your aunt for lending you her recipe. Remus has his free hand cupped near your chin, ready to catch any crumbs or drippings that might stain your pretty white dress. 

Butterflies in your stomach erupt and fight for space, your entire body vibrating with giddiness and affection for your lovely boyfriend. That distracted look in his eyes as he feeds you in between your efforts in feeding everyone makes the warm fuzzy feeling worse, because you know he’s doing this without much thought, like second nature. That it’s just common sense. That it just goes without saying that his love knows you, fills the needs you don’t even realize were there in the first place.

You wonder through the afternoon then early evening what you’ve done in your past life to receive this love. Maybe you saved a cat from a burning building, or watered a dying plant that had magical powers to heal serious illness, or stars aligning just right to have you exist in the same timeline as Remus. 

You find yourself buried in blankets and clad in a worn sweater, twenty something minutes in a romcom movie in the comforts of your tiny apartment. Remus slides in beside you with a bowl of steaming buttery popcorn and another can of your favorite sparkling water (which he hates with a passion). Your eyes drift to your opened one on the side table, now seeing that it’s almost empty, a few sips left. 

Remus snorts at an obscure joke one of the characters says in passing, and you snuggle up to him, maybe hugging his arm a little tighter than usual, afraid that a love this gentle can vanish between your fingers. He turns and recognizes the look on your face, returning the soft gaze. His free hand brushes a stray hair away, fingers lingering on your cheek. 

“Thank you,” you find yourself murmuring. “For taking care of me.”

You had this conversation long time ago when you first started dating. Having been in some relationships and situationships before Remus, you thought you’ve seen it all. Known the twists and turns, what to ask for and when to keep quiet, what you owe and don’t. But he comes and does things that drove your mind haywire, body screaming foreign! unknown! when he leaves sweet and short scribbles on post-its and sticks it to random places that you’re bound to see somehow, your favorite fruits magically appearing on the basket after finishing the last piece yesterday, being able to count on one hand times where you had to touch the wheel and drive. Its all natural, unprompted, again like second nature. as much as you hated to admit, you’re a control freak. but it's easier this way when you know what comes and goes, what happens and what doesn’t, what won’t happen if you don’t do anything to get it. being with Remus and knowing his love is a shock as it is a clean slate. to unlearn roughness and rigid and know to be soft and vulnerable. 

you’d thanked him. when he gave you a confuddled look, like he didn’t just make your heart grow two sizes bigger in one day. you then started enumerating things he did that made you feel appreciated and loved. you were expecting him to be happy that you see and celebrate his effort, any reaction honestly but a frown. “you don’t need to thank me for those things,” he had said, holding your hand and gently rubbing circles when he sensed that his reaction scared you. “That’s how I show my respect and care for you. ‘s nothing special, just what’s right.” You couldn’t stop the ugly sobs that came after that, when you realized that yes, this was the bare minimum of a healthy relationship, but you made space for less because that’s all you’ve ever gotten, even when you’d ask. 

This time however, maybe because its near midnight and you’re both worn out for the day, Remus lets you. “Always.”

[rotwings]

                guilty pleasure ৎ୭ sarah cameron x fem!reader series

chapter i. idiots in the wild

warnings: mentions of alcohol, underage drinking

wordcount: 1427

The life of Y/N L/N had become rather tedious since the beginning of summer. She used to love it; a couple of years prior, the mere thought of the season would have bubbled something far more than exasperated and as high from her plush lips: excitement, thrill. She used to consider the sultry weather to be tropical, and rosy stains on her cheeks were the summer's kiss. Now, if the months were to pass by her like an icy wind, Y/N would hardly shiver.

She spent another quiet day imprinting in her own employment. The view from behind the counter of her family's surf shop was only there to mock her; she was sure. A bustling crowd of free-spirited teenagers inhabited the quaint beach that lay only a hundred metres away from Y/N, which made the cedar wood panels and glass windows surrounding her feel more like a cage. She was sure that if she spent another minute there, she'd drive herself insane.

So when John B had honked the horn of the Twinkie outside, Y/N pounced at the opportunity to abandon her shift and take off to the mainland with her friends. Her petulance buried itself the moment she felt the sun blazing over her skin, tossed aside as Y/N began to remind herself of what she truly loved.

The fresh scent of sea salt rippled through the air as she observed the oceanfront view of the renovation project that she and her friends had declared as their own for the evening. Her legs dangled off the scaffolding as she rested her face against the cool metal railing, eyelashes fluttering as she battled with the water's lullaby that thrashed softly against the rocks below. To keep herself from slumber, she occupied her eyes with the tangerine horizon.

In her peripheral view, John B inched his way closer to the edge of the rooftop, balancing himself on one leg once he reached it.

"What a daredevil," Y/N quipped, amusement riddled between her words as she grinned at him.

John B looked at her through one eye, half of his face scrunched behind his splayed hand to fend off the sun. "You know me, Y/N/N," he smirked, "Always livin' life on the edge."

"That's what, a three-storey fall to the deck?" Pope chimed in from below them, on the deck by himself. "I give you a one-in-three chance of survival.

Humming, John B licked his finger and held it in the air, testing the direction of the wind. "Should I do it?" He asked.

"Yeah, you should jump!" Pope, who had found a drill in his possession, encouraged. He pointed it upwards, aiming at John B. "I'll shoot you on the way down."

"You're going to shoot me?" John B shot back, literally, with finger guns. He mimicked the sound of gunfire, rapidly pulling the imaginary trigger on the boy below.

Y/N chuckled lowly at the scene in front of her, leaning back as she brought a can to her lips. The bitterness of the beer stained her tongue, a lingering fuzzy sensation left behind by the lukewarm liquid. Immediately, she regretted not leaving it somewhere more shaded.

"They're going to have Japanese toilets with towel warmers," Kiara reported when she returned from the inside of the building. gushing with disapproval.

"Rich people having. rich people shit? Shocker." Y/N muttered bitterly. She'd expect nothing less from upperclassmen, especially on properties like the one they'd settled in.

"This used to be a turtle habitat, but who cares about the turtles, I guess?" Kiara sighed, looking up at John B on the roof.

"I can't have cold towels." JJ said matter-of-factly, words dripping with sarcasm.

Still looking at John B, Kiara craned her neck. "Can you please not kill yourself?" She asked.

"And don't spill that beer," JJ warned sternly, chucking his own to the other side after emptying its last drops into his mouth. "I'm not giving you another one."

Y/N scoffed out a laugh, "Yeah, you will."

JJ, offended, looked at her bewilderedly. "I will not."

Y/N raises her eyebrows as if to challenge him, tilting her head as she says, "Yes, you will... you're literally John B's bitch."

The blonde boy's jaw dropped in offence, but before JJ had the chance to get a word in, John B laughed loudly. "Thanks, Y/N/N, good to know you'll always stick up for me－oh shit!"

A strong gust of wind knocked John B off his feet, swaying him as he attempted to keep himself upright. He fumbled the can in the process, losing his grip and letting it fall to the deck, where it splattered across the wooden panels.

"Of course you did." JJ chided dramatically, "Right after I told you."

"Well, I'm not sticking up for you, ow..." Y/N grimaced, staring blankly at John B as he pulled a sheepish grin. Shaking her head, she jested, "God, the things I do for you, and all I get in return is embarrassment."

"That was smooth," Kiara remarked, her attention turned to the fizzling liquid that spewed from the slaughtered can.

"A-plus!" Pope echoed their ridiculing words.

He then walked over to the edge of the balcony, his attention stolen by the intensity of a flashlight.

"Hey!"

Coming face-to-face with a couple of security guards, Pope announced, "Hey, uh, security's here. Let's wrap it up."

"Humpty Dumpty, let's roll!" JJ exclaimed. He drummed his hands on the metal railing before scrambling backwards to stand. When he leaned over to sneak a glance at security, he recognised a familiar face. "Hey, Gary, is that you? It's good to see you, man!"

Y/N giggled as she watched him climb down to the deck. She also peered over at the officers, but instead of taunting them verbally like JJ, she blew them a kiss, leaving only her middle finger raised when she parted her hand from her lips.

Kiara looked between the two of them with a smile on her face. "Yeah, you two are just asking for it."

One by one, each pogue took off through the house, sprinting through the inside as whoops and hollers bound off of the empty walls. The security guards barricaded them as soon as they stepped foot outside, sending John B and Kiara in one direction. and Pope, JJ, and Y/N in another.

Adrenaline surged through Y/N's body as she darted after the boys, making a beeline for the wooden fence. "Go, go, go, go, go!" she yelled before she put one foot in between the wooden panels and lunged herself over the barrier, following with a shaky, yet successful landing. Pope was not so fortunate, falling flat on his face as he stumbled over his feet.

"Get up, Pope. Fatso's coming." JJ grabbed him by the shoulder, hoisting him back onto his legs.

From behind the fence, Gary's colleague hissed, "Come here, you little pricks!"

It was too late for him. John B and Kiara rolled past in the Twinkie, the door wide open and welcoming to the three remaining pogues. Y/N caught her breath as she nestled into the backseat, a broad smile stretched over her face as the adrenaline settled.

"Check out Gary, gunnin' for a raise!" Pope laughed, pointing out the persistence of the security guard, who was still chasing them down on foot.

"Gotta give it to him, though," Y/N spoke through her grin, shrugging. "He's doing pretty well for a man his age."

JJ's request for the van to be slowed down led to him hanging his upper body out of the door, an unopened beer can in his hand. He stretched out his arm, offering it to the man. "C'mon, Gary! C'mere, boy!"

"You're going to give him a heart attack," Kiara cautioned half-heartedly.

"You're so close! You can do it. There you go," JJ coaxed. He tossed the beer to Gary, who stumbled, failing to catch it. JJ groaned teasingly. "Oh, they don't say you enough, bro."

Kiara, more sincerely, pulled JJ back by his shoulder. "JJ, stop. Stop." She smacked him lightly.

"Oh, come on." JJ protested, uncaring for Gary's wellbeing. "That sort of initiative is just begging to be punished."

Gary was long out of sight by the time they passed the border of the Outer Banks, the rusted green sign welcoming them onto their home soil. Y/N listened quietly to the mindless chatter that filled the van, praying to herself that summer would bring her more days like this – moments with her friends that were more sacred than anything.

Maybe Paradise on Earth had more to offer than she thought.

first chapter finally published!!!!!!!

taglist: @mirellef2001 @currentresidentinhell

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Hi! Is it possible you could do one shot about Andrew x reader having an intimate moment and him sharing his favorite poetry with her while they’re relaxing? Something sweet and fluffy (could possibly turn into something steamy totally up to you)

Please, please, please, send me more pictures, writing these ficlets is giving me life.

I kept this one fluffy. Enjoy!

The unhurried caress of gentle fingers slowly pulled you from your light slumber. You had not moved an inch in the time you had been gone, your head still resting against his chest, the steady drum of his heartbeat right next to your ear. The rest of your body lay safely secured between his legs, a blanket draped across the both of you to keep your joined heat close.

It seemed he also had not moved an inch, probably not to wake you, and the thought warmed your heart. You did not dare to stir in his arms either, afraid he might stop the absent-minded movement of his fingers in your hair. But your own body chose to betray you, the lure of his warm form underneath your own too tempting. And so you let your hand glide along his stomach and chest before it slid down to his side where it squeezed the pliable flesh affectionately.

“Welcome back, love,” he whispered, his lips finding the crown of your head in a tender kiss mere seconds later.

“Still deep in the Heaney, hm?” you deduced as, from the corner of your eye, you spotted the book that was sitting in his other hand. As it had been ever since the two of you had cuddled up on the sofa together.

He hummed in affirmation, the guttural sound rolling through his chest and spreading onto your drowsy form, as if you had needed to be soothed further. As if that was even possible.

“Will you read to me?”

There was no chance you could have seen the blissful smile on his face without moving, but you could hear it, loud and clear, in the fervent, “Yeah!” that followed your request promptly. He was always so happy to share his beloved poetry with you and you basked in his enthusiasm, his melodic voice and passionate recital. It was heaven.

But as his hand left its destined spot on your head to turn the pages, you almost regretted asking. An agonised whine broke from your lips upon the loss of contact and he could not help but chuckle at your antics, making his attempt to shush you not nearly half earnest.

“Sh, love, focus now. This is a beaut.”

“I can’t!” you protested. “Not as long as your hand is not back where it belongs.”

You knew he was shaking his head in amusement, still his fingers catered to your needs immediately and it was only then that you felt yourself relax against him again, ready to hang on every little word he would grace your ears with.

“Scaffolding, by Seamus Heaney,” he began, the heat of his breath wafting through your hair, and you were home.

“Masons, when they start upon a building, Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points, Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seems to be Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall Confident that we have built our wall.”

He paused for a moment to let the words sink in, but it did not take long for his enthusiasm to break loose.

“Isn’t that a lovely one?”

“It’s beautiful,” you confessed, feeling compelled to lift your head and glance up at him. The most genuine, heartwarming smile awaited you and his happiness about your approval was everything. How on earth you deserved this man was absolutely beyond you, but who were you to question his choice? All you really could do was enjoy every single moment the two of you were granted together. He must have thought the same, even if he did not tell you so. It was evident, written all over his face. In the softness of his eyes, the placid smile upon his lips, in the touch of his hand as it ever so gently cupped your cheek, the book lying abandoned somewhere on top of the blanket now.

“Come here,” he whispered, but he did not wait until you moved, his head already leaning down, eager to meet you halfway. Still, when his lips finally touched yours, there was no hurry in their movement. You had all the time in the world. And hidden within his sweet taste on your tongue, there was a truth so plain and yet so absolute, that whatever storms there were to come, the two of you had built your wall.

[dokidokitsuna]

Tragic Sky

(very long salty rant ahead (+new Alterna backstory, though! ^^;))

So I've always thought Alterna’s backstory, despite being presented as a grand mystery that’s definitely worth fighting through 90% of the missions to uncover in its entirety…was kinda stupid. :/ I’m all for humanity destroying itself for ridiculous reasons, but trying to launch a rocket in an enclosed space?? Are you serious…? o_O How could the Alternans devote such immense amounts of time and energy to something like that without once thinking, “hey, uh…burning metric tons of high-energy fuel inside of our flammable safety dome might be a little unsafe, idk”.

And it shouldn’t even have been necessary! DX I mean, if they were able to build a dome like that in the first place, wouldn’t they have some sort of scaffolding or elevator system they could use to reach the top and just literally climb out if they wanted to leave that badly?? Had Alterna existed for so long that the technology used to create it was lost to time (seeing as it’s implied that Alterna was destroyed by its SECOND generation, I doubt it)...?? Or, did the writers suddenly realize that coming up with pseudo-scientific lore that explains why inkfishes resemble humanity is wholly unnecessary and adds nothing to the themes of Splatoon…but it was too late to rework the concept, so they just finished off the story with whatever-the-heck and called it a day. ¯_(ツ)_/¯ I guess we’ll never know...

Anyway, my version of Alterna’s backstory starts with a similar premise: humans invented crystal thingies that can manifest people’s desires and whatnot…but this alone caused conflict that eventually doomed Alterna. People began to make their own interpretations of other people’s desires, judging and condemning them for how they manifested. They began treating the crystals’ reflections as compulsory measures of morality and worth, rather than simple expressions of the human heart that exist outside of a good/bad binary. Alterna’s leaders envisioned themselves creating a society of ‘pure truth’, free from the destructive power of deceit and subterfuge…all the while ignoring the destructive power of paranoia and exclusion that they immersed themselves in.

Exclusion escalated to oppression, which eventually spawned rebellion: plans were made to create a rocket that would allow a select group of ‘undesirables’ to escape Alterna for the surface world, destroying the integrity of their safe haven in the process. Despite not knowing what was waiting for them out there, they were willing to take the risk in the name of freedom. Eventually, this secret plan was revealed to the public, resulting in Alterna’s first and last civil war. As the Alternans began to fight and kill each other, the crystals were overwhelmed with the unprecedented ferocity of their clashing desires-- “a violent and terrible chain reaction ensued”, and the energy within them exploded outward. The sky dome, still filled with the beautiful blue of the peoples’ wishes for peace and happiness, came crumbling down, raining fire and shrapnel upon Alterna. The still-poisoned air of the outside world flowed freely into the cavern, ensuring the eventual death of anyone who might have survived.

…Then the crystals fell in the ocean, the sea creatures were imbued with human hopes and dreams, yadda yadda, all that’s basically the same as the canon too. And although I still think it’s unneeded (the mere concept of a bygone humanity in Splatoon carries plenty of weight without all this “lore”, imo), at least now the story isn’t stupid!

It speaks to the way humans actually treat each other, and blames their downfall on their long-established bad habits of cruelty and callousness, rather than morally-neutral traits like ambition and pursuit of the unknown (I would never have expected “curiosity killed the cat” as the lesson of the day from Splatoon, of all franchises. o_O This IS the same game that celebrates individual expression and forging your own path, right…?)

Anyway…I’m gonna be using elements of this rewritten backstory and the theme of “manifesting desires” to flesh out the final boss encounter and Agent 3’s subtle character arc. So please look forward to that~

[elvisbdoll]

Inside the Mind of Elvis Presley: A Psychological Portrait

EPISODE III: THE ARCHITECTURE OF NEED

Before you read: here’s the DISCLAIMER

“You look like a lonely little boy,” she once said to him. And she wasn’t wrong.

1962. Elvis Presley came home from Germany not just as a soldier, but as a son without a mother. Gladys was gone. And so was the last piece of emotional safety he’d ever really known.

He returned to a mansion, not a home. The world was watching, waiting for him to pick up where he left off. Movies. Records. Headlines. But inside, Elvis was stuck—half grieving, half surviving.

And in the fog of that in-between, he thought of her—the quiet, blue-eyed girl he met in Bad Nauheim. Priscilla Beaulieu. She had been just 14 when they met—young, soft-spoken, and attentive. He was drawn to her, not because of who she was, but because of what she offered: a sense of stillness. Safety. Innocence.

The world around Elvis was demanding, complicated. Priscilla, in contrast, didn’t ask much. She listened. She admired him. She made him feel strong. And in her presence, he felt something rare—not judged.

He didn’t force her into anything. But over time, she shifted herself to fit the outline of what she believed he wanted. The hair, the makeup, the style—it wasn’t about control. It was about approval. She wanted to be the woman he would never leave. And in that silent agreement, a dynamic formed. Elvis didn’t need to ask. Priscilla chose to become who he needed.

Bringing her to Graceland wasn’t just about romance—it was about filling a void. He had lost the one woman who truly understood him, and now he was trying to build something similar out of memory and need.

But Priscilla was not just a passive figure in his life. She may have been young, but she learned how to exist within his orbit. She knew when to be quiet, when to offer comfort, when to back away. She adapted. And with time, she carved out her place—not just as a girlfriend, but as a constant. A pillar.

For Elvis, stability was everything. Fame had spun his world off its axis. He didn’t want to be challenged; he wanted to be held together. And Priscilla became part of that scaffolding.

But what began as emotional refuge slowly turned into routine. And routine turned into distance.

By the time they married in 1967, Elvis was already becoming emotionally unavailable. The version of Priscilla he had idealized was changing—growing. She was no longer a teenage girl shaped by his shadow, but a woman with thoughts, needs, and boundaries of her own. And that unnerved him.

He began to detach. He sought affection elsewhere. Not necessarily out of malice, but out of a need to avoid vulnerability. The closeness that once felt comforting began to feel risky. And Elvis—ever protective of his emotional core—started to shut down.

The tragedy wasn’t that he stopped loving her. The tragedy was that he didn’t know how to love without fear. Fear of being abandoned. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being seen too closely.

So instead, he leaned into what he did know: performance. Charm. Distraction.

He smiled in public, laughed with the boys, posed for photos.

And when the lights dimmed, he slipped back into silence.

Their marriage didn’t fail overnight. It faded. Quietly.

Two people who once clung to each other for safety now stood in opposite corners of a house that had once promised peace.

Elvis never stopped needing connection.

He just didn’t know how to hold it once he had it.

Elvis longed for closeness, but closeness terrified him. He could be warm, affectionate, and magnetic—but when things started to feel too close, too vulnerable, he pulled away.

After Gladys died, the part of him that could fully attach to another person dimmed. That loss had cut too deep. She had been everything—his mother, his mirror, his emotional lifeline. Losing her wasn’t just about grief; it was about losing safety itself.

So Elvis began to love in fragments. He kept people at arm’s length—not always physically, but emotionally.

He surrounded himself with a crowd but built emotional escape routes into every relationship. Friendships, romances, even marriage—all held at just enough distance to avoid the pain of another loss like hers.

That distance wasn’t cruelty. It was protection.

Elvis didn’t want to feel that kind of devastation ever again. So he coped the only way he knew how:

Don’t get too close. Don’t let anyone in too deep. That way, when they leave—and they always do—you won’t fall apart.