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science-hoes · 22 days ago

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Jack Abbot is full of empty threats.

That’s what you tell yourself every time you make a snide remark about his age. The adjectives to tease him with are endless. Old. Ancient. Vintage. Outdated. Decrepit. Elderly. Archaic.

“You’re gonna pay for that one day.” His voice is low, the frequency just enough for you to ear.

He doesn’t say how. He doesn’t say when. He doesn’t say where. So he must not have a plan.

“Whatever you say, grandpa.” You tease before turning on your heel to handle another patient.

Jack watches you leave, the swing of your hips nearly hypnotizing him. He knows exactly how you’re gonna pay. He’s just waiting for the right opportunity.

It happens one night after a few too many beers in the park after your occasional day shift. You sit way too close to Jack on the metal bench, thighs brushing together, but he never moves away from the contact.

And you will not shut up. “Gotta get ya home, grandpa. S’almost your bedtime.” You slur in his ear, your breath making the hair on his neck stand at attention.

Jack holds his alcohol better than you, and he takes your hand to lead you to the parking garage. “You need a ride home.” He says, voice firm but kind.

When he opens the passenger door for you to hop in, you giggle at the amount of CDs tucked into the side of the door. “Who even uses CDs anymore? Don’t you have Bluetooth?” You tease.

Jack just chuckles and shuts the door in your face. The ride home isn’t any quieter. You’re reading off the release date of every single album you can get your hands on, all of them predating your existence. He says nothing, just the smug smile of an animal who’s about to devour his prey. You’re too captivated to the artifacts in his truck to notice.

He walks you into your apartment, and you throw your arms around his neck before he gets a chance to shut the door. The kiss is hungry, long overdue, and exhilarating. Your alcohol level has begun to taper off, that’s what you tell him, when he hoists you up by your thighs and takes you to your bedroom.

Thrown onto the mattress like a rag doll, you quickly remove your layers of clothes. Jack wastes no time flipping you over onto your stomach, dragging your ass back until it smacks against his hips, rubbing his achingly hard cock against you.

“Just let me know when it’s time for your vitamins, and we can take a break.” You call back to him.

A firm swat on your ass draws a sharp scream from you as he runs his fat tip through your dripping folds. “I think it’s time to teach you a lesson, baby girl.” He husks.

The first slow thrust splits you in half, and you’re both far too loud for the thin walls of the apartment. His thrusts move quicker, sharper, and you’re starting to feel that spring coil in your abdomen. His fingers are reaching around your waist to circle your clit in concentrated form.

“Jack, please!” You scream, drooling against the comforter of your bed.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you, doll. Must be my old man ears.” Jack hisses in between thrusts.

Oh.

So that’s his game.

You whine when his pace picks up, pistoning into you like a machine. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The words tumble from your trembling lips.

“You’re sorry? Yeah? I bet you are.” He grunts, his hands tightening on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh.

His cock is hitting that spongy spot inside you with precision, and you start to meet him halfway with the thrusts. “I’m close, I’m so close. So so close.” You cry.

Jack half smiles, looking down at where your bodies are joined, admiring the cream that’s slathering his cock. “Gonna come for me, kid?” He asks, the lilt in his voice condescending.

“Yes, Jack, please. Please don’t stop.” You beg, grabbing onto your comforter for dear life.

And then everything is still. Jack stops moving. He’s inside you still, but he’s completely halted all efforts to pleasure you. Your release fades away from the lack of stimulation.

“No!” You scream, pushing back on his cock to try and revive your orgasm.

Jack lets out a fake sigh of an apology. “Oh, sorry, love. You know how I am. Just get tired so easily.” He hums, palming the flesh of your ass cheeks, massaging gently as you pathetically thrust back against him. He slowly begins to meet your thrusts halfway again, but not at the pace you want.

“You already made your fucking point.” You hissed through clenched teeth.

Jack’s hips begin to move faster, speeding up with each one of your desperate cries. “Did I? Sorry, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

You don’t respond because now he’s fucking you again like he means it, like he can’t keep up this charade forever because, fuck, he wants to come in you so bad. He feels your walls begin to tighten around him, and he knows your orgasm is hovering off the shore again.

“I’ve got an idea.” Jack mumbles, grabbing both of your wrists and pulling them behind you, like he was a dirty cop arresting you. “How bout you let this old man fuck a baby in you, huh? You like the sound of that?”

His hips slammed into you so hard that his balls are spanking your pussy with each thrust. You’re so, so unbelievably close, and his words are hurdling you to your release.

“Won’t be around for much longer, don’t want you feeling lonely without me.” He muses, his own grunts becoming louder with each snap of his hips.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you nodded stupidly at his offer. Jack clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“Answer me. You wanna have my baby?” He growls.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Each answer a punctuation to his hips smacking against your ass.

“Let me hear you say it.”

“I wanna have your baby.”

“My ears don’t work too well, doll. Gotta be louder than that.”

Your abdomen tightens, and a white hot wave crashes over your entire body. “I want to have your baby, Jack!” You screamed.

“Atta girl.” Jack praises before spilling into you the moment he feels your walls contract around him, coating them with white spurts.

When you collapse onto your stomach and Jack flops down next to you, catching his breath, he gives you that smug smile that you love so much.

“Gonna keep calling me old?” He taunts, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

You smile and grab one of his large wrists. You lead it down to your leaking pussy, shoving his fingers in to plug your hole. “If this is my punishment, I’ll keep calling you old til the day you die.” You breathe. “Which should be any day now.”

#I must slip a breeding kink into everything it’s in my dna #Jack abbot #Jack abbot x reader #Jack abbot smut #Jack abbot x you #the pitt #the pitt hbo

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rafecameronssl4t · 9 months ago

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Leo is born || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: the long awaited fic of Leo's birth!

Warnings: complications with childbirth, allusion to ppd.

Word count: 1,190

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The hospital room was anything but calm—machines beeping, nurses and doctors moving quickly, their faces strained with focus. The air was thick with tension, a suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. You were drenched in sweat, each contraction crashing over you like a violent wave, sharper and more relentless than the last.

Hours had blurred together in an agonising haze, the pain unyielding, your body caught in a merciless cycle that showed no sign of easing. The baby was still in the wrong position, and every minute that passed felt like a lifetime. You were struggling to breathe through the pain, your vision blurring at the edges. Rafe paced at the edge of the room, running his hands through his hair, his eyes wild with worry. His shirt was crumpled, half tucked in, half hanging loose, as if he had dressed in a rush and didn’t care how he looked.

For once, his usually cool, composed demeanour was completely shattered. His gaze flicked between you and the doctors, desperation and helplessness etched across his face. He had no control here, and it was driving him mad. Another contraction hit, and you let out a sharp cry, your body trembling. Your hands clenched around the bedsheets, knuckles turning white.

Rafe was by your side in an instant, grabbing your hand. But his touch wasn’t soft or reassuring—it was tight, as if he were trying to hold on to his own fraying sanity. “Rafe…” you gasped, trying to catch your breath, your voice cracking. “Hey, hey… it’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

His gaze flicked to the doctors, his blue eyes narrowing with a dangerous intensity. “What the hell is going on?” His voice was low, tight, like a coiled spring ready to snap. “Why aren’t you doing something?” One of the doctors—a calm, composed man in his forties—tried to explain.

“Mr. Cameron, we’re monitoring the situation. The baby is in a breech position, and we’re assessing the safest way to proceed without—” Rafe cut him off, his voice rising, sharp and angry. “I’m not paying you thousands of dollars to asses the situation! Do something now! She’s in pain. She’s been in pain for hours, and you're just standing around doing nothing!”

His hand gripped yours tighter, though he didn’t even seem aware of it, his focus entirely on the medical staff. You could see the way the doctors exchanged looks—professional, calm, but there was a flicker of unease in their expressions. They were used to pressure, but not the kind of raw, unfiltered anger that Rafe was radiating.

“Mr. Cameron, I understand you’re upset, but we have to ensure the safety of both your wife and the baby. A C-section is becoming increasingly likely, but we have to wait for the right moment.” Rafe let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “The right moment? My wife is screaming in pain, and you're telling me to wait for the right moment?”

Another contraction hit, and your hand instinctively tightened around his. You let out a choked sob, tears streaming down your face as the pain shot through your entire body. Rafe’s attention snapped back to you, and for a brief moment, the anger in his face softened, replaced by something raw—something vulnerable.

He brushed a damp strand of hair away from your face, his thumb trembling as it touched your skin.“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispered, though the strain in his voice betrayed the fear simmering beneath the surface. “I’m right here.”“Rafe,” you gasped, voice cracking, “I can’t… it hurts so much.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked like he might break. But he didn’t. He bent down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, his words barely above a whisper. “I know, I know… I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it away. I’d do anything to make this easier for you. Just—just hold on, okay? You’re so strong. You’re doing so good.”

But the second the contraction eased, his head whipped back toward the doctors, fury burning in his eyes again. “Do something! Now! I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t care what it takes. Just help her!” One of the nurses, sensing the rising tension, stepped forward. “We’re preparing for a C-section, Mr. Cameron. We need just a few more minutes to make sure everything is ready.”

“You’ve had hours,” Rafe snapped. His voice was dangerously low now, the calm before the storm. “If anything happens to her—or to my son—it’s on you. Do you understand me?” You could feel his anger vibrating through his body, his hand trembling in yours. He was terrified, but he didn’t know how to express it except through rage.

And yet, even through the haze of pain, you could see that his fury wasn’t just anger—it was fear. He was helpless in a situation he couldn’t control, and it was killing him. Before you could say anything else, the doctor spoke up, his tone firm but professional. “We’re ready for the C-section. We’re going to take good care of both of you.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked back to the doctor, his jaw still clenched, but he didn’t say anything more. Instead, he turned back to you, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles, trying to offer you the only comfort he could. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice soft now, almost pleading. “You’re so strong, and I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” The next moments were a blur. The pain, the fear, the cold sterility of the operating room.

But Rafe never left your side. Even through his anger, through his fear, he stayed with you, his hand in yours, his eyes locked on you, as if you were the only thing tethering him to this world. And when Leo’s first cry pierced the room, Rafe let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. His grip on your hand tightened, and he leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead, his voice choked with emotion.

“You did it,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “He’s here.” You let out a breath of relief. “Here,” a nurse approaches with your newborn son, freshly cleaned and swaddled. “Hm?” Your voice is distant as she gently places him on your chest. The weight of him feels foreign, almost surreal. You suck in a shallow breath, your shaky hand reaching up to stroke his delicate back, but you pull it away, unable to hold it there for more than a second.

The room feels heavy, and a hollow ache settles deep within your chest. You avert your eyes, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. “Can I… Can I just rest?” Your voice cracks. “I-I want to rest right now.” The nurses exchange quiet glances, their eyes flicking toward Rafe, who is watching you closely, trying to understand the distance in your expression. His brows knit together in concern, but after a beat, he nods slowly, saying nothing, his gaze lingering on you as if he’s waiting for you to come back to yourself.

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willowser · 21 days ago

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sweet as cherry wine—

bakugou katsuki x f!reader wc: 2.6k+ tags: katsuki pov, tough family conflicts including emotional and physical abuse (non-graphic), toxic relationship dynamics (not with reader), bakugou x f!oc, eventual office romance, canon-typical violence, light smut, slowburn emotional growth, mentioned death of a family member, happy ending, tags subject to change.

once again, very big thank you to @kodzu-ken for giving me the opportunity to pursue this idea !! our office romance is coming.....i promise......i just have to give bakugou several different layers of trauma first akhfkahfa

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄 ˎˊ˗

title | part two

When Katsuki is 8, his grandmother dies.

There's very little he knows about death then, but he feels it coming in the months before it happens, before any of the grown-ups sit him down. It startles in his brain at her arrival, sudden and instinctive, like the little animal of him has smelled that something is off.

One day Obaachan visits—and then just never leaves, instead installed into Katsuki's playroom: the "office", once a kingdom of color, overrun with swaths of fabric his father brought home in great bundles, spooled out across the floor.

It takes both his parents and his aunt and even his oldest cousin to complete Obaachan's hostile takeover, and once she's settled in, he's entirely barred from the room. Not even allowed to dig through the scraps of red and blue and yellow, to pull satin over his shoulders or to chase tulle down the hallway.

No, after that, Katsuki can only stand at the door with an eye pressed to the crack, breathing in time to the hiss of Obaachan's machines.

Sometimes she watches him in return, catches him in her cloudy, sunken stare from her final resting place on the futon. It scares him in a way he doesn't know how to translate yet, all her protruding bone and thin, transparent skin, the way her mouth folds in on itself when she sees him. It makes something cold coil in his tummy, something that feels far too big for his little body.

There isn't much she says and that makes it worse, somehow. Her voice is as frail as she is, but there's an echo after she speaks, the same sudden silence that follows glass shattering. Most of the time, he's already on his way out of the room, moving much too loud and much too fast to show his respect and to slow down and listen—

But the one time he does, her words splinter something, hard, inside of him.

"He's just like his mother."

It hits him hotter than his mom's palm, shuts his mouth before another word can form. He's yelling about something, because he's eight and still throws ugly tantrums and because the witch matches him beat for beat, feeds his unruly little fire. It's not the first time he's ever heard it, even that young, how much like her he is, but the way Obaachan says it. Like she's peeling something rotten off the sole of her shoe.

When she looks at him, really looks at Katsuki, it's like she's seen something. Caught him, somehow, doing something he should be ashamed of, even though he's only eight and doesn't know any other way to be.

That night, he lies in bed and tells himself he doesn't care. That she's old and mean and wrong. That his mother is a hag and his grandmother's even worse and he doesn't care, he just doesn't give a crap.

And he remembers it all anyway.

Obaachan's machines go quiet in the spring.

The office becomes an office again, all her things are packed and put away; his mother scrubs it all down herself, and his old man sews late, late into the night for a couple of weeks. Katsuki avoids that room for a while, walks past the door too fast, hears phantom hissing where he knows there is none.

He doesn't cry through the incense and sutras, and he never says that he misses her, doesn't even think it, and yet still—sometimes her voice rises up right behind his mother's, just as sharp.

Time drifts forward in slow, heavy pulses, with days folding into months and months folding into years. By sixteen, Katsuki's more of a weapon than a young man and he fights like violence is the only language he knows. Anger lives in him full-time, pressed tight behind his ribs, radiating out through every word, every action. There are moments it's so strong and he doesn't know how or why, almost like it's not even his but something that was passed down, written in his blood. Like a birthright, or a curse.

He sparks off his mother like dry wood under a match.

It doesn't take much, just a glance, a shift in tone, a scrape of chopsticks a little too hard against her bowl. At this point in his life, they don't even try to talk very much, because when they do, it never ends very well.

And tonight is a perfect example.

Katsuki's halfway through with dinner, voice sharp with frustration and a mouth full of rice, "—busted my ass on the field and still lost points just 'cause I didn't kiss the ground Eraser walks on." He doesn't stop to breathe, doesn't notice how his mother's stopped chewing across the table, only continues when Masaru nods sympathetically. "And class rankings are a joke, anyway. What's the point of top scores if they're just gonna kiss up to who they like better? If they're gonna act like I'm the problem for pointin' it out?"

There's a pause as he stops to swallow, as he glances up at his dad for—something, validation or anything. Since he was a kid, his old man has let him talk himself in circles, cry over the same damn things over and over again, and sometimes Katsuki needs that space and sometimes he just wants—

"You know," Mitsuki suddenly murmurs, as casually as a blade slipped between ribs. "For someone that's supposed to be so smart, you sure run your mouth like an idiot."

The air stiffens, between all of them. Katsuki goes still, jaw tight around the bite he hasn't swallowed, because he wasn't expecting it when he should have been. From her, he always should be expecting it.

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

The old witch hates when he swears, but she doesn't jump on him for it, doesn't yell, only shrugs like she isn't tearing him right open at the dinner table. "You come home whining about how everyone's out to get you, how the system's broken when it's really just your big mouth that's getting in your way, Katsuki."

"I'm top three in my year," he grinds out. "Ain't nothin' in my way."

"Top three," she repeats, "not top."

Katsuki flushes, immediately. It stings because it's true, because it's the same thing he's been telling himself over and over again every night. Only now is he realizing just how familiar that voice inside his head is.

"All your talk, all your pride," she shrugs again, lazy and offhand. "Not worth a damn if you have nothing to show for it."

The scar on his shoulder is still pink, under his clothes, just like the one near his hip; they're the softest parts of him, a tenderness that had to be torn out and stitched back together.

Some nights he wakes up choking, breath caught sideways in his throat, gagging like he's trying to spit up sludge that isn't there. Some nights he closes his eyes and all he can see is what's left of All Might, brittle and burned out—and it's his fault. Katsuki is the shadow. Katsuki is the reason the light doesn't reach.

"I do have something to show—"

"Then show it." Finally, she looks up at him, lip curled in—annoyance, like this is the stupidest conversation she's ever had, like this is all shit he should know by now. "Quit walking around with your head up your ass, acting like being the loudest in the room makes you the winner." She snorts, one cruel sound. "That's not being the best, that's just your big, fat ego."

Katsuki scoffs, to scratch the itch in his throat. "Yeah, you'd know, huh?"

"Don't get smart with me, kid."

"I wouldn't have to if you knew a goddamn thing!"

"And there it is, Mr. Know-It-All!"

There are so many things he wants to say and doesn't know how to, none of them fit in his mouth. They feel small and tiny and weak, and he never learned how to be that way.

He settles on: "What the hell is your problem?"

That bites. Not deep, but enough to scar, and she blinks, like it's hit something she thought she fortified. Her mouth twitches like she's biting something back and just for a second, he sees it: the edge of guilt, or fear, or some soft thing she won't let live. And then it's gone just as fast, buried like everything else.

"You're my son," Mitsuki says, final and flat, "and I'm not gonna let you turn into some loser just because you don't know when to shut your mouth and listen."

And that—that's what guts him.

Some loser.

It's not the first time he’s heard it, even that young, but the way she says it. Like she means it, like it's already true. Katsuki stares at her and he doesn't know what his face is doing, but it burns—in his throat, behind his eyes, down to the fists he has in his lap.

When he shoves back from the table, the whole thing rattles, even the legs. Plates clink and cups slosh, chopsticks jump. Whatever, he growls—maybe, he doesn't know and doesn't care—and he stalks away with a fury so hot that it takes his breath away, and it's rooted in him, that fire.

Inherited. Thrumming inside his chest like a second heart. Less of something he feels and more of something he just is.

Her voice bites at his heels, trails him down the hallway and past the genkan and framed photos of their family, hung like ornaments, and Katsuki hits the garage door open so hard it splinters all the cracks in the wall even further.

Masaru finds him thirty minutes later.

Katsuki's hands are greasy, buried in the guts of an old Toyota Crown they've been picking at for months; some shitty thing Masaru bought half-rusted out of a field in Noto because he liked the bones.

The old man doesn't say anything, just walks around to the passenger side and leans onto the open hood. Katsuki doesn't look up, still breathing too hard from his nose, fucking hands shaking in small, infuriating ways.

Silence stretches between them, thick and oily, until the socket wrench slips for the third goddamn time.

"Fuck!" Katsuki spits, louder than he should. Masaru won't nag him about it, but that bothers him even more, to just have to sit in the quiet judgement and listen to his behavior echo back at him.

He flinches when his dad raises his hand, and so the old man makes a point to soothe the tension in his neck, to pinch at the muscle above his shoulder until it releases.

"Use the 13 mil," he murmurs, and—

It makes Katsuki's jaw tick, because he knows, he knows what the fuck to use. He just didn't want to.

Still, he swaps the wrench and gets the bolt loose with a hard, angry crack, and the sound satisfies something small and mean in his chest.

They work in that silence for a little while, the kind that feels like it's pressing up against his ears. Half-seething, Katsuki hunched over the hood like a dog waiting to be struck, scowl deep enough to scar; Masaru only hums under his breath, passing a rag and the right socket without being asked.

There's a little radio on the shelf, tuned low to some enka station neither of them have ever bothered to change.

"Did I ever tell you how we met?" Masaru gives Katsuki the chance to answer, but he doesn't, so he doesn't push. "We met at the fabric house. She came in red-hot over a shipment, some dyed silk that came out wrong. She lit into the floor manager like it was personal."

Katsuki snorts. A short, cruel sound. "Sounds about right."

"She was wrong about the dye, but she wasn't wrong about the way they were handling it." He smiles, like it's a fond memory and not an admission that the witch has always been psychotic. "Your mother saw through the nonsense faster than anyone else in the room."

Maybe at another time, he would have tried to picture it: his father younger, wide-eyed, caught in the orbit of a woman like Mitsuki, all fire and sharp elbows, raising hell like it was second nature, like it still is—but the thought tugs at some raw, unnamed thing inside of him, so instead he shoves it down as far as it will go and seals the lid.

"I don't know what caught me first," Masaru continues, soft. "That she was loud, or that she cared enough to be."

Katsuki's frown deepens. "You're both insane."

"Maybe," His father laughs, and when Katsuki glances at him, the apples of his cheeks are red, glowing. Still that young man, still enthralled. "But we know what matters, and we look out for each other."

It burns something deep in Katsuki, hearing that, and he doesn't know why. It feels like disgust, but—that's not quite it. More like disbelief. Furious, bone-deep disbelief, to think that someone as gentle and quiet as his father could ever understand the wildfire that is his mother. To think there is some unseen side of her that he's never met, hidden and whole and that knows how to be gentle back.

"How?" Katsuki stands so fast that bolts clatter, that Masaru looks up at him in surprise. "How the hell do you deal with her? She never shuts up, she never backs off, she gets in everyone's face, always has to win—"

"She's not trying to win," Masaru disagrees, quietly.

"The hell she ain't!" Katsuki scoffs, throwing his hands out, because it's right there in front of his father's face and all he does is frown. "You always take her side! Even though she starts everything, and she's always pushin'—pushin' like 'm some little brat that doesn't know squat, that can't do anything right!"

Masaru doesn't flinch, or argue. Only watches him, silent and steady.

It makes his voice rise, crack with all the heat. "You act like she's perfect or somethin', but I'm not you! I can't—jus'—sit there while she tears into me!"

He’s nearly as tall as his father, but the old man kneels anyway, settling down to meet him, gripping both of Katsuki’s forearms; firm, unguarded, showing no hint of threat.

"She's not perfect, son," Masaru murmurs, voice low, "none of us are. She pushes you harder than she should, sometimes, because she sees the strength in you, even when you don't, because she doesn't want you to ever be unprepared—but that doesn't mean it's always right. That doesn't mean you have to be okay with it."

His face pinches tight, and he squeezes his eyes shut and when his father tries to hug him, Katsuki yanks away. Because he doesn't know any other way to be. The wrench in his hand doesn't shake anymore, but on the inside, something is splitting wide open, a slow kind of panic. Creeping, like rust spreading under paint.

His old man talks about love like it's so simple; patience is just something you give, forgiveness is just something that comes—but Katsuki isn't built that way. His mother isn't, either. They burn too hot, too fast, and leave ash in their wake without meaning to. Masaru will never get it, because he's not wired the same way and doesn't carry the same pressure in his chest, the same sharpness in his teeth.

But his father is right about one thing: just because he is stupid enough to endure the shit, doesn't mean Katsuki has to.

#✿ willow writes #...reader is coming i promise skhfakhgkahf #holding him gently in my hands..........offering this small baby out to you..........#please treat with care...........#bakugou x reader #i forgot how to tag things #let me know if i forgot anything okay thanks love you bye

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eveninggstar · 3 months ago

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beneath the same quiet sky ⊹ ࣪ ˖

boxer!max verstappen x singlemum neighbour!reader

09.03.25

୨ৎ back one page ୨ৎ back two pages

୨ৎ After moving to a quiet neighborhood with your son, the last thing you expected was to cross paths with your elusive neighbor — not once in the 18 months since you bought the house. You weren’t looking for help, let alone a connection, but when the underground boxer appears at your doorstep one night, bruised and brooding, you find yourself unable to turn him away.

part one, part two

The sound of heavy breathing fills a dark room. The bass of the music thuds like a second heartbeat, but is drowned out by the burning feeling that resides in the raw rasp of Max Verstappen’s lungs, each breath coming in short, controlled bursts. His chest rises and falls in a rhythmic pattern of urgency, the burn in his throat sharp and relentless.

The lights flash wild and unforgivingly, bathing the room in a chaotic glow. But for one moment—a single moment—they flicker and fade, plunging everything into a near-darkness. A solitary spotlight slices through the shadows, highlighting every drip of sweat, and the pink hue of Max’s face in a harsh light. His piercing blue eyes focus on the opponent, brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

His focus is sharp. His body is a machine, honed and programmed to perfection—each muscle coiled, waiting. In a life like this, there’s no room for second-guessing, no room for hesitation. He isn’t here for glory, nor is he here for fame. All of that has already been achieved. He’s here for one thing, and one thing only: to fight.

DING DING DING!

The familiar three consecutive bells tolled, breaking the inner silence like a thunderclap, shattering the slow-motion rhythm of his thoughts. His body jolts, muscles springing into action, the bell giving Max something only similar to a Pavlovian reaction. The shock of the noise ripped through the silence, taking the place of a violent interruption—like everything in the world snapped back into place. The calm is broken. The fight continues.

“Once upon a time, in a faraway jungle, there was a little lion named Leo who dreamed of becoming the biggest, bravest lion in the land…” You read to your son, Leo, your voice is soft and steady, carrying a gentle rhythm. After a hectic half an hour, the night was finally settling into a quieter pace around you. The soft light of a lion-shaped night light casts a warm, honeyed glow across your face, the room bathing in its calm light.

Leo’s small body is tucked into his race car-themed bed, his tiny hand clutching yours with more strength than usual as he listens intently. His eyes, once wide and alert, slowly begin to grow heavy, the weight of the day coercing him into his very own dreamland. His other curls around his favourite stuffed lion, his short fingers gripping the worn fabric as his body sinks deeper into the lull of his cushioned bed.

As you turn the final page, the only sounds are the soft rustle of paper and the occasional creak of the floorboards. These familiar sounds lull him toward sleep. You look down, the sniffles coming to a complete halt, noticing his face still streaked with stray tears from his nightmare. The lion-shaped light flickers, casting a warm glow over his face, where the twinkling light of his tears reflects like the glow-in-the-dark stars Leo insisted on having on the ceiling.

You pause, watching the peaceful change wash over him. For a moment, everything feels perfectly still. Time slows as you breathe in the quiet, feeling the weight of the night, of his trust, and the comfort you bring.

“Goodnight, my little lion,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Sweet dreams.”

It wasn’t uncommon for you to hear your neighbour clattering in at ungodly morning hours. In a way, it became your routine—those weighted footsteps echoing through the thin walls, the harsh scrape of his door opening, and the sounds of him moving through his apartment like clockwork. Max. You didn’t know much about him— just that he was intense, kept to himself, and rarely seen during the day, and when he was caught, he would most likely have at least a bruise or a cut formed on his skin. You could hear the occasional thud of a weight, the low hum of a radio late into the night, the static holding an uncanny resemblance to a lullaby. Despite the chaos in your own life, your romanticised presence of him became comforting, like a steady bass rhythm you’d come to rely on, even without even meeting him.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, you heard something else.

A sharp, breathless grunt, followed by a soft curse. And then, silence.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. You had returned from putting your son to bed, after a night terror (something that was increasing as he grew older, something you needed to ask your mother about, and maybe a doctor), and you heard the heavy footsteps echo through the dingy apartments, the regular groan of the door in desperate need of WD40. You stood in your kitchen, staring at the stained coffee mug in your hand, trying to push away the quiet urge to check on him—the neighbour you had never even uttered a mumbled hello to. Max had always kept to himself, and you respected that. But tonight, something was pulling at you, scratching and clawing for your attention. The static silence felt…wrong.

You took a deep breath, looking down at your cami pyjama top and stained sweatpants, the cool air of the hallway sending a shiver down your spine as you stepped into the corridor. Your hand hovered over the doorknob, mind and heart racing. Should you? Would he even want you to care? The doubt lingered for a moment, but you quickly shrugged it off and let the worst-case scenarios play in your mind. For all you knew, he could be on the floor bleeding out.

You knocked, softly at first, but when there was no answer, you knocked again, louder this:

You waited and looked at the damp walls of a hallway, your breath shallow, the uncertainty of what you were about to do settling over you. Seconds felt like an eternity as they ticked dauntingly, and just as you were about to turn away, the door cracked open.

Max stood there, clad in low-hanging sweatpants, his tousled hair damp with sweat, a look of surprise slipped through the cracks of a usual stock expression, and then he schooled his face. He was breathing heavily, and as he moved side to side, a pained expression was very minimal. The familiar tension in his posture was replaced with something you couldn’t quite place—maybe vulnerability, maybe exhaustion.

“What’s up?” His voice was rough, but not unkind.

For a moment, words left you, your mind scrambling on what to say, because you couldn’t really say ‘Hey, I've been listening to your routine for the past 18 months, I've lived here, and it wasn’t the same tonight as it has been the past 549 nights. So what did you do differently?’ So you settled for a simple “I—I heard something. You okay?” Of course, you had to stutter. The concern you felt did creep into your voice, however.

Max blinked, clearly taken aback by the question.

“I’m fine. Just... a little tired,” he said, his eyes avoiding yours as he rubbed the back of his neck.

You followed the hand, noticing the bruise blossoming on his cheek and the faint cuts along his knuckles. The faint scent of blood and sweat clung to the air.

“Doesn’t look like you’re just tired,” you said gently, unable to hide the worry that laced your words. "You’ve got bruises…"

Max shifted uncomfortably but didn't reply immediately. Instead, he shifted on his feet, wincing quickly as he placed his weight on the left. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, yet the expression he was struggling to hide, told you it wasn’t.

You looked at him for a long moment, not checking him out—although your brain was screaming at you to at least look at the man's biceps. You looked behind him, seeing the weights scattered across the floor, the faint glow of a hanging lamp shining a stark white hue across the room. His place was sparse, but there was a strange comfort within the four walls of organised chaos. A few gym bags, scattered boxing gloves, and a lone chair in the corner. It was a far cry from the carefully curated world you built for yourself and Leo.

“You should get that checked out,” you said, nodding toward his cuts. “It looks like it’s more than just a little bruising.”

Max didn’t say anything for a long moment, but you could see the reluctance in his eyes—like he was battling with himself whether he should let you in, be it physically or mentally, you didn’t know.

“I don’t no need a doctor,” he finally muttered almost too quickly.

You crossed your arms, huffing, giving him a look that many deemed as a ‘mum look’. “I’m not talking about ‘no doctor’.” You quoted him. “I’m talking about someone who can help you clean up. You can't keep pushing yourself like this in whatever you do.”

Max couldn’t meet your gaze, looking at the floor as if he was having an inner battle. For a moment you thought he would agree, but instead, he took a slow breath and his expression returned to its stoic nature, his voice a fraction sharper—although it didn’t feel directed at you. “I don’t need help.”

The words hung in the air between you like a tacky Christmas garland, heavy and unyielding. Despite the tension, you held his gaze, refusing to back down. You could see that words wanted to escape him, but he wasn’t allowing himself to. You had no idea what his world was like, how he got injured and thought nothing of it, but you could tell it was a place he didn’t want anyone in.

The moon had long risen, leaving the sky bathed in deep blues and purples. A quiet evening settled over the neighbourhood, the calm almost palpable. Max had no plans—well, he had no fight that night. His most recent fight had brought in a healthy sum, enough to cover himself for the next few weeks without a second thought. He had no desire to burn off excess energy by lifting weights, muscles still fatigued. Instead he opted for a lazy night in, letting the familiar static of his incredibly old TV consume him like a comforting routine. Max wasn’t one for tea or coffee, so the coffee stains on nearly every single mug were concerning, but water was all he needed. Simple and unassuming, just like the rest of his evening.

The same five channels buzzed to life as Max filtered through, deciding what he would divulge into. The crappy glow casted a cold glow across Max’s apartment. He lazily reclined himself, feet propped up on the coffee table that was far too low for anyone. The silence of the night seems heavier than usual, pressing in from all sides, and yet it was oddly comforting. He wasn’t used to still life. There was always something else—always had to be a catch. Tonight, there was nothing. No fight, no rush of adrenaline, no upcoming deadline to meet. Just the quiet buzz of the old television in the cold apartment.

The sound of footsteps from the apartment next door caught his attention, pulling him away from the passive viewership he had settled into. It was faint at first, muffled soft thudding that grew louder, more distinct. It wasn’t the usual shuffle of you walking around. No, this was different. Your steps had a weight to them, a hesitant pause before the creek of a door was heard and a soft voice was murmuring. Max frowned, sitting up slightly, the sound of a child’s muffled cry reaching his ears.

It wasn’t often that he paid attention to the noise of your apartment, but the cries felt different. The sound of a small voice, tinged with fear, crept through thin walls, just enough for him to make out the odd sob of a child. Max’s gaze shifted to the boxing gloves, memories approaching, but never reaching their destination.

He knew the voice was Leo. The little lion, he had heard for the past couple of months, of you living next door. He had never heard such fear in his sob before. More urgent, more desperate. The fear felt raw, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Max exhaled deeply, pushing himself to his feet. He’d never be one to impose, especially not with the mess that followed him in his own life. But tonight? Tonight something was gnawing at him. Something he couldn’t ignore.

In the corridor, the sound of Leo’s cries grew quieter—meaning his living room and Leo’s bedroom must share a wall. His heart began to race as he heard the unmistakable: “No, no! I don’t want it! Please!” The desperation in the small voice was pulling at Max’s heart. The cry pulled at him.

He hesitated for only a second before taking a step forward. His usual self-preservation instincts, the walls he’d carefully built around his own heart, started to break down, and Max knew, in that instant, that he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Leo needed someone, and Max had no idea how or why, but it felt like it might be him.

He knocked softly at first, but the sound of another frantic cry stopped him before he could do it again. Without thinking, he knocked louder this time, a sense of urgency laced through his every motion.

The door cracked open, revealing you to him. You looked worse for wear than the last time he saw you at his door. The shadows under your eyes, like you hadn’t had a restful night in ages. Your gaze was panicked, almost as if you were holding it together by the thinnest of threads.

Your voice was strained as you spoke, eyes glazing between the door and the child who still sobbed quietly in his bedroom. “I—I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m so sorry. It’s just…” you struggled to swallow the lump in your throat, “Leo… he’s been having these night terrors more often and—”

Max, despite himself, found his voice. “It’s okay,” he said, though his words felt foreign in his mouth, as though they didn’t quite fit. “Is he... alright?”

She nodded slowly, but the worry never left her eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “He won’t settle down, and nothing I do helps. He’s been getting worse. I... I don’t know how to stop it.”

You nodded slowly. But the worry never left your eyes.

Max hesitated. He wasn’t sure why he even asked, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Is he... scared of something?”

The woman’s expression faltered, and for a moment, she looked like she might break. “It’s not just the dark... it’s... something else. Something he can’t put into words. I’ve tried everything. I just need him to sleep. To be okay.”

The vulnerability in her voice was something Max wasn’t used to hearing. He knew the harsh edges of life, the raw physicality of it, but this... this was different. He wasn’t sure what to do with the words, but something inside him wanted to do something. Anything.

“Maybe... maybe I could help,” he said. The words were slow to come, but they felt right.

Her gaze flickered up at him, surprise and hesitation blending. “You? But...”

“I don’t know much about kids,” Max said, scratching the back of his neck, “but... I know fear. And maybe, I could help him with that.”

She swallowed, as though weighing her options, before giving a slight nod. “Okay. If you think it’ll help.”

Max stepped into the apartment, following you to Leo’s bedroom. His eyes immediately fell on his small form curled up tightly in his race-car themed bedroom, his body shaking with the aftershocks of his nightmare. The little boy’s breathing was shallow, and his face was soaked with new flooding tears.

Max stood there, looking back to see that you had run toward the kitchen, feeling a tidal wave of awkwardness, but something in the air pushed him forward. He sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, his gaze never leaving the shivering child. He wasn’t sure what to do next, never really being a paternal character, but instinctively, he reached out, his voice a low murmur, like a secret shared only between the two boys.

“Hey, Leo,” he said slowly, and cautiously. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

For a long moment, nothing changed. Leo’s eyes remained glued shut, his body tense, as if trying to escape the terror still haunting him. Yet Max remained stationary, looking at the young boy, until his breathing began to settle, slowly but surely.

And as Leo’s tears finally slowed, the room seemed to calm. The tension, the terror, slowly dissipates, leaving only the quiet sound of a child beginning to find peace.

Max felt a pair of eyes on him, glancing up at your figure, your eyes were wide with disbelief, a mixture of gratitude and wonder. He simply nodded, face stoic, but something warm in his chest.

“Just need a little time,” he murmured to you, then looked over to the sleeping Leo. “They all do.” And he couldn’t help but see himself in the little boy before him.

Please don’t steal my work, much love ᡣ𐭩

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 eveninggstar

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #red bull f1 #red bull racing #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #mad max #boxing au #boxing #boxer!max verstappen #boxer!max #f1 au #formula one au #formula 1 au #singlemom!reader #singlemum!reader

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loverstrings · 1 month ago

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A warm night in Wakanda - Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

At the end credits of Civil War, where Bucky gets offered rehabilitation in Wakanda. Y/N decides to tag along—not just to keep Steve company, but out of curiosity about Wakandan culture… and maybe a little curiosity about Bucky, too. She never realized peace like this could exist for people like her and Bucky.

a.n - I PROMISE IM ALIVE!!! I've been packed with work and my summer classes atm so project spindle updates will be a little slow this week, so take this little drabble :3

| can be read as a standalone or apart of project spindle |

The sun was setting, a wash of gold spilling across the treetops as silence settled over the outer edges of the compound. The air buzzed faintly with the hum of distant tech and the rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze—but down by the water, it was quiet.

Y/N sat cross-legged on a flat rock, tracing a smooth stone across her knuckles like a nervous habit. She didn’t look up when she heard footsteps behind her—didn’t need to.

“You’re late,” she said, voice soft but teasing.

“Sorry,” Steve replied, stepping up beside her. “He wanted some air. They’re still getting everything ready.”

Y/N finally glanced over—and there he was.

Bucky Barnes.

The infamous Winter Soldier. The ghost in the machine. Steve’s best friend.

And, for a long time, just a name in a classified file. One she’d seen back when she was still running missions for Strucker. Before Sokovia. Before Wanda and Pietro had thrown in with Ultron. They’d tried to find her back then. The twins had come looking, eyes wide with fury, asking why she wasn’t standing with them.

But Y/N had already made her decision. “I’m done,” she’d told them.

And when that wasn’t enough, when she saw the betrayal starting to bloom behind Wanda’s eyes, she’d used her power—just once more. A swirl of nightmare-fog, soft as sleep, sharp as sorrow. By the time it cleared, they’d forgotten she was ever there.

Steve found her months. Hiding in the skeleton of a crumbling outpost, eating canned beans cold. He offered her a blanket, and a second chance.

They’d fought side-by-side ever since.

Now, she saw the man who’d nearly torn the world in half—haunted and cautious as he lingered behind Steve, arms crossed, body still like a coiled spring. But his eyes weren’t cold. They were… tired.

“Hey,” she said simply, nodding once.

Bucky didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her, brow slightly furrowed, like he was trying to place her.

“You’re the one with the pink magic,” he said at last.

She smirked. “You’re the one with the metal arm.” A flicker of guilt tugged at her smile. “I mean—were. Sorry.”

Then, like a flicker of something long dormant, Bucky’s lips twitched—just barely. “It’s fine. I’ll grow a new one.”

Steve stepped away without a word, letting the moment settle between them.

Y/N patted the stone beside her. “You can sit. I won’t bite.”

Bucky hesitated… then slowly lowered himself beside her, posture stiff.

The silence felt loud, so Y/N leaned back on her hands, tipping her head toward the sky. “Y’know, when I first got pulled into all this… I don’t really remember much. Just… pieces. Flashes. I knew I was being used, but I didn’t know how to stop it. Didn’t know how to live without someone barking orders at me.”

Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

She turned her head to watch him. “Steve ever tell you how he found me?”

“He said you left Strucker before things fell apart. That he and Nat tracked you down. Gave you a shot.”

Y/N nodded. “I wasn’t ready to be saved. Thought the only way to stop hurting people was to disappear. Steve didn’t buy it. Kept showing up, talking like I was more than what I’d done.” Her voice softened. “Eventually, I started believing him.”

Bucky looked down at the running water. “Guess he’s doing the same for me.”

“Shows he has a type.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter.

The silence stretched again—this time, easier. The kind that says I see you, without needing to explain it.

“You stayed with Steve during the airport fight,” Bucky said, his voice low.

“Course I did,” she said, tossing the stone into the river. “He gave me a second chance. Figured I’d return the favor.”

He looked back at the water.

They sat like that for a long while. No grand speeches. No apologies. Just quiet understanding.

The sun dipped below the horizon. The first stars appeared.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Bucky didn’t feel like a weapon.

He felt… almost human. And sitting next to Y/N, he wasn’t so sure that was a bad thing.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #marvel fanfic #marvel masterlist #marvel #james buchanan barnes

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24kmagiic · 2 months ago

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Dearest Gentle Reader,

As the Social Season approaches, marked by its most anticipated opening soirée, all eyes are on a certain duchess whose legacy is as wild as the magic in her blood—the Enchanting Duchess Bennett.

Her Grace Bonnie Bennett is expected to appear this evening at the Hall of Ancestors, accompanied by the ever-controversial His Grace Niklaus Mikaelson—a pairing that has raised more than a few finely arched brows in the past.

Sources claim the two were seen exchanging animated words in the East Garden just days ago. And if this author knows anything about romantic tension, it’s that passion and provocation are often indistinguishable from a distance.

The question, dear reader, is: when the storm breaks, will their reputations remain unweathered?

With keen observance,

—Lady Mistledown

The Cottage Scandal

May 2: Forced Proximity The Kingdom of Mystic Falls Spring 1812 AD (Regency Era)

"A spring storm. Sharp tongues. And a cottage built for one. What could possibly go wrong?"

Bonnie Bennett and Klaus Mikaelson stood beside one another, examining the broken carriage wheel. Klaus looked only mildly annoyed; meanwhile, Bonnie was in full theatrical distress. Klaus listened to her complaints for as long as he could stand them before softly interjecting.

“You’re yelling like I snapped the wheel on purpose. You’re the witch—fix it,” he spat.

"Don't you think I would have done that already if I could? I told you not to take this route! It's dark and filled with holes. And I'm not entirely convinced your spooky night vision didn't see this hole. It's massive!"

"I would have seen it if you weren't chewing me out about what happened earlier."

"That's because you caused all of this! You provoked me like always, and now, Lady Lockwood's roof is burnt!"

"Take some accountability, love. I only provoke you because you let me."

The sky lit with lightning as thunder roared above them as if on cue. Klaus glanced toward the sky, noticing the sudden storm clouds on an otherwise clear night. He glanced down at Bonnie and watched her with amused interest.

“I don’t want to hear a word…”

“Great, because I have several.”

Bonnie huffed and groaned beneath her breath as the first pelts of raindrops hit her cheeks. “There’s a cottage,” she pointed ahead of them. “Let’s wait there until this storm is over.”

“This storm is a manifestation of your will.”

‘And so is this cottage,’ he failed to say aloud. “This entire night is the machinations of your beautiful mind, yet you blame me for everything.”

Bonnie gritted her teeth. “Inside now, please! Thank you.”

Inside, the cottage was warm and cozy. Despite its rough exterior, it looked lived in. Bonnie resisted questioning the cottage’s origin, though the magic coiling through the air felt achingly familiar.

She peeled off her shawl and hung it neatly on the coat rack fashioned from the finest oak, frowning when Klaus purposely dropped his wet overcoat on the only piece of furniture: a single bed.

“You’re making a mess!” She snatched his coat from the bed, hanging it on the opposite side of the rack. “You’re so uncouth. Can’t you practice some common courtesy for once in your life?”

“You have enough for both of us,” he muttered dryly. He sat on the bed with an unceremonious thud, slowly peeling off layers of clothing; shoes first, then blazer. When he began unbuttoning his shirt, Bonnie panicked.

“My Goddess. What on Earth are you doing?”

His perplexed expression nearly made her chuckle. “I’m getting comfortable.”

Bonnie’s eyes flittered around the cabin before landing on him. “Not in here, you’re not! I’m without a chaperone, and if anyone sees us—sees me with you, I’d be disgraced and stripped of my title!”

“So?”

Bonnie choked on her breath. “So?! Is that truly all you have to say for yourself?”

Niklaus shrugged. “You have nothing to worry about. I’d make an honest woman out of you if need be.”

Bonnie spun away from him, unable to hide her flushed expression. “You are impossible.”

“And you need to relax. The longer you’re upset, the longer this storm will persist, I’m sure.”

She exhaled slowly, squaring her shoulders as she found the strength to turn around.

...And instantly regretted it.

“Your Grace,” she stuttered. “This is grossly inappropriate.”

Seated before her was a shirtless Klaus, smirking at her with golden irises that glowed with mischief. He rose slowly, each step toward her deliberate, unhurried, confident, and dangerous, reminding her that he was, indeed, an apex predator. With each step, Bonnie followed with a step backward until her back hit the wall behind her.

A muffled shriek left her lips. She averted her gaze and slowed her breathing. She didn't want or need to see or smell him. “Kindly, I ask you to take a step back, please,” she whispered.

“Or what?”

Bonnie’s throat tightened around everything she planned to say. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—another mistake.

His scent had always intrigued her, yet she’d never been this close enough to... appreciate it. She released a shuddered exhale before strengthening her resolve. When her eyes opened, she stared straight into him, careful not to show any signs of intimidation.

“I know what you're doing and it’s not going to work,” she told him. She hated how soft her voice sounded.

“I think it’s working just fine,” he countered. Her heart skipped a beat, and, judging by how his ear twitched and the smile on his face, he heard it.

“I think it’s best if I take my chances in the storm,” she countered, hastily turning away from him to place necessary distance between them. She ignored his chuckles as she made her exit, pulling on the door's handle once. Then twice. She tugged on the handle a third time, but it didn't budge.

She spun on her heels with an angry huff to face him.

“What did you do?”

Klaus’s face splintered into a full grin. “Here we go again,” he chuckled. “If blaming me for everything is your version of foreplay, then I’ll allow it.”

“You mind your tongue when you speak to me,” she growled, sounding every bit of Sheila Bennett. Klaus's grin only deepened as he reached for the door. Bonnie ignored how his skin brushed against hers as he pulled at the door and how his muscles bunched and flexed with each tug. She pushed him out of the way when his grunts became too much.

“You’re not trying hard enough,” she dismissed, hoping to end the show he was clearly putting on for ‘her’ benefit.

“Your magic is preventing us from leaving,” he said as he examined the hinges. “Which tells me that despite your tantrum, you don’t actually want to leave, do you?”

He was practically pressed against her back now. And shirtless. Bonnie squirmed away from him, moving to the other side of the room where only the bed separated them.

She slipped out of her heels, shrinking several inches—but not, she hoped, in dignity. Klaus watched silently as she moved about her side of the room tersely in an attempt to get ‘comfortable’.

“I’m taking the bed,” she said authoritatively. You can sleep on the floor.” She threw a pillow at him, which he caught with ease before launching it back at her. The pillow hit the stone hearth with a thud. Bonnie gaped, narrowly avoiding impact. Klaus raised a brow, smirking like a schoolboy who’d pulled her pigtails and dared her to hex him for it.

“That almost hit me!”

“Precisely my intent. What do you expect to happen when you launch something at someone?”

“You weren’t supposed to throw it back that hard!” She laughed, both amused and annoyed by him.

“You give, but you’re awful at taking it.” He watched her flush with thinly veiled amusement—and smiled like he meant it. “That’ll have to change.”

She pursed her lips, ignoring the slew of innuendos littering his speech.

As if he would take the bed before she could claim it, Bonnie peeled back the covers and climbed modestly, ensuring her ankles remained covered. “There is only one bed and I wouldn't be caught dead sharing it with you.”

“You’d make a beautiful corpse. Slide over,” he instructed as he pulled the covers on his side back. Bonnie pulled the blanket to her neck, looking stiff and rigid with only her head visible.

“No. You don’t even need to sleep,” she pointed out.

“Being around you is exhausting. There are always exceptions to the rule,” he countered. The two glared at one another before she finally relented.

“Stay on your side.” She reached for the forgotten pillow he’d thrown at her and placed it between them. Curling on her side to ensure no parts of her touched him. “And turn away from me,” she demanded.

Klaus chuckled. “Or else?”

“I’ll liquefy your spleen.” His laughter echoed against the walls. Loud and unapologetic. “I mean it, Niklaus.”

Klaus felt something inside him stir at the mention of his full name. “Oh, I know. That’s half the thrill.”

She remained quiet before finally speaking, needing to get the last word. It didn’t work. “Keep your distance.”

“I have. You’ve made it abundantly clear I’m not to cross the invisible line of impropriety.” He paused, then added, “But you’ve inched closer three times now, love.” Bonnie’s jaw went slack.

She turned sharply. “That’s because this mattress is slanted! You’re bigger than me! There’s an imbalance.”

Klaus also turned to face her—his face suddenly inches from hers, expression unreadable in the firelight, neither of them was aware of until that moment. “Is that what it is?” he murmured.

Bonnie stared at him, lips parted, breath caught in her throat. His gaze dipped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes, causing her to go still. Neither moved as the air around them pulsed. Then Klaus did the unthinkable.

He retreated.

He rolled back to his side, giving her the full distance she demanded. He released a self-satisfied exhale that somehow made her stomach twist. It’s what she wanted, what she’d asked for. Yet for whatever reason, she felt…

Rejected…

“Good night, Bonnie,” he murmured. She said nothing.

She wasn’t sure what she’d say if she did.

“And while the storm raged against the cabin’s walls, something far more dangerous began to simmer inside.”

...Stay tuned.

Find the second installment here...

#klonnie #klonnieweek2025 #bonnie bennett #klaus mikaelson #tvdu x bridgerton crossover #I’ve done no research in regards to the regency era #so leave me alone if its inconsistent #ion care!

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drnikolatesla · 10 months ago

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Reviving Tesla’s Dream: The Future of Wireless Power Transmission

“My project was retarded by the laws of nature. The world was not prepared for it. It was too far ahead of time. But the same laws will prevail in the end and make it a triumphal success.” – Nikola Tesla

In the early days of radio technology, there was a crucial decision point that split wireless technology into two distinct paths. One path, pursued by Marconi and others, focused on electromagnetic wave transmission. The other path, championed by Nikola Tesla, aimed to minimize electromagnetic waves and use the Earth itself for energy transmission. While the world predominantly embraced the former, Tesla’s innovative approach was largely forgotten. Let’s explore Tesla’s lost art.

Tesla's wireless power transmission system, often known as his "Magnifying Transmitter," was a pioneering approach to sending electrical energy over long distances. Unlike today’s wireless technologies, which rely on electromagnetic waves, Tesla's design aimed to transmit energy through the earth, which he believed was more efficient.

Tesla showcased his system’s potential during his 1899 experiments in Colorado Springs. He successfully transmitted energy through the ground, illuminating bulbs about a mile away from the transmitter. Tesla saw this as a matter of engineering: just as a machine that can throw a rock 5 feet can be engineered to throw it 1,000 feet, he believed his system could be adjusted to transmit power across any distance on Earth.

Modern wireless technologies, such as radio, Wi-Fi, and cellular networks, use electromagnetic waves that spread outward from a source. These waves lose strength according to the inverse square law, which means signal strength decreases with the square of the distance from the source. This energy loss is a significant limitation for long-distance communication and power transmission.

Tesla’s vision was quite different. He recognized that while electromagnetic waves were effective for communication, they were inefficient for transmitting large amounts of power. As he put it, “I only used low alternations, and I produced 90 percent in current energy and only 10 percent in electromagnetic waves, which are wasted.” Tesla aimed to minimize electromagnetic radiation, which he considered to be energy-draining. Instead, he focused on transmitting energy through the earth, which he believed was more efficient and recoverable.

Tesla's system utilized a large coil known as the "Magnifying Transmitter," which generated a high-voltage, low-frequency current. This design featured significant self-inductance and minimal capacitance, producing a strong resonant effect. By accumulating and directing massive amounts of energy with minimal losses, Tesla aimed for efficient power transmission. As he explained, “I accumulate in that circuit a tremendous energy... I prefer to reduce those waves in quantity and pass a current into the earth, because electromagnetic wave energy is not recoverable while the earth current is entirely recoverable, being the energy stored in an elastic system.”

The scientific principles of Tesla's system include:

1. Resonant Circuits: Tesla's system used resonant circuits, tuning the primary and secondary coils to the same frequency. This resonance allowed for efficient energy transfer between coils, amplifying energy while minimizing losses.

2. Self-Inductance: A key component of Tesla’s system was self-inductance. A large coil with high self-inductance generated a strong magnetic field essential for creating high-voltage, low-frequency current. Self-inductance helped store energy in the coil’s magnetic field, critical for high power levels.

3. Capacitance: Tesla’s design involved large capacitors to store electrical energy. Capacitance was kept small compared to self-inductance to achieve desired resonant effects. The capacitors would discharge rapidly, creating high-voltage pulses for transmission through the earth.

To construct a system similar to Tesla’s, he advised:

1. Low Frequency, High Voltage Design: Build a large Tesla coil to generate high voltages at low frequencies. Ensure the design minimizes electromagnetic radiation and focuses on efficient energy transfer into the ground.

2. Loose Coupling for Resonance: Use loose coupling between the primary and secondary coils to achieve significant resonant rise. The coils should be inductively linked but not too close to avoid direct energy transfer.

3. Earth Connection: Establish a deep, effective ground connection to allow the transmitter to send electrical currents into the earth, utilizing its natural conductive properties.

4. Minimizing Radiation: Design the system to suppress electromagnetic radiation, aiming to retain energy within the circuit and direct it into the ground. Tune the system to maximize energy storage and transfer.

5. Energy Storage and Discharge: Incorporate large capacitors for storing and rapidly discharging energy to create high-voltage, low-frequency oscillations.

Tesla’s system faced significant challenges, including the need for large, expensive equipment. In 1914, he estimated the cost of his "Magnifying Transmitter" at $450,000—around $15 million today. These financial constraints prevented him from fully realizing his dream and unfortunately led to his public image as a mad scientist with unrealistic future visions. However, the potential applications of his system are vast, from global wireless power transmission to reducing infrastructure costs and powering remote areas. With ongoing advancements in technology, Tesla’s vision may be within reach.

Tesla’s system presents an alternative approach to wireless energy transmission, focusing on efficiency and long-distance power transfer over the broad dispersal of electromagnetic waves. While modern technologies have advanced in different ways, Tesla’s principles—especially his focus on resonant circuits and earth currents—provide valuable insights into alternative methods of energy transmission. Exploring these principles today could lead to innovative applications, such as more efficient long-distance power transmission or new energy transfer methods.

#nikola tesla #science #history #wireless #energy #power #technology #quotes #ahead of his time #ahead of our time

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foldingfittedsheets · 10 months ago

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Hi Bed Guru! I'm curious about your thoughts and any advice you can give about adjustable beds. Is it basically just the base/frame? Do they need special or specific mattresses? Are they worth it, especially for someone with arthritis (knees, back, shoulders, etc)?

Yeah so instead of having a box spring and a frame, an adjustable base goes right under the mattress and replaces both. You can have a wooden frame around one for aesthetics, but the base holds the bed up and moves it around without the need for anything else.

Adjustable bases. Are. The. Tits. They are so good. There is a million problems they can help with aside from just being comfy as hell. Arthritis and general pressure is one of them.

Ideally if you can convert to back sleeping they can help you the best but you can still get benefits as a side sleeper.

Raising your head even 6” helps with tons of stuff from snoring, sleep apnea, acid reflux, it can help ease sleep apnea but obviously one shouldn’t ditch their machine. It can reduce migraine symptoms in long term studies and is just all around comfy.

Now some folks have tried to use multiple pillows or wedge pillows. The problem with multiple pillows is that every time you need to wake up and adjust them you’re losing sleep, and the wedges are high so they don’t work for most people. The base can sit up in bed to read, watch tv, whatever, then go back down to sleeping height.

Having the legs up makes your lower back way happier, it helps blood to circulate better. There’s a reason people love sleeping in recliners an the base turns your bed into an even better recliner. I can’t say enough good things. Head and feet up create something that got dubbed “zero gravity” which is your body without pressure points. Very useful for achey joints, and the reason adjustable bases got their start in hospitals.

Those features are enough. Head up and down are where all the good stuff is. I personally love my base which has memory settings so I can hit one button to go from sleeping position to recliner position. Mine also has massage which helps me fall asleep way faster. Those features are extra and not strictly necessary but I think they’re great.

There’s even fancier ones with speakers and USB ports and all sorts of stuff so you can go as tricked out as you want but all the basic health benefits are at the bottom end when head and feet elevate. Everything else is just convenience.

As for which beds- almost all modern beds are compatible with adjustable bases. The only kind that’s incompatible are the veryyyy old interconnected coil beds. They’re not very common nowadays because power bases are so ubiquitous that beds need to flex with them.

#ask ffs #bed talk #I have been crafting this reply all day but due to the agonies it was delayed

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missamyrisa2 · 2 months ago

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The clink and clack of machinery joins the scratching of writing utensils on paper, which almost distracts from the nails tapping on tablets and keyboards. It takes a village to run this treatment and the whole of them have all their focus, their eyes, and their comments directed at your naked wigglyness on this padded exam table. Another test of your muscles indicates the restraints on your wrists will not be giving up the job any time soon, nor will the flexible cords attached to your stylish shiny anklets which affords only the slightest of protesting kicks to be made - at least, until a surge of energy starts and your legs are pulled into position so that the humming apparatuses can emerge from their chambers in the ceiling. The panels fold and buzz, moving aside. From your periphery you can see the deep purple of their surface. The elongated padded tool rumbles as it hovers slowly towards your body. Scanners flare to life sending tingly beams up your backside, the energy spilling into your knee pits and along every curve of your thigh backs up to your bouncing tush and along the sides to your ribs and underarms and neck. A crackle of power and force begins when the data is fed back to the machinery. The long pipe shaped tool shifts and contorts, becoming perfectly shaped to attach itself to your body. The first set descends to your legs, filling your knee pits with a molded copy. The outer arms attach around your legs to secure the deposit, and with a tap of a key from a smirking tech the vibrational therapy starts.

A hundred thousand evil wiggling fingers with feather tips and somehow blunt tip nails at the same time have a rager of a party in the sensitive crevice behind your knees. The machine gleefully extracts data from you as the scanners run and your every motion in the restraints sets off clicking analysis. The vibrating apparatuses are almost pumping you for information, and there are more arrivals on their way. The next crackle signals the sheath forming to attach onto your thigh backs, a purpley attachment which hurriedly begins trembling and feeling as though a swarm of buzzing lips were lingering on every sensitive little spot. Beeps and chimes happily approve of your desperate gasping giggling screams. The team works efficiently, calmly, irrespective of your frantic sounds. A long shifting sound joins the melee of aural torment - the tush attachment always takes the longest to form. A piece of art in itself, that intricate casting of your rear curves plus an extra extension (currently being massaged with a coating of shiny lubricant), this one moves extra slow to ensure a 100% accurate drop zone. You feel it first in the underside of your cheeks, the line of vibration as a coil of singing feathers. The taunting teasing spreads up like a spiderweb, not fully buzzing your cute ticklish booty but instead performing a vibing fireworks show as it lights up in intricate set of patterns. The technique milks plenty of data from you and doubles to coax your honeyspot into agreeable conditions. The extension gently yet relentlessly finds its way to the target and attaches with a snug deep shock to your system. The vibrations are hugely inconsistent there, seemingly only to appear when you least expect it in order to extract a maximum reaction. A purply ribcage joins late, for it must adhere to extensive designs by ensuring it covers every detected line of sensitivity on your upper body. Moving and securing itself like a claw machine, the last of the machine's components wastes no time in stimulating your ribs to your shoulders and down your spine, with extra nubby attachments springing out to merrily rotate and brush at your squishy sides and soft neck.

Your giggles are both pleasing and addictive to machine and tech. The overload of information fills the banks and satisfies the crowd of mechanical and organic eyes. They adore your body, and revel in every reaction. This love and adoration fuels the passion to tease, taunt, tickle, and torment. Your beautiful body keeps giving and they will keep taking. How many treatments has this been? You've lost track. The only certainty is that when you awake tingling and gasping, the clock has started to spin down once more before that humming purply vehicle finds you once more and milks out all of the pent up data & reactions since your last capture.

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mattressmachinery · 10 months ago

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Pocket Spring Making Machine

In the competitive world of mattress manufacturing, efficiency and precision are key. One of the essential machines driving this industry forward is the Pocket Spring Making Machine. With technological advancements, these machines are now more efficient, reliable, and capable of producing high-quality pocket springs at remarkable speeds.

Unmatched Production Speed

Modern pocket spring machinehave set a new standard in production efficiency. With a standard operating speed of 200 springs per minute and the capability to reach up to 220 springs per minute, these machines ensure that manufacturers can meet high demand without compromising on quality. This speed not only accelerates production but also allows manufacturers to scale up their operations seamlessly.

Advanced Alarm Systems for Enhanced Reliability

In the realm of high-speed manufacturing, even minor errors can lead to significant setbacks. To combat this, the latest pocket spring machines come equipped with a series of intelligent alarm systems:

Missing Spring Alarm Reminder: This feature ensures that every spring is accounted for during production, minimizing the risk of product defects.

Mechanical Failure Alarm Prompt: Early detection of mechanical issues is crucial to prevent prolonged downtime. This prompt allows operators to address potential problems before they escalate.

Spring Disorder Detection Alarm: Maintaining the correct order and placement of springs is vital for the structural integrity of the mattress. This alarm ensures that any disarray is immediately flagged and corrected.

Dynamic Wireframe Speed Adjustment

Another key feature of modern pocket spring machines is the automatic wire speed adjustment. The wireframe can intelligently increase or decrease speed as needed, ensuring that the springs are formed consistently and with precision. This not only improves the quality of the springs but also reduces material waste and enhances overall production efficiency.

Tight Ultrasonic Welding for Durability

Durability is a cornerstone of quality in mattress manufacturing. Pocket spring machines utilize tight ultrasonic welding to securely bond the springs. This method is superior to traditional welding techniques, providing a stronger and more durable connection that withstands the test of time.

High-Power Cooling Device for Optimal Spring Forming

Spring forming is a process that requires precise temperature control to ensure optimal results. Modern pocket spring machines are equipped with high-power cooling devices that maintain the ideal temperature during production. This results in well-formed springs that contribute to the overall comfort and longevity of the mattress.

ZIMLIN Mattress Machinery: Leading the Way

ZIMLIN Mattress Machinery stands out as one of the largest and most respected manufacturers of mattress machinery in China. With a commitment to innovation and quality, ZIMLIN specializes in producing cutting-edge machines that meet the demands of today's mattress manufacturers. Their pocket spring making machines are a testament to their expertise and dedication to advancing the industry.

In conclusion, the latest innovations in pocket spring making machines, exemplified by companies like ZIMLIN Mattress Machinery, are revolutionizing the mattress manufacturing industry. With features designed for speed, precision, and reliability, these machines are setting new benchmarks for quality and efficiency. As the demand for high-quality mattresses continues to rise, manufacturers equipped with these advanced machines will be well-positioned to meet the needs of the market.

#pocket spring machine #pocket spring making machine #pocket spring mattress #pocket coil mattress #pocket spring manufacturing machine #mattress spring machine #mattress spring manufacturing #mattress spring making machine

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goldenherc9 · 5 months ago

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Superbowl Pre-Game Training (Part 2)

(Ares is @goldengod-ares10 )

The sun blazed down on the Golden Army football field, making the golden turf shimmer like a battlefield of champions. Ares and Hercules, the identical twin behemoths, stomped onto the field, their massive frames packed into tight golden jerseys that barely contained their bulk. Their muscles gleamed with sweat, their light-gold eyes squinting against the sunlight as they cracked their thick necks in perfect sync.

“Bro, today’s the day,” Ares grunted, slapping his brother’s enormous shoulder. “We turn into absolute machines, bro. Titans ain’t ready for us.”

Hercules flexed his arms, veins bulging. “Pshh, they already lost, bro. We just gotta show up and let ‘em know.”

Coach blew the whistle, and the twins lined up for their linebacker drills. The task? Read the offense, react, and smash through the play like wrecking balls. Simple.

A quarterback dummy was set up behind a squad of tackling dummies representing the Emerald Titans' offensive line. Ares and Hercules crouched into position, their monstrous legs coiled like springs, their minds focused on one singular thought: destruction.

“Hit ‘em so hard they regret even signing up for football,” Ares muttered.

“Hit ‘em so hard they gotta change their team name,” Hercules added.

The whistle blew. The twins exploded forward.

BOOM!

The first set of dummies barely slowed them down. Pads cracked, stuffing flew, and the twins bulldozed through the line like runaway trains. Ares reached the quarterback dummy first, lifting it off the ground and slamming it down so hard the plastic helmet popped off. Hercules, arriving a millisecond later, belly-flopped onto the dummy for good measure.

Coach whistled again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Twins, that was supposed to be a technique drill.”

Ares stood up, flexing. “Coach, my technique is violence.”

Hercules flexing as well. “My technique is win.”

Coach sighed. “Fine. Again.”

And so, they did it again. And again. Each time, the tackling dummies suffered. The twins’ confidence grew. Their minds? Not so much.

As the sun set over the Golden Army stadium, Ares and Hercules stood on the 50-yard line, hands on their hips, panting.

Hercules smirked. “Bro, if we hit like that in the Super Bowl, the Emerald Titans ain’t making it to halftime.”

Ares grinned. “Bro, if we hit like that in the Super Bowl, they ain’t making it outta the first play.”

They bumped chests so hard after their twinbro handshake, a nearby bench tipped over. The Golden Army was ready.

Come join the team today brahs, get ur golden brocess and be part of Golden History! Message @brodygold @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9 today dudes!

#golden army #golden team #thegoldenteam #male transformation #male tf #jockification #join the golden team #golden opportunities #golden superbowl #superbowl pre game training #american football superbowl

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ugotnojamzzz · 2 months ago

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Chapter 18

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: mc can’t catch a fucking break, can she?

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 3k

Masterlist

Chapter 17

—

The ride was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind that wrapped itself around your throat.

Y/N sat in the backseat of the black SUV, flanked by an armed guard on each side. The security detail followed in a second vehicle, but it was the man seated at the front—Namjoon—that kept the silence oppressive. No one had spoken since she’d been fetched from her room and told that they were taking her somewhere outside the mansion. Not a word, not even a glance.

She watched the back of his head, sharp profile reflected faintly in the glass. His jaw was locked. That meant something.

Everything did, with Namjoon.

The road narrowed. Trees grew thicker the farther they drove, gnarled branches curling over the pavement like ribs. The sky above them was pale gray, clouds swollen with threat.

He hadn’t said anything about where they were going or why.

Y/N didn’t ask questions—not when she knew the answers might be worse than her assumptions.

She turned slightly, catching a glimpse of Jungkook from the corner of her eye. He sat on her left, staring straight ahead, expression carved from stone. One gloved hand rested on his thigh, the other on the gun holstered beneath his coat. Every part of him looked tense, coiled. Like a spring held in place by sheer force of will.

He had come back from whatever mission he’d been on a couple of days prior. For Y/N, though, signs of his presence had remained strictly limited to the sound of his bedroom door opening and closing and that of his boots against the hardwood floor.

He hadn’t even looked at her. Not once.

Good.

She was in no mood to deal with whatever storm was still brewing behind those eyes.

The SUV slowed as they passed through a narrow metal gate. Guards nodded as they drove by—Namjoon didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t need to.

The SUV rolled to a halt in front of what appeared to be a traditional hanok building. They all stepped out of the vehicle, and YN spotted armed guards at every corner. She finally allowed herself to wonder where it was they had taken her, when suddenly—

The door opened.

A woman stepped out. Tall. Perfectly pressed blouse. Not a hair out of place.

Her heels clicked against the stone, each step deliberate, sharp. She offered Namjoon a saccharine smile—genuine, if you didn’t look too closely.

“My son,” she said, voice warm like tea just before it scalds. She took Namjoon’s hands delicately in hers. “You’ve come.”

He inclined his head. « Eomoni. »

Her gaze slid over Y/N without acknowledgment. And then, finally, landed on Jungkook.

Her smile vanished like breath on glass.

“Huh,” she said to Namjoon. “You brought him.”

Not a question. Not surprise. Disdain wrapped in a bow.

Namjoon didn’t reply.

They were ushered through the front doors, a wave of sterile air greeting them like a slap.

Jungkook fell into step behind her. His presence was a shadow at her back, quiet but heavy. She didn’t look at him.

Y/N’s steps slowed as they moved deeper into the building. She could hear it now—faint, slow beeping. A machine. A monitor. Life measured in numbers.

Namjoon didn’t stop walking. Didn’t explain.

At the end of the hallway, two guards in black suits stepped aside. A wide, sliding door stood ahead—polished wood, flanked by pale linen.

“Let us through,” Namjoon guarded.

The guards obeyed.

The sliding door opened without a sound.

Inside, sunlight streamed through the tall panel windows, so bright Y/N had to squint.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust—just long enough to register the tapestries on the walls, the bonsai trees placed in every corner.

But it wasn’t the décor that made her pause.

It was the person sitting beneath the light.

She staggered back a step, breath splintering in her chest.

There he was.

The Tiger emperor himself.

—

Mr. Kim sat cross-legged on a cushion before a low lacquered table, a thick IV line disappearing into the crook of his left arm. The machine it fed into beeped faintly behind him, ignored.

He wore a dark gray durumagi, severe in its simplicity. No embroidery. No unnecessary flourish. Just clean, tailored lines.

A nurse poured tea from a small clay pot into thin ceramic cups. She didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

Y/N stopped in the doorway, her body tense, her instincts flaring. So, she thought, the man really hasn’t kicked the bucket just yet, then.

“Abeoji,” Namjoon said evenly, bowing at the waist.

Mr. Kim didn’t look up immediately. When he did, it was slow—like he’d known they were there the whole time but allowed the pause to settle on purpose.

His gaze landed first on Namjoon. “You came.”

“You summoned,” Namjoon replied.

A flicker of something passed between them. Not warmth, not respect. Just recognition. Power, acknowledged.

Then the old man’s gaze slid to Jungkook.

For a beat, nothing moved.

Y/N could feel it—the thickness in the air, the static that came from words unsaid. Whatever passed between them was sharp, old and barbed.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. He bowed low. Deeper than Namjoon had.

But he said nothing.

When he rose, the old man’s eyes were still on him. Silent.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He only straightened, unreadable.

Then Mr. Kim turned his eyes to Y/N.

Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t seen the almighty leader of the Kim clan since the Unity Summit, ten years before. His eyes, though duller than she remembered, still carried the weight of someone to be feared. The nasty scars that ran diagonally across his face pulled at the corner of his mouth, giving him a permanent sneer. She suddenly found herself having to fight hard against the urge to bow to the man. Some old reflex from her childhood.

“So,” he hummed, “the little raven finally grew some feathers.”

Y/N’s spine stiffened.

Before she could respond, a soft, fluttery voice chimed from the side.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Mrs. Kim said, stepping around them. Her hands wrung nervously at the hem of her sleeve, though her voice was pleasant. “The doctor said—”

Mr. Kim raised one hand.

She fell silent instantly.

The motion was small. Efficient.

Y/N felt a chill crawl down her neck.

Now she understood where Namjoon had learned that gesture—the command that didn’t require a word.

Mrs. Kim’s face tightened. She offered a shallow bow and turned for the door, the nurse quietly following her.

Namjoon cleared his throat softly. “We’ve been thi—“

“Leave us,” Mr. Kim spoke nonchalantly. His eyes still on Y/N.

Namjoon hesitated only a second. Then he nodded and stepped back.

Jungkook didn’t move.

Y/N glanced at him, uncertain, but his face gave nothing away. Then, slowly, he bowed again—single, deep arc—and left without a word.

The door slid shut. And then it was just her, the tea and the old king on the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. Just lifted the cup the nurse had poured and took a slow, deliberate sip.

It flashed when he moved—just a flicker of gold. But Y/N knew what it was. The tiger’s head, glinting in the sun. The signet ring on his finger that crowned the Kim leader.

“Sit,” he finally broke the silence, voice quiet but sharp. “Let’s talk.”

Y/N sat down slowly across from him, the cushion firm beneath her, the lacquered table between them cool to the touch. Her back was straight, her hands in her lap. Only then did she notice the chessboard set neatly between them. The pieces were arranged and waiting—white in front of him, black in front of her. Of course.

“You play?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she replied after a beat.

“Then play,” he nodded as he made the first move, one of his white pawns landing in her direction.

Y/N blinked. This wasn’t exactly what she had expected when she had stepped through the door. But as he remained still, unphased by her delay, she finally looked down at the board and moved one of her modest black pawns, symmetrical to his. Methodical. Controlled.

“Is this why I’m here?” she asked eventually, moving a knight into play. “A match?”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “A conversation.”

“Same difference.”

“Touché,” he smiled softly, “I suppose every conversation is a match.”

“Only if you’re willing to play.”

“Everyone is always playing,” he said, shifting his bishop forward. “Some just don’t realize it yet.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She moved another pawn.

Several more moves passed in silence, the rhythm of strategy like the beat of an invisible drum between them. The pieces clacked against the board softly, a calm contrast to the tension that hummed like electricity in the room.

“Care to take a guess as to why you’re really here?” he asked, without looking at her.

“I assume it’s not for the company,” Y/N replied, voice measured.

That earned her a flick of his gaze. The scar across his face twitched slightly with what might’ve been amusement—or irritation. It was hard to tell. “Namjoon said you had teeth.” He paused as he contemplated his next move.

“Let’s see,” he continued, his voice still sharp despite its frailty. “Your little presence among us—as our ‘guest,’—it creates… complications.”

“Complications?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “A raven in a tiger’s den. No matter how still you sit, the talons are always visible.”

Y/N stiffened. “I’m not exactly here by choice.”

“Indeed you are not,” he agreed, his smile widening. “You’re here because you were caught. Like prey.”

Her jaw tightened at the insult, but she bit back the retort forming on her tongue.

“I wonder,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “how mighty Park Sanghoon would feel if he could see you know. His daughter, playing house with our kind.”

The mention of her father hit like a blow to the chest, but Y/N forced her expression to remain impassive. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Namjoon shot her a warning glance, but the old man chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I see it’s not just her eyes you inherited,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I like that. She was bold, too.”

The room seemed to freeze.

Y/N’s swallowed thickly. Her mother.

Mr. Kim’s expression shifted, softening ever so slightly. “She had a fire,” he continued, his voice quieting. “A light that made men stupid. Myself included.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, caught off-guard by the sudden change in his tone. The man who had spoken moments ago with venom now seemed almost wistful.

“Of course,” he added, staring into his tea. “That was before your father destroyed her.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into fists. “She made her choices.”

“She did,” he said, his eyes narrowing again. “And we know where it led her. Killed by enemies, wasn’t it? What a waste. But then, I suppose love seldom concerns itself with logic.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. The idea of this man, this ruthless, cold creature, speaking of love was almost incomprehensible.

“She was a free spirit, beautiful and vibrant. Only too kind for this world. Never knew how to play the long game,” he continued, sliding his rook into position. “And your father…” He shook his head, his gaze darkening. “He was all teeth and fury. No patience. No vision. Though, I suppose you must know that better than most.”

Her stomach churned, but she didn’t flinch. « I’m not my father. »

“No,” he murmured, his gaze boring into hers. “You’re not. But you do carry his blood, whether you like it or not. And blood has a way of catching up to you.”

Before she could respond, his hand shot out over the table, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. She tensed as his fingers digged into her skin.

“Such a funny thing, the human pulse, » he mumbled in contemplation, his gaze dropping to the scar on her arm. “Like a hummingbird under your skin, begging to be set free.”

She clenched her jaw.

“I see it in your eyes. That assurance, that—poise. Like you think there’s still a clean way out of this.”

She stared him down. “I know there isn’t.”

Now he smiled—this time, it was real. Ugly. Satisfied.

“Smart girl,” he said, and finally let go.

Her skin burned where he’d touched her, but she didn’t move, didn’t rub the mark.

“My son thinks you can be trusted,” he said, tone turning colder again. “He thinks you’ll behave if he plays nice.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

“I don’t believe in playing nice,” he continued.

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked onto hers. Then he moved his queen, capturing her rook with ruthless precision.

A minute passed and the board had turned a mess of clashing pieces, the battle tilting precariously.

“You—are defensive,” he observed, capturing her pawn with his knight. “Always reacting. Always waiting.”

“I’d rather wait than overreach,” she replied, her voice steady.

“Waiting doesn’t win wars,” he said, sliding his rook across the board. “It only delays the inevitable.”

“And charging in doesn’t guarantee victory,” she countered, moving her bishop with deliberate precision.

He chuckled softly. “You think you’re being clever. But cleverness only matters if you survive long enough to use it.”

The game shifted suddenly as he moved his knight.

“Check,” he said, his voice calm.

Y/N stared at the board, her mind racing. She could feel his eyes on her, sharp and unyielding, waiting for her next move.

“You’ve backed yourself into a corner,” he said quietly. “Do you even see it?”

She moved her knight hesitantly. “Corners can be good places to regroup.”

His eyes flicked to her, his expression faintly impressed. “Spoken like someone who’s spent too much time in one.”

Y/N didn’t respond, her focus locked on the board.

“You have potential,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “But potential means nothing without purpose. Do you know yours?”

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “To survive.”

“Good answer.” He leaned back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But not good enough, I’m afraid.” He moved his knight one final time. Smug. As though he’d always known exactly how the game would end. In one confident flick of his wrist he took her queen and blocked her king.

No way out.

Check mate.

“You’ll learn, girl,” he spoke. “In the long run, the only victories that are worth anything are those that come at a painful price.”

Y/N glanced at the board one last time before rising to her feet slowly. Her heart was still ticking a little too fast from the—match.

“Is that all?” she asked, her voice cool but clipped. “I was brought here to play chess and listen to veiled threats?”

Across the board, the old man’s lips curled faintly, the scar on his cheek pulling the smile into something far more unsettling than kind.

“No threats,” he said. “Only reminders.”

He reached for his teacup, fingers trembling slightly now, as if the energy required to play the game had finally caught up to him.

She stared him down. She wasn’t leaving without a proper answer. He let out a sigh.

“I’m old,” he continued, his voice a low rasp. “Sick. And wise enough to know my days are counted.”

Y/N said nothing.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke next—just stared into the steam curling from his tea.

“I suppose I—selfishly—wanted to see them one last time before I return to the ground.”

A pause.

“See what?” she asked, unsure she wanted the answer.

He looked up. Right at her. Through her. She coule see something sad flicker in his gaze.

Then finally, he spoke, something softer than a murmur.

“Her eyes.”

The weight of the words fell heavy, like ash. There was no need to ask who he was referring to. Before Y/N could speak the sliding door opened behind her.

—

They didn’t speak as they left.

The car ride was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of leather seats when someone shifted. Y/N stared out the window, but her mind wasn’t on the blurred cityscape.

It was still in that room. Still sitting across from that dying man, with his knotted fingers and quiet threats, with eyes that saw through her, past her, down into the marrow.

You carry his blood, whether you like it or not.

Her wrist still tingled where he’d touched her. Not bruised—but marked.

She was used to being watched, judged. But that had felt different. She hated the way his words clung to her skin, like smoke in her hair after a fire.

They pulled up to the compound gates just as the sky began to bruise purple. Y/N walked ahead toward the front doors, automatic, like her body was moving before her mind could catch up.

Y/N was the first through the door, still trapped in her own head. The warmth inside welcomed her in—unaware of the storm still clinging to her skin. She was so distracted, in fact, that she didn’t notice the low rumble of voice in the distance, heated, sharp, until—

“There she is!” A voice pierced through.

Y/N didn’t even have time to flinch.

A blur. A rush of sound and motion.

Then a body collided with hers with the force of a speeding truck.

The wind was knocked clean out of her lungs as she hit the floor, hard. “What the—” she gasped, head spinning, trying to orient herself—

But her attacker was already on top of her, fists full of hair, knee pressing into her sternum.

“You fucking Park bitch!”

—

Tatatataaaa. Suspense. Hope you liked it!! Gimme feedback people!! Who else is wondering what the fuck is going on? 🙋‍♀️ jk lol I got the next few chapters lined up.

Chapter 19

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

@mageprincess7

@drunkzseok

@kelsyx33

@jjk970901

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