#tailored training and development

[spotaus]

Late Night quick thing (New Age Sillies)

Bad news: That joke post about including Reset + Orchid is definitely not canon. (I legit got sad thinking about Reset being in a universe where Orchid isn't- because their stories are so so intertwined- but Nightmare 100% would NOT risk the whole twins exploding Error's soul thing.)

Good news: This means I COULD include Kane (Reset's older brother who usually dies in timelines where Reset is born) and use it to develope his character a bit more! Also! Perhaps a Blue × Dream kiddo is finally in the stars for me to design?

[chesstrainer24]

Chess has always been a game of intellect, strategy, and foresight. In the digital age, mastering chess has become more accessible than ever. A Personalized Approach to Improvement is essential for any player aiming to elevate their skills and compete at higher levels. With the advent of chess training programs and interactive chess tutorials, players can now receive tailored guidance and instruction from the comfort of their homes.

Do Read: https://chesstrainer.com/online-chess-training-a-personalized-approach-to-improvement/

[skillsassurance]

Embracing Continuous Learning: The Role of Online Learning Management Systems

In our fast-paced world, where knowledge evolves rapidly and skills become outdated quicker than ever, continuous learning has emerged as not just a trend but a necessity. Professionals across industries are increasingly turning to online learning management systems (LMS) to stay ahead of the curve. These platforms have revolutionized how we acquire new knowledge and skills, offering flexibility, accessibility, and personalized learning experiences.

What is an Online Learning Management System?

An Online Learning Management System, often abbreviated as LMS, is a digital platform designed to deliver, manage, and track educational courses and training programs. These systems are versatile, catering to a wide range of users—from corporate organizations enhancing employee skills to educational institutions providing remote learning opportunities.

Facilitating Continuous Learning

Flexibility in Learning: One of the key advantages of an Online Learning Management System is its flexibility. Learners can access courses anytime, anywhere, allowing them to fit learning around their busy schedules. This flexibility is crucial for professionals juggling work commitments or individuals balancing education with other responsibilities.

Access to Diverse Content: LMS platforms offer a vast array of courses across various disciplines. Whether you're interested in coding, project management, or graphic design, there's likely a course tailored to your needs. This breadth of content ensures that learners can continuously expand their knowledge base and acquire new skills relevant to their career or personal development goals.

Personalized Learning Paths: Unlike traditional classrooms, where one-size-fits-all teaching may prevail, LMS platforms often utilize algorithms to suggest courses based on a learner's interests, prior learning experiences, or career aspirations. This personalized approach not only enhances engagement but also ensures that learners focus on acquiring skills that are most relevant to their professional growth.

Continuous Assessment and Feedback: Online Learning Management Systems provide immediate feedback on assessments and quizzes, allowing learners to gauge their understanding of the material in real-time. This iterative process of learning and assessment promotes deeper understanding and helps identify areas where additional study may be required.

Collaborative Learning Opportunities: Despite being online, many LMS platforms foster collaboration among learners through discussion forums, virtual group projects, and peer-to-peer interactions. These collaborative features mimic real-world teamwork scenarios, providing learners with valuable skills in communication, teamwork, and problem-solving.

Tracking Progress and Certification: LMS platforms allow learners and administrators to track progress comprehensively. Learners can monitor their completion rates, quiz scores, and overall performance, while administrators can generate reports to assess the effectiveness of courses and identify areas for improvement. Additionally, many platforms offer certifications upon course completion, providing tangible proof of newly acquired skills to employers or educational institutions.

The Future of Continuous Learning

As technology continues to advance, so too will the capabilities of Online Learning Management Systems. Artificial intelligence and machine learning algorithms are expected to further personalize learning experiences, while virtual reality and augmented reality may offer immersive learning environments. The integration of these technologies holds promise for even more engaging and effective educational experiences, ensuring that learners can continue to adapt and thrive in a rapidly changing world.

In conclusion, Online LMS play a pivotal role in supporting continuous learning by providing flexible, personalized, and accessible educational opportunities. Whether you're a professional looking to upskill, a student seeking additional knowledge, or an organization investing in employee development, these platforms offer the tools and resources needed to stay competitive and informed in today's knowledge-driven economy.

Continuous learning isn't just a pathway to success—it's a mindset. And with Online Learning Management Systems at our disposal, the journey toward continuous improvement has never been more accessible or rewarding.

[manasastuff-blog]

Personality Development program #trending #motivationalvideo #manasadefenceacademy #viral

Watch Video : https://youtu.be/id0DzZO_al4?si=aZPWiuKyxRh_x3G1

The Personality Development Program at Manasa Defence Academy is designed to help you unleash your potential and achieve your personal and professional goals. This comprehensive program focuses on enhancing your self-confidence, communication skills, and leadership qualities. Whether you're preparing for a career in the defence sector or looking to improve your overall personality, this program offers tailored guidance and practical exercises to bring out the best in you. Join us at Manasa Defence Academy and start your journey towards personal excellence and success. Discover how our experienced trainers and supportive community can make a difference in your life. Enrol now and take the first step towards transforming yourself and reaching your full potential.

Call: 77997 99221 Website: www.manasadefenceacademy.com

#PersonalityDevelopment#ManasaDefenceAcademy#SelfImprovement#UnleashYourPotential#LeadershipSkills#ConfidenceBoost#PersonalGrowth #SuccessJourney#CareerDevelopment#TransformYourLife#trending#viral#motivationalvideo#motivation-video#ytvideo#ytviralvideo

[lesmana-enterprise-ltd]

Lesmana Arta International School, High School and Auditorium Lot (NO CC)

About Lesmana Arta International School

Lesmana Arta International School (LAIS) is a premier, corporate-backed institution dedicated to academic excellence and global education. Offering world-renowned curricula from SB to SGCE, LAIS provides students with a rigorous yet innovative learning environment. With state-of-the-art facilities, top-tier faculty, and a commitment to shaping future leaders, this elite school ensures that every student is equipped to thrive in an ever-evolving world.

Unrivaled Educational Facilities at LAIS

At LAIS, we are committed to providing an unparalleled learning environment equipped with world-class facilities to foster academic excellence and creativity. Our cutting-edge classrooms are designed for interactive and immersive learning, featuring the latest educational technology to enhance student engagement. The expansive library offers a vast collection of international resources, digital archives, and quiet study spaces, ensuring that students have access to knowledge at their fingertips.

For the creatively inclined, LAIS boasts specialized music rooms with professional-grade instruments, state-of-the-art art studios that encourage artistic expression, and fully-equipped science laboratories for hands-on exploration in STEM fields. From innovation hubs to collaborative study areas, every aspect of our campus is designed to inspire, challenge, and support students on their journey to academic and personal success.

Elite Sporting Facilities at LAIS

At LAIS, we believe that excellence in academics goes hand in hand with physical well-being. Our state-of-the-art sports facilities set the benchmark for athletic development, offering students access to a world-class indoor swimming pool, a professional-grade gymnasium, and a private tennis court, all designed to foster discipline, teamwork, and peak performance. Whether training for elite competitions or engaging in recreational activities, LAIS provides the perfect environment for students to push their limits, stay active, and excel beyond the classroom.

A Culinary Experience Like No Other at LAIS

At LAIS, dining is more than just a meal—it’s an experience. Our state-of-the-art cafeteria offers a premium breakfast and lunch buffet, meticulously crafted by Lesmana Resorts-grade chefs, ensuring that every dish meets the highest standards of quality, nutrition, and taste. Students enjoy a diverse selection of gourmet meals, featuring fresh, locally sourced ingredients and international cuisine tailored to various dietary needs.

From wholesome breakfasts to energize the day to balanced and delicious lunches that fuel academic and athletic performance, LAIS prioritizes student well-being through exceptional dining services. Whether it's a quick bite or a full-course meal, our culinary team is dedicated to providing a five-star dining experience that nourishes both the body and mind.

Adi Lesmana Hall: A Legacy of Excellence

Standing as a tribute to the visionary founder of Lesmana Enterprise, Adi Putro Lesmana (1915–1988), the Adi Lesmana Hall is the heart of grand occasions at Lesmana Arta International School (LAIS). This concert-grade auditorium is designed to host the school’s most prestigious events, from elegant proms and career expos to inspiring graduations and academic symposiums. Equipped with state-of-the-art acoustics, professional lighting, and a spacious seating arrangement, it offers an unparalleled venue for both formal ceremonies and artistic performances. More than just a hall, it is a space where milestones are celebrated, talents are showcased, and the legacy of excellence continues to inspire future generations.

Tuition Plans

Early Bird Discount

Enroll your kids today, and make them the leaders of the Sim world tomorrow.

Students enrolled until February 2025 intake is eligible for a semester discount, reducing 1st to 2nd Semester tuition from §115,000 to §110,000 per semester.

Lesmana Enterprise Privilege Plan

Parents who are currently employed in Lesmana Enterprise are eligible to apply for their children's 25%-50% tuition discount *Terms and conditions applies.

Download (SFS)

Lesmana Arta International School : Download Adi Lesmana Hall : Download Adi Lesmana Hall (Career Day) : Download Adi Lesmana Hall (Prom) : Download Adi Lesmana Hall (Graduation) : Download

Get Your LAIS Polo Uniform Here!

Stay in Our Dormitory, the LAIS House!

[everythingspokenfor]

𝓜𝓻. & 𝓜𝓻𝓼. 𝓑𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾

Pairing: Bakugou x reader. All characters are aged up 18+. MDNI Summary: Arrange marriage doesn't seem so 'arranged' when your fiance does everything that makes you fall in love with him...

Fiance!Bakugou who starts picking you up after work once you both get engaged, initially to learn the roads in your work commute but eventually because he wants to ensure that you are engaged and soon to be married, to a particular guy at your work place that had been bothering you.

Fiance!Bakugou whom you invite over for dinner as an act of gratitude, to thank him for helping you.

Fiance!Bakugou who stands bemused, watching you hop around the kitchen to try and make him some dinner. Who finds your eagerness to cook for him and your nervousness to not mess up, endearing.

Fiance!Bakugou who eats the slightly burnt and somewhat salty meal you prepared irrespective of how much you claim that it was bad and you'll just order.

Fiance!Bakugou who teaches you, how to cook not because he expects you to cook when you are married but because cooking is an essential skill, and he wants you to be able to cook more than noodles for yourself when he isn't around.

Fiance!Bakugou who doesn't berate you when the vegetables are chopped unevenly but does berate you when you cut your fingers, doesn't suckle on your finger like those movies instead he cleans it up and puts a bandage on it. He does however kiss your finger then your forehead and ask you to sit on the counter next to him.

Fiance!Bakugou who despite his wish doesn't barge in when his mom is helping you try on the wedding dresses, he either goes to agency or works in his home office. Mind still wondering to what you would look like in the wedding dress.

Fiance!Bakugou who helps you move into his penthouse, a month before your marriage, just so you could settle in and get comfortable there. Get used to his presence, form a routine with him.

Fiance!Bakugou who introduces you to his friends, staying behind and watching you mingle with them.

Fiance!Bakugou who pulls you into the kitchen, making sure you are doing good with the crowd, asking if his friends are too much or if you want to end the night.

Fiance!Bakugou who develops the need to constantly touch, his hands always searching for you, holding your hand in a crowded train station, holding onto your elbow in a busy grocery store, hand on the small of your back when showing you around the agency.

Fiance!Bakugou who gets giddy as the wedding approaches, getting his suit tailored, matching with your dress, buying bedsheets and cutlery that you chose. Tries to add things to the penthouse that match your vibe, installs bookshelves around the house because he knows that you love to read.

Fiance!Bakugou who stands at the end of the altar, waiting for you, excited to finally call you his wife, excited to be finally addressed as your husband.

Husband!Bakugou who pulls you into a kiss when the officiator announces you husband and wife, who pulls away from the kiss to pull your into a tight embrace.

Husband!Bakugou who insists on helping you change out of the wedding dress into your reception gown, but Mina pushes him out stating how he has you for the rest of your lives but for now you'll stay with her.

Husband!Bakugou who makes you feel comfortable at the reception, a hand respectfully placed on your back, guiding around the crowd.

Husband!Bakugou who ensures that you don't get overwhelmed interacting with all the people at the reception venue, who makes sure that your voice doesn't get lost amongst the crowd.

Husband!Bakugou who still keeps an eye on your figure, when Mina whisk you away into 'girl's corner', shoves a large gift bag in your hands, "wear it tonight", she whispers in your ear, voice breaking into giggles.

You politely smile at her, talking along with other girls in the group, you absent-mindedly look around the crowd, eyes unintentionally locking with your husband.

His title making your belly flutter, despite only knowing each other for a year and a half, he has proven to be such a good man. You hope you would be good enough for him too.

Husband!Bakugou that struts towards your group, gently placing a hand against your back, fingertips hovering as to not startle you.

"Hopefully you didn't give My Wife a hard time," He spoke, other hand reaching to take the gift bag from your hands, effortlessly carrying all the bags that the girls had gotten you. He kisses your forehead, when you try to reach back for it.

"They were just talking." You move a little closer to Bakugou, head bowed down, fingers fidgeting with the lace of your evening dress, too shy to look your husband in the eyes.

"Well, sorry to interrupt but it's time for us leave." Bakugou announced, let you go to bid farewell to your girl friends. Pretending to look away, when they tease him, telling him to go easy on you.

Husband!Bakugou who helps you walk out the reception venue, one hand holding the gifts you've received all night the other holding your hand. Both of you reach the car and he helps you sit in the passenger seat, closing the door being mindful of your dress.

"What did the girls give you?" He questioned, starting the engine.

You flushed at the question, you weren't really aware of what the content of the bag were but you had a gist of what it could be. "It's just some clothes Mina picked out, I think." You answered.

"Well we'll find an occasion to wear fancy clothes again." He swayed the car out of the parking, completely oblivious to what kind of clothes you both were talking about.

"I don't think I could wear those in public." You mumbled, he looked over to you, but you avoided his eyes.

It barely took him a moment before he figured what Mina could have possibly gifted you. "Ah, it's lingerie, isn't it?", He confirmed.

"Don't say it out loud." You press your hands against your heating face, warmth spreading down your neck.

"Why are you shy? Husband and Wife can talk about lingerie." He teased, finding amusement in your shyness.

"It's just surreal, you know," you turned towards him,"the whole wedding, I mean, till yesterday I was dreaming about marrying you and told I married you." You sighed happily, the tiredness of the finally settling in.

"You were dreaming about marrying me, huh?" Bakugou teased, butterflies swarming his belly at the thought of you being just as excited to marry him.

"I was, you are too good, had to put a ring on it." You giggled, teasing him back, Bakugou looked at you with a glint in his eyes, scanning your features before turning back to the road.

It didn't take long before you both reached home, Bakugou parked the car in the garage, got out of the car and jogged towards your side, opening the door he helped you get out.

Instead of walking into your home, Husband!Bakugou pulls you towards the main entrance, confused you ask him, "Are we going somewhere?"

Bakugou looks at your face, before he dips and lifts you up, carrying you effortlessly, "Am carrying my wife home."

You giggled loudly while Bakugou walked inside the house, carrying you, ready to start your lives together.

[mandoalorian]

crimson fever [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: In the icy shadows of 1944 occupied Europe, you uncover a dangerous Hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. But Hydra’s ruthless scientist, Arnim Zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. As you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with Sergeant Bucky Barnes, your childhood friend from Brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos.

Warnings: 18+ explicit, smut, sex pollen that comes with themes of dub-con, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, exhibitionism sorta, reader is drugged via injectables, descriptions of pain, canon typical violence, torture, one use of Y/N, Winter Soldier foreshadowing.

Word Count: 6700

Author's note: Thank you to @notreallythatlost for helping me with all the German translations. I love youuu. ღ

ᯓ★ Masterlist

✮ PROJECT: WINTER SOLDIER ✮

Objective: Develop a serum enhancing physical strength, endurance, and healing, surpassing the Allied “Super Soldier” serum used on Captain America. The serum is paired with psychological conditioning.

Methods: Subjects— prisoners, captured soldiers, “recruited” operatives undergo experimental injections and brutal brainwashing techniques including sensory deprivation, electroshock, and chemical inducements to break their minds.

Timeline: Initial trials are active in an underground facility, in occupied France. Production to be scaled by 1945. Report to Johann Schmidt.

Der Winter Soldier wird die Zukunft von Hydra sein. (The Winter Soldier will be Hydra’s future.)

You hunched over the decrypted Hydra message, your eyes burning from hours of work, fingers smudged with pencil lead. The office buzzed with quiet urgency—typewriters clacked, a radio hissed static, and your fellow codebreakers murmured over their own stacks of intercepts. You’d been at it since dawn, unraveling Hydra’s coded transmissions, each one a puzzle that could save lives or lose them. Your role as a linguist, fluent in German and trained in cryptography, made you vital to the Allies, but tonight, the weight of what you’d uncovered felt like a stone in your chest.

“Carter, you need to see this,” you called, your voice sharp, cutting through the room’s hum. You pushed your chair back, the wood scraping the floor, and held up the decrypted page, its typed German translated into your neat handwriting. Your heart raced, the words searing your mind: Projekt Winter Soldier.

Peggy Carter, poised in her tailored ATS uniform, strode over, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Her dark eyes flicked to the paper, then to you, sharp and assessing. “What’ve you got?” she asked, voice crisp but laced with concern.

You swallowed, pointing to the key lines. “It’s Hydra. Something called ‘Project Winter Soldier.’ They’re experimenting—on people, not just weapons. It mentions a serum, like what they used on Captain Rogers, but… different. They want to create operatives with no will, no memory. ‘Perfect obedience,’ they call it.” Your voice trembled, and you tapped a name scrawled at the bottom. “Signed by Arnim Zola. He’s running it.”

Peggy’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the paper. “Zola,” she muttered, disgust curling her lips. “That man’s a butcher with a scientist’s ego.” She scanned the text, her expression hardening. “This is big. If they’re building mind-controlled soldiers…”

“It’s worse,” you interrupted, voice low, glancing at the other codebreakers—two women, heads down, oblivious. “They’re testing it now. Somewhere in France. Prisoners, maybe captured soldiers. They mention a ‘prototype’ and… something about breaking their minds first.”

Peggy’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. “We need to get this to Colonel Phillips. Tonight.” She turned, barking at the codebreakers. “Eleanor, Joan, wrap up and secure the files. We’re locking down.”

You nodded, heart pounding, but a flicker of pride warmed you. You’d cracked this, you’d found the truth. You thought of Bucky Barnes, your old friend from Brooklyn—his cocky grin, the way he’d sneak you comics, the almost-kiss on that Coney Island pier in ’39. He was out there with Captain Rogers, fighting Hydra. This intel could help him, keep him safe. You tucked the thought away, focusing on the task, and began gathering your notes.

The door crashed open, wood splintering, and you froze. Four Hydra soldiers stormed in, black uniforms stark against the office’s warmth, their rifles gleaming with that eerie blue glow of Hydra tech. Peggy spun, drawing her pistol, but a soldier fired, a blast of energy grazing her arm. She hissed, diving behind a cabinet.

“[Y/N], get down!” Peggy shouted, but you were already moving, shoving the Winter Soldier intel into your blouse, your hands shaking. The codebreakers screamed, scrambling for cover, and you ducked behind the desk, heart hammering. The soldiers barked in German, their voices harsh.

“Die Linguistin! Bringt sie mir lebend!” one ordered—The linguist! Take her alive!—and your blood ran cold. They wanted you. Your codes, your knowledge, or… the intel you’d just found.

You grabbed a letter opener, its dull blade a pitiful weapon, and crouched, peering through the desk’s gap. A soldier loomed closer, his boots thudding, and you lunged, stabbing his thigh. He roared, backhanding you, and pain exploded across your cheek, knocking you to the floor. The room spun, but you scrambled up, clutching the desk, only to feel iron hands seize your arms.

“No!” you yelled, thrashing, but the soldiers pinned you, their grips bruising. Peggy fired from cover, dropping one, but another blasted the cabinet, forcing her back. You kicked, aiming for a groin, and connected, earning a grunt, but a rifle butt slammed your temple, and darkness flickered at your vision’s edge.

“Enough,” a new voice said, cold and precise, cutting through the chaos. Arnim Zola stepped into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the soldiers but radiating menace. His round glasses glinted in the bulb’s light, and his smile was a thin, cruel line. “Fräulein, you are far too valuable to kill.”

You glared, blood trickling from your lip, the intel paper crinkling against your skin. “You’ll get nothing from me,” you spat, voice hoarse but defiant.

Zola chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, we shall see.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Take her to the transport. We have… experiments to conduct.”

A soldier jabbed a syringe into your neck, and a sharp sting gave way to a creeping warmth, a sedative, dulling your senses. You fought to stay conscious, to memorise Zola’s face, his words. “Winter Soldier…” you mumbled, half-delirious, and Zola’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise.

“Secure her,” he snapped, and the soldiers dragged you toward the door, your legs buckling. Peggy’s shouting your name followed you, but the world blurred, and you were gone, the intel tucked against your heart, a secret you’d guard with everything you had.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You’d been gone for weeks, a fact that gnawed at Bucky Barnes like a wound he couldn’t stitch. He stood against the command post’s wall, dog tags clinking under his olive-drab jacket, his eyes scanning a corkboard plastered with mission lists, reconnaissance photos, and urgent telegrams. His fingers, calloused from gripping a sniper rifle, hovered over a typed sheet, and then froze.

Your name stared back at him, stark in black ink: Allied Linguist, Captured, Hydra Facility, Occupied France.

His breath caught, sharp and painful, like a blade between ribs. You—his friend from Brooklyn, the girl who’d steal his cap and run, laughing, through Prospect Park, the one he’d nearly kissed under Coney Island’s Ferris wheel in ’39—were in Hydra’s hands.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He ripped the paper from the board, the pin clattering to the floor, and his hand trembled, betraying the storm inside. Memories flooded him: summer nights on your stoop, your hair tucked under a scarf, teasing him about his latest dame. But truthfully, he only had eyes for you.

“You’ll run outta girls to charm, Barnes,” you’d said, smirking, but your eyes had softened, holding something he’d been too dumb to name.

He’d leaned in, heart pounding, only for Steve’s call to break the moment. Then the war came, you to London cracking codes, him to the front with Steve, and letters faded. Now, Hydra had you, and the thought of you in Zola’s grip—Zola, whose name he’d heard tied to twisted experiments, made his stomach churn.

“Hey, Buck, what’s got you lookin’ like you swallowed a grenade?” Steve Rogers’ voice cut through, steady but concerned. He stood across the room, all Captain America in his blue jacket, leaning over a map with Colonel Phillips. His blond hair caught the dim light, but his eyes locked on Bucky, reading the tension in his friend’s stance.

Bucky strode over, boots thudding on the creaky floor, and slapped the list onto the map, scattering pencils. “It’s her, Steve,” he said, voice tight, low, like he was holding back a shout. “From Brooklyn. You remember her—used to tag along with us, always givin’ me hell.” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Hydra’s got her. Says she’s a linguist, crackin’ their codes. She’s in one of their damn facilities.”

Steve’s eyes widened, flicking to the list, then back to Bucky. His memory was sparking. “The one who’d sneak us into the library after hours? Yeah, I remember.” He straightened, voice firming. “She’s tough, Buck. But Hydra…”

“She’s more than tough,” Bucky snapped, then caught himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’s… she’s family, Steve. And you know what Hydra does…” His voice cracked, and he gripped the table, knuckles whitening. “We gotta get her out. Now.”

Colonel Phillips, puffing a cigar, looked up with a scowl, his weathered face etched with irritation. “Sergeant Barnes, we’ve got ops stacked to the ceiling,” he growled, exhaling smoke. “Hydra’s got captives everywhere—this linguist ain’t our priority.”

“She is to me,” Bucky retorted, his voice low but fierce, eyes boring into Phillips. “Sir, she’s got intel—Hydra’s codes, maybe more. She cracked somethin’ big before they took her. Losin’ her gives them an edge.” It was a half-truth; he’d burn the world for you, intel or not, but he knew Phillips needed a reason.

Steve studied Bucky, seeing the truth—the kind of loyalty that went beyond duty, rooted in Brooklyn’s streets, in quiet moments you’d shared. “Colonel,” Steve said, voice calm but unyielding, “the Howling Commandos can handle this. We hit the facility, get her out, and cripple Hydra’s operation. Two birds, one stone.”

Phillips grunted, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “Fine, Rogers. But if this goes south, it’s your ass.” He waved them off, turning to an aide, already dismissing the matter.

Bucky exhaled, tension easing a fraction, but his heart still raced, pounding with fear for you. He met Steve’s gaze, a silent thank-you passing between them. “We’ll get her, Buck,” Steve said, clapping his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket, next to a faded photo—you, him, and Steve at Coney Island, 1939, your smile bright as the summer sun. He headed for the door, the room’s chaos—officers shouting, radio static—fading behind him. Outside, the Howling Commandos lounged near a jeep, cleaning rifles and trading jabs in the grey dawn.

“Sarge, what’s the word?” Dum Dum Dugan called, his mustache twitching as he tossed a flask to Gabe Jones, who caught it with a grin.

Bucky held up the folded list, his sergeant’s calm settling over him like armour, though his voice carried an edge. “We got a job,” he said, eyes scanning the team—Gabe, Jim Morita, Monty Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. “Hydra’s holdin’ one of ours—a linguist, key to their codes. She’s in a facility in France. We’re hittin’ it, gettin’ her out, and blowin’ the place to hell.” He paused, his grip tightening on the paper. “She’s from my neighborhood. Means somethin’ to me. You in?”

Gabe nodded, his smile fading to seriousness. “Always, Barnes.”

Dum Dum cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Hell, Sarge, let’s give them a mornin’ they won’t forget.”

Jacques smirked, twirling a knife. “Pour la France,” he said, voice low, and Jim and Monty murmured agreement, their faces set.

Bucky forced a smirk, but his mind was on you—alone, maybe hurt, fighting Zola’s experiments with that fire he’d always admired. He touched the photo in his pocket, your face burned into his memory, and whispered, so quiet no one heard, “Hold on, doll. I’m comin’ for you.”

The words were a vow, and he’d keep it, no matter what Hydra threw at him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You lay curled on a thin cot in a Hydra cell, your body trembling, skin flushed with an unnatural heat that made your pulse race and your breath come in shallow, desperate gasps. The crimson fever drug, injected by Arnim Zola weeks ago after your kidnapping in London, burned through you, twisting your mind with a relentless need you fought to suppress. Your blouse, torn and stained, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d kept secret, its paper pressed against your chest like a talisman.

You’d overheard Zola’s gloating—his “perfect obedience” experiments, the “winter soldier” prototype—and your linguist’s mind clung to those details, even as the drug threatened to unravel you. “Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse, your nails digging into your palms to anchor you against the fever’s pull.

Outside, Bucky Barnes crouched behind a snow-dusted ridge, his M1 Garand rifle steady in his hands, breath clouding in the frigid air. You weren’t there to see it, but you’d have felt the weight of his resolve, his heart pounding with one thought: getting you back. The Howling Commandos flanked him—Dum Dum Dugan reloading his Thompson submachine gun, Gabe Jones checking a radio, Jim Morita adjusting his scope, Monty Falsworth and Jacques Dernier wiring explosives. The plan was tight: hit hard, find you, blow the place to hell. Bucky’s jaw clenched, your face—Brooklyn summers, that Coney Island almost-kiss—burning in his mind.

“Ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum asked, his moustache twitching as he grinned, though his eyes were hard, scanning the bunker a hundred yards away.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” you’d have heard Bucky reply, his voice low, all sergeant, but laced with something raw. He signalled, and Jacques tossed a smoke grenade, grey haze cloaking the ridge. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping toward the bunker, their boots silent in the snow. Gabe’s radio crackled, confirming Allied distractions were pulling Hydra’s outer patrols away. Bucky’s heart thundered, not for the fight, but for you, trapped in Zola’s nightmare.

A Hydra guard at the entrance barely turned before Bucky’s knife found his throat, a silent kill, blood dark against the snow. “Go,” Bucky hissed, and Jacques’ charges blew the steel door, the blast rattling the night.

Alarms screamed, red lights pulsing inside, and Hydra soldiers poured into the corridor, their blue-energy rifles spitting death. You heard the gunfire, distant but growing louder, a chaotic symphony that stirred hope in your fevered haze. “Help…” you mumbled, clutching the cot’s edge, your body shaking as you tried to sit.

Bucky ducked behind a crate, returning fire, his shots precise, dropping two guards. “Push through!” he shouted, voice cutting through the din. Dum Dum’s Thompson roared, mowing down a squad, while Monty and Jim covered the rear, grenades shaking the walls. “Lab’s that way!”

Gabe yelled, pointing left, where a sign read Forschungsbereich—research sector. Bucky’s gut twisted, Zola’s name a poison in his thoughts. If Zola had touched you…

“Keep movin’!” Bucky ordered, leading the charge past sparking machinery and shattered glass, his boots slipping on spilled chemicals. Jacques planted more explosives, grinning like a kid with firecrackers.

“Pour la France!” he muttered, wiring a console. You heard the blasts, closer now, and dragged yourself upright, your vision swimming but your will iron. The Winter Soldier intel crinkled against your skin, a secret you’d die to protect.

The cell block was a maze of iron doors, damp concrete slick underfoot. Bucky rounded a corner, gun raised, and there you were—behind a barred window, slumped but alive, your hair matted with sweat, eyes flickering with fever. His heart lurched, he called your name, voice raw, cracking like a boy’s. A Hydra guard lunged from the shadows, but Bucky slammed him against the wall, the man’s skull cracking with a sickening thud.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice weak but sharp with recognition, cutting through the drug’s fog. You staggered to the bars, fingers trembling as you gripped them, your blouse clinging to your fevered skin. The needle marks on your arm stood out, angry red, and your breath hitched, a mix of relief and desperation.

“I’m here, doll,” Bucky said, fumbling with the lock, his hands shaking until Gabe tossed him a pilfered keyring. “Hold on.” The door swung open, and he was at your side, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your face. Your skin burned under his touch, too hot, and your eyes, though glassy, locked onto his, a spark of you still fighting. “It’s me,” he said, voice soft but urgent, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into his hand, a whimper escaping, your body trembling with something more than weakness—a need that alarmed him.

“Bucky… they… Zola…” you stammered, your fingers clutching his jacket, nails digging in. “Crimson fever… it’s in me… burning…” Your voice broke, shame flickering in your eyes, but you forced out, “Winter Soldier… I know… they’re making…” You trailed off, a shudder racking you, and Bucky’s blood ran cold, the intel’s weight hitting him.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky hummed, his arms tightening around your body, not caring about any intel. Not caring about the war. Not caring about anything. Just you. 

Your shaky hands went to pass him the intel, but failed with exhaustion. “Winter. Soldier.” you bit out again, aimlessly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Winter Soldier? No, no doll, it’s me. It’s Buck, from Brooklyn,” he was misunderstanding, and you couldn’t blame him. “What’d they do to you?” he growled, his voice low, rage barely leashed as he saw the needle marks, the fever’s flush.

But you couldn’t get your words out. 

He scooped you up, your weight light but your grip fierce, your head lolling against his shoulder. “I got you,” he said, standing, his arms steady despite the chaos. Your breath was ragged, too warm against his neck, and he felt the drug’s unnatural pull in your touch, your fingers clutching too tightly, too desperately.

“Base is rigged!” Jacques shouted from the corridor, where the team held off reinforcements, blue energy scorching the walls.

Dum Dum’s voice boomed, “Thirty seconds, Barnes!” Explosions rumbled, the facility shaking as charges blew.

“Bucky, the intel…” you mumbled, half-lucid, patting your blouse weakly. “Winter Soldier… don’t let them…” Your voice faded, the fever stealing your strength, but your words seared him, tying your fight to the horror he’d only heard whispers of.

“I won’t,” he promised, voice fierce, dodging a blast that charred the wall. It was an empty promise, but that didn’t matter right now. He still didn’t understand completely what you were mumbling about. 

He carried you through smoke and gunfire, the Commandos covering him—Monty tossing a grenade, Gabe firing steadily. “Stay with me, doll,” he said, his boots pounding as he reached the exit, the night air hitting like a slap.

The bunker erupted behind you, flames licking the sky, and the team piled into a stolen Hydra truck, Gabe at the wheel. Bucky slid you into the back, climbing in beside you, holding you close as the truck lurched forward, tires crunching snow. Your fevered body curled against him, your hand still clutching the hidden intel, and Bucky’s mind raced.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You slumped against Bucky Barnes in the corner of the Hydra truck’s cargo bed, your body a furnace of torment, every nerve alight with the crimson fever drug’s cruel fire. Your skin burned, slick with sweat despite the November chill, and your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a drum urging you toward something you barely understood. Your blouse, torn and clinging to your damp skin, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d guarded since London, its paper a faint crinkle against your chest.

The drug, injected by Arnim Zola during those weeks in his lab, twisted your mind, flooding you with an aching, primal need that made your thighs clench and your breath hitch in sharp, desperate gasps. You fought it, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed closer to Bucky, his warmth both a lifeline and a torment.

Bucky held you tightly, his arm a steel band around your shoulders, his wool jacket rough against your cheek. You felt his heartbeat, steady but quick, through his chest, and his breath clouded in the cold air, his dog tags clinking faintly as he shifted to shield you from a gust. His eyes, shadowed under the swaying lantern’s amber glow, darted to you, worry carving lines into his face. You’d seen him tough, cocky, tossing quips in Brooklyn diners, but now he was raw, his sergeant’s calm fraying at the sight of your trembling hands, the way your fingers clutched his sleeve like he was the only thing keeping you sane.

“Doll, talk to me,” Bucky whispered, voice low, meant only for you, his lips brushing your ear. His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze, and the touch sent a jolt through you, your body shuddering as a wave of heat pulsed low in your belly.

You moaned softly, unintended, and your eyes fluttered, half-lidded, the drug amplifying his touch into something overwhelming, intoxicating. Your hips twitched, pressing against his thigh, and you bit your lip, shame flooding you even as your body begged for more.

The Howling Commandos sprawled around you, their presence a grounding hum amid your chaos. Dum Dum Dugan, sprawled on a crate, polished his Thompson, muttering, “Damn roads are gonna shake my teeth loose.”

Gabe Jones, at the wheel, cursed as the tires skidded, shouting, “Hold tight, this ain’t a Sunday drive!” Jim Morita cleaned his rifle, Monty sipped from a flask, and Jacques toyed with a looted Hydra grenade, whistling a French tune.

You looked at the men. If you wanted, you could have had any one of them. They could have given you what you needed. But it was the Sergeant who had owned your heart since the very start. He was the one you trusted more than anyone else. The infantry’s banter was a lifeline, but they didn’t see your state, didn’t hear the soft, needy sounds you stifled against Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky…” you managed, voice cracked, barely audible over the truck’s rumble. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his dog tags, the metal cool against your burning skin. The contact sent another shiver through you, your thighs squeezing together as a fresh surge of desire made your breath hitch, a low, throaty moan escaping before you could stop it. You were drowning in it—the fever’s heat, the drug’s relentless pull, the ache that coiled tighter with every second. “I… I need to tell you,” you whispered, urgent, your lips grazing his ear, the intimacy of it making your skin prickle. “Alone.”

His pulse spiked—you felt it under your fingers—and his eyes widened, alarm mixing with something deeper, unspoken. “Okay,” he said, voice rough, glancing at the team. The Commandos were distracted, Gabe wrestling the wheel, Dum Dum arguing with Monty over the flask. Bucky shifted, easing you behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and cold against your back. He knelt in front of you, his hands steadying your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “What’s goin’ on, doll? You’re burnin’ up,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, and you gasped, your body arching toward him, the touch igniting sparks that made your hips rock involuntarily.

You swallowed, tears welling, the shame of your need warring with the urgency to speak. “Zola… he gave me something,” you said, words spilling in a rush, your voice trembling. “Called it crimson fever. It’s… it’s making me want things. Need things.” Your breath hitched, a sob catching as you clutched his wrist, your nails digging in. “It’s in my blood, Bucky. It’s burning me, making me… want you. Not just want—I can’t stop it. If I don’t… get release, he said I’ll go mad.” Your cheeks flushed deeper, not just from fever but humiliation, and you looked away, tears dripping onto your lap.

Bucky’s breath caught, his hand tightening on yours, crumpling the edge of his jacket. You saw the horror in his eyes, but also love, fierce and unyielding, rooted in Brooklyn nights when you’d danced around his teasing, your laughter brighter than the city lights.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. Your breath mingled, hot and ragged, and you moaned again, your body reacting to his nearness, hips shifting, thighs trembling as the drug surged. “You don’t gotta be sorry,” he said, cupping your face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “This ain’t you—it’s them. Hydra. Zola. If they’re doing this, only God knows what else they have planned.”

Your body didn’t care for words. You didn’t need empathy. You pressed against him, a desperate, unconscious move, your hand sliding to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. The drug made every touch electric, and you gasped, your skin flushing from chest to throat, a sheen of sweat glistening in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, it hurts,” you whispered, voice raw, your lips brushing his jaw, leaving a faint heat. “I’m burning… I need you.” Your fingers tightened, tugging his jacket, and your hips rocked again, a soft, needy sound escaping as you fought the urge to climb into his lap. 

Your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, each one a plea you hated but couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of guilt and desire he hated himself for feeling. You saw it—the way he fought his own reaction, his breath hitching as your touch stirred him, his love for you clashing with the drug’s twisted demand.

You were so needy, so clingy. And Bucky knew it wasn’t completely you, right? None the less he swallowed, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his trousers, begging for release. Every time your fingers grazed him even in the slighest, he felt like he was going to explode. The war had him touch-starved and desperate, that’s for sure. 

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, though it shook at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?” His hand slid to your neck, holding you gently, and you whimpered, the contact sending a shiver through you, your body arching, breasts pressing against him as another wave of need made you tremble.

“I trust you,” you said, voice breaking, your eyes locking onto his, lucid despite the fever’s haze. “Only you.” Your hand found his, guiding it to your waist, and you gasped as his fingers brushed your hip, the touch sparking a moan that made your thighs quiver. You were losing ground, the drug’s pull relentless, but your trust in Bucky—forged in Brooklyn, in quiet moments he’d never forgotten—kept you tethered.

The truck lurched, Gabe shouting, “Road’s blocked! Barn up ahead, half a mile!” The Commandos shifted, readying gear, their voices a blur.

“I have one grenade left.” You just about made out Jacques’ annoucement. 

But Bucky’s world was you, your fevered whispers, your body trembling with a need that wasn’t just the drug, but you, the girl he’d loved since that night on the Coney Island pier.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You stumbled into the barn, Bucky’s arm steadying you, his warmth the only anchor against the crimson fever’s relentless fire. Your body was a storm of torment—skin flushed and slick with sweat, pulse hammering like a war drum, every nerve alight with a desperate, aching need that made your thighs tremble and your breath come in ragged, needy gasps. The drug, Arnim Zola’s cruel creation, had twisted your desire into something overwhelming, your hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed against Bucky, his scent—wool, gunpowder, and something uniquely him—igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. Your torn blouse clung to your damp skin.

The Winter Soldier intel was still hidden against your chest, a secret you’d guarded through weeks of captivity. You fought the fever’s pull, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, craving Bucky with an intensity that left you dizzy, your lips parting as another moan slipped free.

Bucky shut the barn door with a creak, sealing you in a fragile sanctuary, the wind’s howl fading to a low moan. He set the lantern on a crate, its glow catching the worry in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

You felt his gaze, heavy and searching, as he knelt before you, easing you onto a makeshift bed of hay cushioned by his folded greatcoat, its wool warm from his body. Your hands clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as his touch sparked electricity, your hips twitching involuntarily. “Bucky…” you whispered, voice raw, your eyes glassy but locked on his, a flicker of you shining through the fever’s haze.

“Doll, I’m here,” he said, voice low, hoarse with worry, his calloused hand brushing your cheek. The contact sent a jolt through you, your body arching, a soft moan spilling out as your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing sharper. He froze, his breath hitching, and you saw the conflict in his eyes—love, longing, and fear that this wasn’t you, just the drug. “You’re still burnin’ up,” he said, thumb tracing your jaw, and you whimpered, your skin flushing deeper, a rosy heat spreading from your chest to your throat, glistening with sweat in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, urgent, as you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to your waist. The touch was fire, and you gasped, hips rocking toward him, your body trembling as the drug amplified every sensation. “I need you… it’s too much.” Tears welled, shame mixing with desire, but your eyes held his, fierce despite the fever. “I told you… I can’t fight it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his hand tightening on your hip, his dog tags clinking as he leaned closer. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “Since that damn pier in Brooklyn, since you laughed at my dumb jokes. But this…” He gestured to your trembling form, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I don’t wanna take advantage, doll. I need this to mean somethin’ to you, not just… Zola’s poison.” His thumb brushed your lip, and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your body shuddering, thighs squeezing as a fresh wave of need made your breath stutter.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — ever the gentleman.

“Don’t make me beg,” you said, voice sharp, almost a growl, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned, and the sound of his voice was like velvet. “I want you, Bucky. Always have. The drug’s making it worse, but it’s me.” Your eyes burned into his, lucid, defiant. “I trust you. Make me feel good. Please.” Your hips shifted, pressing against him, and a desperate, throaty moan escaped, your skin prickling as the fever surged, your pulse racing so fast you felt it in your throat.

Bucky’s resolve cracked, his breath ragged. “Alright, honey,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good, I swear.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft but hungry, tasting of salt and desperation. You melted into it, your body trembling, a gasp catching as his tongue brushed yours, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, and your hips rocked, the drug making every touch a spark that set your nerves ablaze.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours and you could see the question he wanted to ask ‘Are you sure?’, and you nodded, breathless, your chest heaving. “I’m sure,” you said, voice firm despite the fever’s haze.

He eased your blouse off, careful of the hidden intel, his fingers brushing your skin, and you gasped, your body arching, nipples tightening in the cold air. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your collarbone, and you whimpered, thighs trembling as his gaze alone sent a pulse of heat through you.

Bucky’s hands were gentle, reverent, as he traced your curves, his fingers lingering on your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, and you shivered, a soft moan escaping as his words stoked the fever’s fire. He kissed your throat, lips warm and deliberate, and you gasped, head tilting back, your pulse hammering under his mouth. Your body reacted vividly—skin flushing from chest to cheeks, thighs clenching as a fresh wave of desire made your hips rock, the ache between them unbearable.

“Bucky, touch me,” you pleaded, voice desperate, guiding his hand lower, your boldness driven by the drug but rooted in trust.

He nodded, his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down your stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the soft skin above your thigh. You trembled, a sharp gasp tearing from you as his hand brushed closer, your thighs parting instinctively, inviting him.

Your skin prickled, sweat glistening, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, the drug making every touch electric. His fingers found your warmth, teasing gently, and you moaned, loud and needy, your hips bucking toward him, thighs quivering as a jolt of pleasure shot through you. 

“Bucky…” you breathed, clutching his wrist, nails digging in, your body tensing as he explored, his touch careful but sure.

Your reaction was immediate—muscles tightening, a flush spreading across your chest, your breath stuttering as his fingers circled, coaxing waves of heat that made your toes curl. You arched, hips rocking in rhythm, and your moans grew sharper, each one a desperate plea. The drug amplified every sensation, your skin hypersensitive, and you felt every callus, every movement, as if he were rewriting your nerves.

“Feels… so good,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your thighs clenching around his hand as a coil tightened inside you. Bucky watched, his breath ragged, worry flickering but desire burning stronger.

“You’re with me, doll,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, and you nodded, a tear slipping free as pleasure overwhelmed you.

He shifted, lips trailing down your chest, and you whimpered, your body trembling as he kissed lower, his breath warm against your stomach. “Gonna make you feel even better,” he promised, voice low, and you gasped, hips lifting as his mouth found you, his tongue gentle but deliberate. 

The sensation was a lightning strike—your body jolted, a cry tearing from your throat, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. Your thighs trembled, muscles quaking, and your breath came in short, desperate gasps, the drug making every lick a pulse of fire. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your brow, and you moaned, unrestrained, hips rocking against his mouth as pleasure built, sharp and relentless. “Bucky… oh, God…” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body tensing as you neared the edge, every nerve singing.

He pulled back, kissing your thigh, and you whimpered, desperate, your hands tugging him up. 

“Need you… now,” you said, voice raw, your eyes locked on his, lucid despite the fever. He nodded, shedding his trousers, dog tags clinking, and leaned over you, his body warm, grounding. 

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice thick, needing your consent, his worry clear.

“I want you, Bucky,” you said, fierce, pulling him closer. “Always.”

He guided himself, the moment of connection slow, deliberate, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming, amplified by the drug. He was big, bigger than you had ever had before. He stretched you and you felt your body clamp down around him. Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink and you felt his short fingernails dig into your hips as he steadied himself. Your body reacted vividly—muscles clenching, thighs trembling, hips rising to meet him.

“So good…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving crescent marks.

He moved, each thrust a rhythm of passion and care, his lips brushing your ear, whispering, “I’ve got you, doll.” 

You brought your hands up to his face, guiding him to your lips as he thrusted into you. This was more than sex — a cure to your condition. This was love. You kissed him slowly, leaning into the softness of his lips. He smelled like lingering smoke mixed with a sweetness you just couldn’t describe. It was familiar, like the cotton candy you picked at and shared on the pier at Coney Island.

“Do you remember that time when we stood at the edge of the pier and you were showing me the constellations in the sky?” You asked, your eyes finding Bucky’s, watching him as he fucked you.

“Mm,” he nodded his head, wordlessly. “Wanted to kiss you so bad that night.” He breathed into admittance. 

“I wanted you to kiss me too.” You replied before your words were cut off with a loud moan. Bucky grabbed your calves, pulling them up to his shoulders allowing him to go even deeper, hitting you at a new angle. Lewd, wet sounds echoed in the barn and you had visions of someone walking in. It only spurred you on even more. 

Your breaths mingled, your cries soft but desperate, the drug’s urgency blending with love. Your thighs tightened around him, hips rocking, and pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembling as you neared release. “Bucky…” you gasped, voice breaking, and he kissed you hard, just like he’d always imagined, deep and grounding, as you shattered, a cry muffled against his shoulder, the fever’s grip breaking. He followed, his climax a choked wave, shooting a warmth that painted your walls, arms tightening to hold you close.

The barn fell silent, save for your ragged breaths and the hay’s rustle. You collapsed against him, trembling, the fever’s heat gone, leaving you fragile, your skin cooling but slick with sweat. Bucky pulled his greatcoat over you both, shielding you from the cold, and held you, your head tucked under his chin. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows, and shame crept in, your voice small. 

“Was it… just the drug?” you asked, clutching the intel in your blouse, fear lacing your words. “Did I… make you?”

“No,” Bucky said, fierce, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “It was us, I’ve loved you since Brooklyn, since that pier. The drug didn’t make me want you—I always did.” His voice cracked, and he kissed your forehead, steady. “You’re not broken. You’re mine.”

You nodded, tears spilling, but doubt lingered, Zola’s experiments haunting you. “I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “What if they’ve changed me?”

“They haven’t,” he said, stroking your hair. “You’re still you, still the girl who cracked their codes, kept that intel through hell. I won’t let them touch you again.” His promise was fierce, but you felt the war’s weight, Hydra’s reach, and the shadow of what you’d uncovered.

Outside, Gabe’s voice cut through, soft but urgent. “Sarge, we’re clear. Ready to move.” The Commandos, loyal, unaware of the barn’s secrets, waited in the snow.

Bucky helped you sit, adjusting the greatcoat, his touch gentle. “We gotta go,” he said, voice low. “But I’m with you, every step.” He stood, pulling you up, and you leaned into him, steadier but haunted, the fever gone but the intel and emotional weight lingering. The barn door creaked open, moonlight spilling in, and Bucky led you out, his arm around you, ready to face the war—and Hydra’s lingering threat.

You followed Bucky back to the van. “Write to me?” You asked, locking a subtle finger with his, so that his men wouldn’t notice.

“Of course I will.” He promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t care if anyone saw. The last thing he’d do was want to keep you a secret. He had dreamed of you, of this, since 1939.

“And after the war, you’ll find me on the pier at Coney Island, waiting for you.” You told him, an oath that you’d protect with your life. You didn’t want anyone other than him. You would wait for him, even if waiting meant forever.

“I’ll be there.” 

You believed him.

“You’ll come home, won’t you?” The question lingered with uncertainty and worry as the Winter Soldier intel burned in your pocket.

“Do I look like a man who’d keep my doll waiting?” Bucky smiled, his blue eyes twinkling like an aurora, full of love and hope. 

Yeah, you believed him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

[aventurineswife]

Ahem. Ahem. Attention please! My beloved has opened her requests once more, n’ I will take this opportunity to slip in.

V Now get this, right? V

Imagine a scenario where the MC reads the room incorrectly; the boys lean in close for something else entirely besides a kiss but the MC is left anticipating for one. Would they leave them embarrassed? Or take the opportunity to grant themselves what they never realized they truly wanted with our MC?

(Sunday / Aventurine )

The Price of Bliss

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Misunderstanding, Gentle Romance, Subtle Humor, Emotional Tension, Vulnerability, Soft Kisses.

Warnings: Light Embarrassment, Misleading Anticipation, Internal Conflict, Minor Emotional Discomfort, Slow Development of Feelings.

The soft hum of the Astral Express filled the space as Sunday stood beside you, eyes tracing the stars that zipped by in the endless expanse of space. His scarf swayed gently with the motion of the train, its golden underside catching the faint light. The air between you carried an unspoken tension, born not of conflict but of something deeper, something unspoken.

"Could you hold still for a moment?" Sunday asked, his voice calm and airy as always, though there was an undertone of something you couldn't quite place. His hair shimmered in the light, the halo behind his head casting faint shadows on the wall.

You froze, nodding quickly. "O-of course," you stammered, wondering if you were imagining the sudden proximity between you two. He stepped closer, his feathered wings fluttering slightly—something you had come to recognize as a sign of his focus or unease.

Sunday leaned in, his gaze locked onto yours. His gloved hand reached out, and your breath caught. Was this... happening? Your heart raced, and you felt the heat rush to your cheeks. Surely, this closeness, this tension meant—

"Hold still," he repeated gently, his lips now dangerously close to your ear.

You squeezed your eyes shut, anticipation building, only to feel his fingers brush your cheek—not to cup your face, but to pluck a stray piece of fluff from your hair. He stepped back, holding the offending fluff between his fingers like a triumphant victor. "There," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That was bothering me."

Your embarrassment was immediate, and you avoided his gaze, mentally kicking yourself for jumping to conclusions. But before you could recover, Sunday tilted his head, his wings fluttering once more. "You look flustered," he observed, his tone tinged with curiosity. "Did you think I was going to...?"

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words caught in your throat. The smile on his face deepened, not mocking but intrigued. "Hmm," he murmured, stepping closer once more. This time, there was no mistaking the shift in the air. "I hadn’t thought about it before, but..."

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up as his own leaned down. The moment stretched, the stars outside forgotten as he closed the distance—deliberately this time. The kiss was soft, tentative, and when he pulled away, his gaze held a warmth that hadn’t been there before.

"Interesting," he said, a faint trace of his characteristic melancholy lingering in his tone. "I think I’d like to explore this more." He stepped back, his expression returning to its usual serenity, but the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him. "Shall we discuss it over tea?"

The lights of the casino shimmered, casting iridescent reflections across Aventurine's tailored coat. You stood with him at the edge of a high-stakes table, watching as he manipulated the crowd with his usual charm. His earring swung slightly as he turned to you, a sly grin playing on his lips.

"You’re a terrible liar," he said suddenly, stepping closer. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and the slight tilt of his hat gave him an even more devil-may-care look. "And even worse at hiding your tells."

You blinked, taken aback. "I didn’t—what are you talking about?"

He chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Oh, come now," he murmured, leaning down so his face was mere inches from yours. "You’re blushing. You’ve been blushing all evening. Is it the thrill of the game, or..." His eyes flicked to yours, and your breath hitched.

This was it. This was the moment. The playful banter, the closeness—it all pointed to something more. You tilted your face up slightly, your lips parting in anticipation.

And then Aventurine reached behind you, his hand darting past your shoulder. He straightened with a triumphant smirk, holding up a chip that had somehow gotten caught on your collar. "Got it," he said, tossing it up and catching it with ease.

You stared at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. "I—I thought—"

"Oh, you thought I was going to kiss you, didn’t you?" Aventurine cut in, his grin widening. He stepped back, placing the chip on the table before turning back to you with a smirk that bordered on teasing. "Not everything’s a gamble, darling."

Your embarrassment was palpable, but before you could stammer out a response, Aventurine’s expression shifted. The playfulness gave way to something softer, something genuine. "But then again," he said, stepping back into your space, "I’ve always enjoyed a risky bet."

Before you could fully process his words, his lips brushed against yours—confident, deliberate, and leaving no room for misinterpretation. When he pulled back, the grin returned, but his voice was quieter this time, almost reverent.

"Looks like I just hit the jackpot."

[borkunlimited]

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 7

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Angst, Predator/Prey

TW: Trauma, Implied Sexual Harassment, Implied Sexual Assault, Guns, Mentions of Violence

Chapter Summary: The trees have fully shed their leaves, a sign to a new season and with that, he gives in to one of your little favors, no matter how peculiar the reasons behind them.

Author's Note: Life has been long! Finally got new batteries for my pen so I am off to drawing a fanart for this on top of the drawings I actually need to do. Enjoy the chapter!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch.4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

7: My Dearest, Troubled

The tree in front of your shop has lost most of its leaves, a herald to autumn finally coming to an end and a new season arriving.

“Close the shop?”, you asked, confused while you watch your father put on his coat.

“Take it slow for today, twig,” your father smiled, giving himself a once over. The last train station to the city from N109 zone this morning would leave in an hour and he has to catch it to go to the hospital. “You had a long day yesterday.”

“But why?”

“You’re already ahead of schedule. You might crash out if you do too much.”

“Alright but just today though. Mister Sewing Machine wouldn’t like it if I am gone too long.”

“Mister Sewing Machine will understand, twig,” your father replied, amused at how you treat every item inside your studio as if it is a living thing but it makes sense, he did raise you to look after and take good care of the objects that ensure your livelihood.

“Daisy and I will hold the fort then!”, you answered cheerfully and your crow friend also let out a beep.

Your father smiled at you and briefly glanced at the crow who always used your antlers at a perch. Most of Sylus’ business associates had expressed unease towards this odd friend of yours who always quietly assesses them every time they converse with you in your studio.

Every word this mechanical crow hears will also reach Sylus’ ears.

He wouldn’t deny that he used to be also uncomfortable under its observant gaze.

Yet, with time comes familiarity and your father admitted to himself last night that Sylus proved to be a gentleman around you, completely different to how the people around him paint him to be, especially when he watched the dragon hybrid carry you upstairs as if you are the most fragile treasure he ever held.

That dragon isn’t as bad as people claimed and you were the first person to see past rumors and his rough exterior. 

Your father, the first person you managed to convince.

Still, he still can’t help but worry about this recent development. He is sure word has spread fast after hearing from neighbors that Sylus had taken a time-off yesterday just for you.

Which is in fact, a very, very rare occurrence.

“Twig, one last thing,” he said slowly, and he looked at your crow friend then back at you, holding both of your arms gently, “Just in case. I put Mister Louis’-”, he took a deep breath then continued, “- gift at the first drawer of the front desk.”

With Sylus’ watchful eyes, your father knows that no one would dare try to come near you with any malicious intent and he doesn’t doubt that the dragon hybrid would be here before anything bad happens.

But it will only just take a few seconds before something irreversible happens.

You looked down on your shoes and he grimaced. He knows you tend to be very touchy at the subject, initially very apprehensive on the thought behind the present and the implication of the words that the young deer hybrid left. 

Louis, despite his wealthy upbringing, tends to be too straightforward, too protective of the other prey hybrids that settled in this area and your father knows Louis left the same gift to other households.

“Skye isn’t a bad person-”

“I know he isn’t. I have complete faith in him.”

“Then why do we still keep it?”

“I have no doubts about your favorite visitor, twig,” he insisted gently, hoping to correct the assumptions already forming in your head, “But he is a very influential man.”

And many people would do anything to snatch the crown from its bearer.

The gaze of your crow friend is heavy but your father maintained his eyes towards you until you nodded slowly, “Okay, I’ll keep it in mind.”

Your father let out a  sigh of relief, letting go of you, then patting your shoulder.

“I’ll catch the first train on the way back then we will have dinner together, is that good?”

“Alright, can you bring me something from the bakery when you get back?”

“Your favorite?”

You nodded and your father ruffled your hair before stepping out, making sure the sign says ‘Closed’.

It is not the first time your father left you by your lonesome here in the shop and usually, sewing keeps you preoccupied that you don’t even notice he is gone but his simple request of taking a break is quite foreign.

“What do you do when you are taking breaks, Daisy?”, you asked your crow friend who is busy preening the braid on the side of your face.

Mephisto tilted its head and if you can understand it, it is telling you right now that visiting you is break time, a privilege it takes advantage of too often.

“Organize your treasures?”

That is usually scheduled at the end of the month so again, it shakes its head.

“Catch up with your crow friends?”

Mephisto decided to not do that for now, especially when the largest crow in the group tried to pull the ribbon you made for it off its neck.

“Do you clean your nest?” 

It knows it has to give you an answer because you will keep asking, not that it minds.

So, Mephisto nods.

“Really now? I do enjoy looking after the house as well,” you smiled, folding your sleeves until your shoulders and putting your hair up. “Where should we start?”

You follow Mephisto, carrying a broom and laughing gently when it leads you to your studio, perching at the handle while it waits for you to give your verdict on its choice.

“Am I that messy, Daisy?”

It lets out a beep, which you took as a yes, and then opened the door.

“You are a very honest crow,” you chuckled and Mephisto wagged its tail.

It doesn’t think you are messy, no, not at all. It is because out of all the rooms inside your shop, this is where you and it spends time the most.

It only makes sense that you both start cleaning its nest first.

────────────────────

Sylus woke up earlier than expected, mostly because he is looking forward to checking if you managed to pick up the hint he left last night.

The chimes at the entrance of your shop announced his entry and while he didn’t expect you to come and greet him, he certainly did not expect your studio to be empty.

Boxes are scattered around, clearly a sign you are in the middle of organizing fabrics and sewing materials. Spools of threads in the middle of being shifted and arranged from darkest to lightest, assortment of buttons that got lost are reunited one by one to their siblings. 

It was clear you are doing a quick sweep, a break, he assumed, but where are you?

“Sweetie?”, he called out.

There was no response except for a chirp.

It was Mephisto, diligently lifting blankets that covered the mannequins one by one as if looking for someone.

Or, looking for you.

It only took him moments to realize that in the middle of cleaning up, you and Mephisto had your attention diverted and now playing a game of hide and seek.

What even made it more amusing is you don’t know there is a new player joining in. For now.

“Where is she?”, he asked, watching as Mephisto perched on his shoulder and tilted its head, as if repeating the same question he asked albeit sarcastically.

If crows can shrug, Mephisto certainly did but it knows you haven’t stepped outside the shop, a rule both of you set before starting the game.

“Electric wires that connect the shop to the grid are not a hiding place!”, you quickly added earlier before running away when Mephisto started chirping with pause in between, a countdown.

Sylus rolled his eyes. Of course, he can immediately find where you are. He just had to shift through the scents, old and new, that lingered on your shop and follow it but where is the fun in that?

“No hints?”

Mephisto shook its head.

Sylus heard a giggle from behind him, the scent of cotton and wildflowers that is unmistakably yours hung briefly in the air but then faded away together with your soft footsteps padding further from him.

You already know he is here through the gap of the half-opened studio door.

Smart girl.

The familiar click of the heels of your shoes are gone, clearly having taken them off and carried them to not make a noise.

“Now, miss seamstress, is this how you welcome a new player in your game?”, he called out, making sure his voice was carried from your studio to every room of your house until to the very corners and crevices you may have thought were safe hiding spots.

Of course, Sylus did not expect you to reply but he took his time, walking casually and aimlessly at items that decorated your home, making sure his footsteps are loud.

Each step calculated, a movement under the pretense he is exploring rather than actively searching for you. He doesn’t have to close his eyes to know you clearly climbed up the stairs, hearing you gasp softly when you accidentally stepped on the fifth step that always creaked.

“I am starting to think you don’t actually want me to find you, sweetheart.”

Every living thing emits a certain scent when being hunted down and prey hybrids have the most potent ones but there is not even a trace of it in you.

In fact, Sylus can only pick up excitement.

Anticipation.

You are clearly happy he still came over to visit you even when you and him had spent the entire day together yesterday.

You can’t help but smile when you peeked from the second floor and saw the tip of Skye’s tail passing by. Daisy glanced up but you put a finger on your lips, a gesture that it is you and your crow friend against the dragon hybrid.

Will Mephisto choose you over Sylus any day? An absurd question.

It decided to buy more time for you, flying towards the receiving area, pretending to check if you were under the front desk.

“You’re a little traitor, do you know that?”, Sylus chuckled, crossing his arms while Mephisto feigned indifference.

The bird is clearly siding with you, he already knows when Mephisto’s gaze lingered on the top of the steps for a second too long.

One of the doors upstairs bang loudly followed by another carefully opened, a clear misdirection.

Daisy can only buy you a little time and you know Skye is bound to find you soon.

Predator hybrids have outstanding senses, that’s what you were told by others. They can hear the beating of your heart. They do not need your name, your scent alone is already a unique identifier.

You haven’t really asked Skye how true it is, if you already lost the game the moment he stepped inside your home but you don’t care much how different you both are, if he already had the edge between the two of you.

In this little corner of the N109 zone, all the rules your kind had imposed upon you are forgotten.

You held your knees close to your chest inside the floor of the cabinet, your ears twitching and listening to his footsteps. The fifth stepped creak and and his silhouette passed by briefly  to your room only for it to return immediately after checking your father’s room.

“I know you’re in there, sweetheart.”

You put your hands on your mouth, stifling your giggles.

“I’ll give you a headstart to change your hiding spot before I come in, darling deer.”

There was no sound, no movement. You stayed where you are and if that’s your decision, then Sylus would take it.

Every person in every room Sylus steps inside would immediately avert their eyes to avoid his gaze but there will always be a handful who will lock eyes with him with subtle defiance and Sylus would always pick up the scent of fear, even the slightest ounce.

Narrow it down further and among the handful, there is only person that will meet his eyes, a vast ocean he will always come back to.

And that person is-

“Found you.”

The cabinet door opened, and there you were, hugging your knees and a shy smile on your lips as you looked up at him.

“Hello, Skye.”

“Hello, sweetheart.”

He crouched down to your height, slowly reaching out to you to play with the small braid on the side of your face and his eyes flickered on one of your antlers.

Tied around it is the red good luck ribbon he had left last night.

You leaned towards his hand, smiling.

“How did you find me, Mister Dragon?”

“I’ll always find you, Miss Deer.”

────────────────────

At first, you find Mister Louis quite rude.

You don’t have to open his gift to know what is inside. Everyone who enters your studio just to watch you always carries one of various sizes.

They usually keep it hidden behind their coats while others carry suspiciously long boxes, the wooden floor creaking every time they put it down on their feet before looking around your studio, making conversation with you.

Cold. Heavy. Powerful.

You only get to hold one when the twins come over, Luke carrying a rifle and Kieran, its case. They let you take a peek at the scope once when they saw two rival groups about to tear each other’s throats just past the boundaries set by the boss himself to all the denizens of the N109 zone.

“Have you ever held one before, Miss Deer?”

Kieran asked you before, noticing your fascination when they let you examine the rifle, making sure the safety is on.

You shook your head, focused on the little fight that was about to unfold between Mister Louis’ pride of lion hybrids and a pack of wolf hybrids.

The two chuckled, their tails wagging.

“I don’t think the miss needs to. She already has us and the boss looking after her.”

They never referred to Skye using his real name.

They always call him ‘boss’.

The distant gunshots rattled the utensils you have brought with your favorite visitor upstairs in the small rooftop garden you keep, the tea making small waves against the walls of your porcelain cups.

“It looks like the neighbors are being rowdy today, Skye,” you chuckled softly but Sylus did not miss the slight tremble when you took a piece of your favorite cake.

The entirety of N109 zone isn’t paradise, that Sylus knows.

Yet, he is very specific to everyone living here to not even dare cause not even a single ruckus within 500 meters of your shop.

“They just don’t know how to behave, do they?”, he mused, adding more strawberry macarons on your plate.

Your eyes fell on his hands. It was clear that he is familiar with defending himself using his fists. His hands were rough, the skin on his knuckles stretched tight against the bone.

As always, he checks the cut on your finger and your eyes trace the calluses on his palm and the finger he uses to pull the trigger.

With his pointed horns, a powerful tail, and senses so sharp, he doesn’t have to worry much about anyone hurting him.

“I have a request,” you started slowly, your eyes watching the last leaf of the tree land on your tea, floating quietly.

You have always welcomed each season with open arms but the end of autumn means it will only be weeks until you say goodbye to your antlers.

With them gone comes the feeling of defenselessness, of terror, and each distant gunshot reminds you that your kind-

-Really is pitiful.

“What is it that my sweetheart wishes for?”

“You can turn me down, alright?”

“Let me hear you out first, miss seamstress, then I’ll make the call.”

“I want to learn how to shoot,” you replied, and you immediately averted your gaze, looking down at your lap.

You know he uses one but he always keeps it on his back, covered by the coat he hangs on his shoulder but you always spot it when he shifts closer to you to study your work.

Sylus was expecting you to bring up your many plans of tying bows on his horns and tails but certainly not this. He had always told himself you don’t need to wield a weapon. Not because he thinks you are completely fragile but because holding one means you are pointing it to another person.

Your hands, they weren’t made to destroy.

They were meant to create.

“That’s not a small request, little doe, are you sure?”

“If it is fine with you?”

“Why do you want to learn, sweetie?”

“I am going to lose my antlers soon,” you admitted sadly, your ears drooping and Sylus’ gaze softened when he realized the cause of your anxiety.

The red ribbon tied on your antler sway gently against the autumn breeze together with the good luck ribbon on his horn.

It is hard to say no when his favorite deer is looking at him as if he ate her last macaron.

Sylus already knows he is a goner.

Still, he relished that you chose to ask him this favor over Luke and Kieran and he chuckled, his resolve gone.

“You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, do you know that, sweetie?”

You know Skye’s services do not come cheap. He already did so much for you, carrying favors and messages so it is only fair you compensate him just as before when he helped you.

“Here,” you said, tapping your right cheek, “My downpayment.”

“You’re quite a charmer, aren’t you, little doe,” he whispered, reaching out to lean closer to you then pressed his lips on your cheek.

If Sylus has it his way, he would be demanding more, to shower you kisses. Will you be blushing madly when he does? Or will you just laugh and tell him he missed a spot?

As much as he wants his answers to those questions that come while he waits for sleep to come, he will take what he can have right now as long as it is from you.

“Downpayment received,” he murmured softly in your ear and you caught the red tints of his ears.

Among the quiet rustling of the dried leaves on the floor of your garden and the sounds of ceramic pots and bottles being lined up, he can only hope that his wishes carried by the autumn breeze will be heard.

────────────────────

Daisy gave you another reassuring nuzzle on your cheek, sensing your frustration and embarrassment.

Sylus knows you are clearly upset and he knows exactly why.

Thirty bullets in and your chances of hitting a target should be at least greater than before but every time you pull a trigger, it is as if the bullet ricochets itself and hits the wall.

Is this the universe's way of telling him that his precious deer shouldn’t wield a firearm? He is starting to think it is.

“Skye, they kept missing,” you sighed, your ears drooping, and he had to stifle a chuckle because even with tears threatening to spill from your eyes, you just look so adorable.

“Sweetie, it takes time handling a firearm,” he began, stepping closer with his thumb wiping a tear on the corner of your eye, “Just like when you were learning how to use your sewing needles.”

“Did it also take you years to learn how to use them?”

“Not years but it took practice and patience.”

“Don’t rush it, sweetie,” he murmured against your ear, standing behind you, his chest brushing against your back, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

One.

An erratic heartbeat.

It isn’t the quiet and steady rhythm you have. A tune trying to sync itself against the conductor’s lead but ahead by one note.

“Breathe for me,” he said quietly and your ears brushed his cheek, flicking. Your shoulders relaxed against him followed by a sharp intake of breath, an attempt to match the cadence of his heart.

Two.

Trembling hands.

The gun, a foreign object, your body’s natural reaction to push it away from you but your determination supersedes, holding on.

“Eyes forward,” Sylus continued, his warm breath fanning against your neck, soft but firm. His other hand moved from your waist to grip your wrist, a stable guide. 

Three.

Shaky aim.

Every time you pull the trigger, the close sounds of the gun unloading startles you. The sound, much different, compared to the distant firing of the rowdy citizens of the N109 zone. Your deer instinct takes precedence over everything, telling you to flee.

“Ignore everything else.”

His hand holding your wrist rested on top of yours, his finger on the trigger with you. His voice a low, soothing rumble as he rested his chin against your shoulder.

You are as much a human as you are a deer.

The last bullet inside the firearm discharged, the golden casing shining against the afternoon sun until it finally met its target, the pieces of the old ceramic pot shattering.

Sylus was watching you closely, your stunned expression of finally hitting one of the targets both of you set up slowly replaced by a wide smile, relief and triumph.

Victory . 

A small one but a victory nonetheless.

“That’s my girl,” he praised you, his hands moving around your waist to pull you closer against his chest.

“Did you see that, Skye?”, you asked, looking up at him, your nose brushing against his in the process.

“I did, sweetheart, I did.”

“You’re a good teacher.”

“And I have a willing student.”

“I supposed I should pay you in full now for the lesson,” you smiled, then pointing at your right cheek, “Here.”

Sylus is sure the twins and even Mephisto had a hand at this. The three of them most likely made you assume that little favors are to be paid by hugs and kisses, always seeking affection from you just like he does.

Unbelievable but it worked.

He chuckled softly, his lips hovering just above your skin before he planted a lingering kiss on the spot you pointed.

“Payment accepted, sweetie.”

Sylus had already given himself the role to be your protector and he knows what it takes to be one.

To you, he is your dragon, always yearning for your touch, content.

To others, he is the big, bad and will always be bad dragon and if he has to take, bite, and claw at every single being that is a threat to your small forest, then so be it.

────────────────────

Evening comes by too fast, the breeze entering the open windows of your shop becoming colder and stronger and you know it is time for your favorite visitor to go when he glances at his watch and lets out a heavy sigh.

The passage of time always picks up speed every time he is here and his shoulder slumps just slightly when he sets one of the boxes he is helping you move on one of the tables.

“Duty calls?”, you asked, his frown turning to a smile when you peek to check on him.

He nodded, “It’s time for me to go.”

You observed him thoughtfully, studying him and your eyes lingered on his watch, a new one, clearly expensive. He always wears a different one every time he comes over.

There is a question that you put at the back of your head when morning came where you were met with an unexpected surprise after you removed the wreath that Skye made for you.

“What is it like to be Mr. Sylus’ bodyguard?”, you asked, accompanying him to the door of your shop.

“It’s a demanding job but it pays well.”

“Does it also include making sure that not a lot of people know what Mr. Sylus looks like?”

“That’s one of the job requirements, sweetie.”

“If I tell you I now know what he looks like, what would you do?”, you asked, tilting your head with a knowing smile.

Who would have thought a little hint is all you need to piece together who is the man in front of you?

This is the face of someone close to solving a puzzle, a breakthrough. You have a question in your mind slowly taking shape.

All Sylus needs now is for the words to come from your lips.

A confirmation and there is only one correct answer.

“That depends, sweetie. Prove it to me and I’ll take you to him,” he replied playfully.

“You will?”, you asked, wagging your tail, “Really?”

“Really,” he affirmed, and his tail flicked in excitement, “We’ll go straight to the base if you give me the right answer.”

You paused for a moment, your eyes looking at your shoes and the dusty clothes you are wearing then you chuckled softly, “Tomorrow. I want to look my best when we meet Mr. Sylus.”

You want to doll up for him.

You want to be presentable.

He wanted to tell you that you don’t need to, that all he needs is for you to call him by his real name.

“You already look cute just the way you are, if you ask me,” he said, pinching your cheek one last time before opening the door and he was about to step out when you reached out to hold the end of his coat hanging on his shoulders.

“Miss me already, sweetie? Don’t we have an appointment set tomorrow?”

“You forgot something.”

“Did I?”, Sylus answered, a slow smile spreading on his face while he pretended to pat his pockets and scan his clothes, “I supposed I did.”

Late autumn. 

His car parked just outside your shop at the front in this corner of the N109 zone while the lone tree standing tall near the curb had finally completely shed its leaves. Your wool cardigan rustles gently, the wooden floor creaking when you stand on your tiptoes.

This time, your lips finally hit the mark, right on his cheek. 

A small noise, he doesn’t know if it is his, yours, or maybe both but it is clear that it is for your ears and his only, an intangible treasure, a song that will always play in repeat, forever sought.

Small memories, so small, but even then, all the precious gems are.

After he waved goodbye, Sylus had tucked the stray leaf on the dashboard of his car that day.

Tomorrow can’t come any sooner.

────────────────────

A classical tune filled the room, the papers and record books shuffling while you pile them up together for your father who is running late.

Your eyes occasionally land on the door, hoping you will see the familiar antlers and the package from your favorite bakery that makes the best strawberry shortcake, a little treat he promised from earlier and also, most likely to make up with you..

The chimes rang.

“Welcome home-”

“I always loved those antlers of yours, branches.”

Every part of your body froze, and your wool cardigan suddenly was not enough to keep you warm.

How long was it when you heard that voice? Your mind was close to putting a number to the distance you and your father had put between that voice but before you could even come up with an answer, you stopped.

Every cell that makes you up refuses to acknowledge his presence, no, his existence .

There is no person in front of you, the chimes did not announce a visitor. Maybe it did not ring at all and it is just you and Daisy in this shop, waiting for your father’s return.

But there is.

He is a human, that one you are sure. 

No tail.

No horns.

Normal ears. 

His voice?

A broken record, too many scratches but it still plays a distorted song, the lyrics a horrid amalgamation of disjointed tracks.

His face? 

A mess of black threads all tied against each other, there is no way to tell where it began and it started. It is as if they have been there ever since and will always be there.

“Who would have thought that the deer Sylus is keeping for himself is you? I have been looking for you everywhere.”

One.

Two.

Three. 

Three strides. It also takes him the same number of steps from the store front of your old shop to stand beside you in the front desk when you used to be the one greeting customers.

You keep your eyes on your shoes, your hands behind your back and even when you try to move at least an inch, your body refuses.

Deers must stay still under the gaze of a predator.

An actual predator.

Humans. 

Predator hybrids. 

Prey hybrids.

Put all three of it in a diagram and you will find that you are as much as capable of harming each other.

The only question is- Will you?

Can you?

“It looks like he knows how to look after livestock,” the human continued, and your lips trembled when his breath was a little closer to your neck.

His name? What was his name?

Your mind refuses to cooperate. Do not put a name on this tangled mess of black threads that he calls a face.

Names only make them more real.

How does it even speak? No, there is certainly a face underneath it but if you even try to pull a loose thread, it will only just unravel itself further.

You might get caught in it too if you do.

“Lost your voice? But you were just talking to Sylus earlier,” he prodded further and your gaze moved from your feet to the drawer of the front desk. “Gave him a kiss too.”

Breathe for me.

Skye’s words echoed and his voice, always so gentle, is now distant.

“Too bad your little league isn’t here anymore,” the human continued then he gazed at the crow.

He clearly recognized this one. Its appearance is the reason why Sylus suddenly left a very important negotiation back then and who would have known, that beast really does keep an eye over you.

Oh, you aren’t Sylus’ emergency ration. 

Not a feast either. 

You are so much more to that dragon, alright.

Sylus is going to regret crossing a human.

─────────────────��──

“Hey boss, the packages have arrived.”

The twins weave their way towards him through the maze of boxes and crates scattered inside the main hallway of the base and more are waiting to be brought in outside the double doors of his home.

Weapons.

Experimental drugs.

Documents.

The whole nine yards, waiting to be opened by him one by one and all of it will fetch a hefty sum as long as it is sold to the most eager buyer.

Who would have known he will be doing a similar clean-up here at the base as well?

“Let’s get started. Time is money.”

It was the usual routine, Luke will hand him a package to open while Kieran continues to put everything inside.

The blade cuts across the tape holding the flaps and each item inside promising.

Sylus always notes the senders, these are from business associates after all. How the product performs is a test, an evaluation to know if the venture is a worthy pursuit or not.

“Say, boss, I thought you had that group blacklisted,” Kieran said slowly, approaching his desk and carrying a box.

A cardboard box. 

No sender details.

Yet, it was faint, very faint, but Sylus knows why Kieran asked.

The box holds a faint stench of the black market that deals with prey hybrid meat.

“I did,” he frowned. He was clear to those sick bastards he had no intentions of dealing with their wares, “Open it.”

“I wonder if they are sending those vials again. That was creepy,” Luke said, standing closer to Kieran while he watched his brother rip the old parchment paper wrapping the box.

“Or those horns. That was nasty.”

“Or a bomb.”

“What? Nah, this box has been sitting outside for a while.”

“Let’s get this over,” Sylus said, sighing heavily, already thinking how he would dispose of these ‘samples’ as those people called it.

Sylus has always been decisive when giving orders and every decision comes with consequences, both good and bad.

Yet, there are many times that the universe is quick to remind him that he isn’t invincible as he thinks he is even if it gifted him the prowess to assert his claim against those who stand his way.

And right now, the universe is pointing at a chink on his scales.

Pictures.

The box is full of photos of you, all circled with a red marker. 

His eyes traced the antlers decorated with threads, then at the crown of flowers and finally-

-At the glassy eyes of a taxidermized head of a deer resting on the white linen holding a note in its mouth.

And it says-

“Boss?”, Luke said slowly.

“Boss, what does it say?”, Kieran asked, the usual calmness in his voice slowly overcome by nervousness.

Pretty little deer.

Sylus had never been much dependent on fate. Every action is calculated, all variables considered and every odds must be in his favor.

But tonight, when he and the twins raced back to your shop, never he expected the day would come his car would roar on the highway as he stepped on the accelerator.

Let this be a sick prank.

Let this be an empty threat.

Let this be a cruel joke.

.

.

.

God, please.

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Author's Note:

Do you know that part in the rollercoaster before you plunge at the speed of 80kph or more? Yeah, this chapter is that chapter. See you next Thursday!

My inbox is open~ (If you wanted to be mutuals, I will be happy!) I am still navigating how fandom etiquette is since it is my first time being active in one here in Tumblr.

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch.4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

[psychotrenny]

While there is a great deal of similarity between Israel and Apartheid South Africa (down to the very close ties these countries shared), their strategies to delay inevitable collapse have turned out very different especially in terms of foreign policy. Like the South African government spent its last decade or so under Apartheid pursuing what Botha called his "Total Strategy", using every possible lever of influence to force the Frontline States into subservience; keeping them economically dependent on South Africa and politically acquiescent to Apartheid.

Military force was used for sure, but the only large scale deployments were the occupations of Namibia and southern Angola. Otherwise direct military action was restricted to commando raids, focused mainly on destroying infrastructure and carrying out political assassinations. South Africa instead preferred to act through local proxies, supporting (and often creating) various reactionary terrorist movements (i.e. UNITA in Angola, RENAMO in Mozambique, LLA in Lesotho) so that the destabilising effect of constant warfare would inhibit economic development, prevent unfriendly governments from taking any real action against apartheid and allow the offer of reduced terrorist support to be a bargaining chip in negotiations.

Economically South Africa used its control over transport infrastructure and large job market as both carrot and stick, rewarding compliant governments with better access to goods and increased migrant labour quotas (for many countries a vital source of income) while punishing disobedient nations with transport disruptions and reduced access to South African jobs. The specific mix of Military and Economic strategies would be tailored to suit the particular country at a particular time; for example South Africa's pressure on Angola was almost entirely military due to the lack of economic links between the two, while Swaziland's complete dependency made economics the primary South African approach. These different forms of pressure were also applied so as to compliment each other i.e. commandos and terrorist proxies would attack alternate railways and ports to ensure goods had to be transported through South Africa.

This was mainly done to extract political concessions. By 1980 the complete overthrow of unfriendly regimes was mostly off the table, so instead efforts were focused on changing the behaviour of the groups already in power. South Africa's main obsession was with the ANC boogeyman, constantly asking their neighbours to kick out ANC training camps and diplomatic ataches and forbid movement of ANC guerillas through their territory. However all manner of other demands were also made; economic integration, military access, opposition or at least neutrality towards UN sanctions etc. These were all attempts to drag the Frontline States back into South African dependency and under De Facto white Imperial rule; effectively undoing independence

In any case, as brutal as this "Total Strategy" was, it's a far cry from Israel's current approach which more resembles a genocidal temper tantrum. This is even in contrast to earlier Israeli strategies of coming to terms with neighbouring states and collaborationist movements; using Lebanon as an example they've gone from employing Christians Reactionaries as proxies to clumsily provoking the whole nation. There are structural reasons for this of course. South Africa needed it's black majority, both "at home" and in the neighboring states, as a reserve of cheap labour to extract cheap natural resources and buy globally uncompetitive manufactured goods. Indeed, the false independence of the "Bantustan" project was an attempt to remove South African citizenship from their entire black population and legally turn them all into migrant labourers. South Africa also has a much longer history as an independent Settler project, and while they recieved significant amounts of support from The West (especially the USA and doubly so under the more reactionary Presidents i.e. Ronald Reagan) this very much had its limitations; South Africa obviously couldn't wage a regional war of extermination even if wanted to. Meanwhile Israel's policy towards indigenous people is increasingly exterministic and there is no interest in maintaining their population; they even import migrant labourers from as far as Thailand to deny local Arabs. The country has also spent it's an entire existence as more or less a glorified NATO military base; they have more reason to favour a policy of genocidal war while hoping the US saves them from the consequences.

The point is that there are limits to how far you can take comparisons between South Africa and Israel. For all their similarities as Apartheid Settler States, were still different countries that occupied different contexts and so there are considerable socio-political differences between them that shouldn't just be ignored. You can't blandly use South African history to predict the course of Israel, or worse project current events in Israel onto a distorted version of South Africa's past. You won't develop a useful understanding of the world if you stick to broad assumptions and truisms; you need to actually investigate

[wing-ed-thing]

... And the Beast (Yonji Vinsmoke x Reader) Part IV

Synopsis: You thought your little crush on Prince Yonji was a well-kept secret. Yonji is mean enough to exploit your eagerness to please in the face of his unrelenting cruelty; the thought of actually developing a soft spot for you never even crossed his mind.

Word Count: 5k

Tags/Warnings: Naive!Servant!Reader, No Reader Pronouns, Canonically Mean Vinsmokes, But Reader is Kinda Into It, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Name-Calling, Language, Reader Falls First, Yonji Falls Harder, Choking, Mild Physical Violence

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX

Notes: Yonji my love how i've missed you so

You took a step back in surprise.

“How may I assist you, Master Ichiji?” You immediately bowed. 

Ichiji’s eyes made a sweep across the library before settling on you. He stepped forward, and you swiftly moved out of his way, pivoting to the side. But Ichiji positioned himself in front of you, staring forward before regarding you with the slightest turn of his head. 

His hand shot out instantly, grabbing the underside of your chin with his middle and index finger clutching one side of your jaw while his thumb dug into your face. Ichiji held you, tilting your face from one side to the other. 

“I came to see what the fuss was about.” His touch was harsh, but he wordlessly let you go to wander around the chamber. 

Ichiji strolled over to the stability cases first. He said nothing as he opened the one you had just closed, studying the books inside as intently as he had studied your face. Ichiji glanced at the shelves to his left, noting the gaps in what should have been a fully stocked collection. 

“Had you been ordered to perform an overhaul?” he hummed for as much as Ichiji could hum. He held the lid ajar with the heavy wooden lip resting between his knuckles like the weight was lighter than air. 

“No, Master Ichiji,” you answered, crossing the room to stand closer. “Master Yonji requested that these titles be reserved—”

“Prince Yonji.” Ichiji was quick and stern in his correction. You couldn’t help but blink in confusion as you tried to rapidly piece together what Ichiji was getting at. You knew the longer you didn’t understand, the more annoyed and volatile Ichiji would become. That was a rule of thumb for any of the princes. But Ichiji didn’t leave you to your thoughts for longer than a second. “That is what you call him.” 

You tried not to waver.

“Yes, Your Highness,” you confirmed. 

“Why?” The question shot from Ichiji’s lips like an accusation. 

Your mouth went dry. This hadn’t been the first time a prince had come into your humble workspace to make demands as he tried to reach some undisclosed point. It hadn’t even been the first time that week. Ichiji knelt to sift through a few of the titles.

“It is a proper form of address,” you offered. Ichiji remained quiet as he moved the books around. He didn’t have to say anything for you to understand that he was not satisfied with your answer. “And it is what Master Y— Prince Yonji prefers.”

Many of Germa’s soldiers trained closely with the three princes, and with their enhanced capabilities and battle-tailored minds, combatant citizens learned much from the royal family. And with most of the kingdom’s population consisting of soldiers, the title “Master” became the most common form of address when speaking of or to any of the Vinsmoke children. 

“I see.” Ichiji rose, letting the container lid slam closed with a bang. The noise pulled an involuntary jerk from your shoulders. Ichiji stood perfectly still. You couldn’t see the way his eyes carefully scanned the room. Ichiji pivoted on his heel, making for the set of stairs on the left-hand side of the chamber. 

You trailed behind him, unsure if he was expecting you to follow. Whether he wanted you to or not, Ichiji didn’t speak a word as he made his way up the velvet-carpeted steps. 

He took his time analyzing the shelves. Unlike Yonji, who appeared to enjoy touching any text that remotely stuck out to him, Ichiji clasped his hands behind his back to peruse the balcony with an eerie quietness. His face never changed from its usual, neutral frown as he slowly made his way around the room, stopping frequently as he scrutinized the spaces between books.

Yonji was expressive by comparison, although this wasn’t to say much, considering that he wore his reactions on his sleeve more often than not.  But even despite Yonji’s frequent brow jumps, lip dips, and nose scrunching, it wasn’t much of an observation to say that anyone was more expressive than Ichiji. 

He walked around the balcony, to the opposite end and down the right-hand set of stairs. Ichiji’s gait was firm and poised, and he held himself in such a way that somehow commanded authority over the room without him even having to speak a word. And yet, you could hardly hear his steps as he seemed to glide across the carpet. 

You lingered as Ichiji finally reached the bottom level again, placing him near your typical reading chair. You trailed tentatively behind with eyes averted to the door, posture upright, and ready to serve however Ichiji saw fit. You were, after all, still the library attendant for the whole Germa Kingdom. 

You hardly noticed how Ichiji lingered by the window. 

“Did my brother request this?” 

You had looked away from him for a second, and in the next moment, Ichiji had the book of fairy tales from all four blues clutched in his hand. He held it with the spine facing him as he continued to frown. 

“No, Prince Yonji did not.”

“A bit too old to be reading children’s books, aren’t we?” Ichiji pivoted a foot to face you. The light from the window behind him shrouded Ichiji in a blinding glow. It wasn’t golden or perfectly framed, but an overwhelming convergence of sunbeams that threw off the saturation of his face. “I’m talking to you, book roach.”

“Yes, Master Ichiji. I agree.” You dared not mention the children.

The sun only became more blinding as Ichiji walked toward you, letting the white light drip over his shoulder and into your eyes. For a moment, the sunbeams hit the back of Ichiji’s sunglasses just right, allowing you to see through the opaque lenses and straight into his piercing gaze.

His hand shot out instantly, grabbing you by both cheeks in an iron vice-grip. The webbing between his index finger and thumb sat just under your nose. Ichiji’s motion didn’t accommodate your height as he almost seemed to lift you, causing your knees to buckle. Your hands instinctively shot to his wrist. 

Ichiji pulled you in close while you squirmed in his grasp. You could feel his steady breaths against your cheek as he tilted his head to the side as a wild animal would when stalking prey. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will your body to release his arm. You knew the longer you touched him, the more whatever he was going to do next would hurt. But every adrenaline-fueled fiber of your being was held mercilessly at the will of your racing chest. Only the tips of your shoes touched the floor.

“I didn’t understand, and I can’t say I do now.” Ichiji’s attention moved from your face to the trembling fingers that creased the fabric of his sleeve. He found your movements thoughtless, caught somewhere between fighting him and being too fearful to. The very sight made him scowl. He would have preferred if you fought. “I can see the novelty in a soft, fragile thing like you. Still, I struggle to see what's truly captivating beyond that.”

He released you, letting you crumple to the floor at his feet.

“Dispose of this.” Ichiji dropped the book of fairy tales on your head as he brushed past you, leaving a surprisingly forceful breeze in his wake with his fast pace. “Germa doesn’t need this in the library.” 

With a few long strides to the doors, Ichiji was gone.

***

The fleet was supposed to sail into the storm overnight. The water was beginning to grow the slightest bit choppy by the time evening rolled around, but the bobbing of the ships was bearable. And with your responsibilities on your snail finished, your evening free, and the central kitchen nearby, you decided to visit Cosette. 

It was probably for the best, considering that most of the domestic staff was holed up below deck, trying to fight the cold that was making the rounds on your ship. The twins were hit extra hard, and between making remedial foods for everyone else, the cook had his hands full with the children. 

The central kitchen was sending out dessert by the time you arrived. You side-stepped a servant bringing out some sort of ice cream dish before making your way inside the ever-bustling kitchen. 

Cosette did a double-take as you entered, eyes flickering from her hand-whipped whipped cream before a wide grin overtook her lips. Her head tilted to the side with a raise of her brows and a pucker of her lips. Her rapid whisking didn’t cease for a second. You shrugged, making a little dance out of the playful expressions you silently made at her from across the kitchen. 

“Give me just a moment,” she told you with incoherent hand motions. 

Cosette moved gracefully and confidently throughout the kitchen as she placed the finishing touches on the desserts, which were rapidly being sent out the door. They passed by you, each looking even more elegant and delicious than the last.

You were content to wait out of the way as Cosette projected orders across the kitchen. Even her commands were soft despite their sternness, and everything around you seemed to move at lightning speed. 

Even as service was beginning to wrap up, it was difficult to cross the room. As soon as the last plate left through the doors, clean-up began. You managed to make your way to the opposite end and slid onto a stool parallel with a line of frosted-glass windows. Just below was a wooden counter that stretched across the length of the wall. A protrusion from the counter sat in front of you with another stool on the other side.

Gentle raindrops pitter-pattered against the outside the windows as the ship bobbed gently on the waves. You leaned an elbow on the wooden surface in front of you, turning your head to gaze at how the water droplets rolled down the nearly opaque glass. 

When Cosette finally joined you, she all but slammed her side into the counter, reaching across the tiny table to place a packed plate in front of you. Her haphazard movements caused the plate to spin, clattering against the hard surface below. Cosette let out a loud sigh. She had a bit of whipped cream in her hair. 

“It’s been a day,” she breathed, letting her head fall back.

“I couldn’t tell,” you mused, plucking a spoon from a basket of utensils on the counter behind you. Kitchen workers passed you, continuing to scurry about with dirty plates and cooking instruments.

“It’s always busy when the kingdom sails together like this.” Cosette breathed another heavy sigh, letting her forearms and head collapse on the table. She just barely missed slamming her forehead into the plate. Cosette reached blindly across the wood surface, finding your free hand and giving it a few fatigued taps. You dug into your food. Cosette could always seem to whip something up miraculously fast. “No twins tonight?”

You shook your head.

“My whole crew is getting sick. I’ve been kinda living in the southern library.”

“When are you not?” Cosette hooked her chin over her wrist. She let out another puff of air, letting her bangs fly over her forehead. Her head rolled to the crook of her folded elbow. “You’ve been pretty busy for a few months now.”

“Not any more than usual.”

Cosette shot up, plopping her cheek in her palm as she leaned over the table. Her eyes narrowed with a round pout. Commentary mounted on your tongue, and with every unspoken thought, her bottom lip crunched into her top one. Your name left her mouth like a gentle scold.

“Not any more than you,” you corrected with a laugh. The sound seemed to melt Cosette’s playfully cross demeanor.

“No prince tonight either?” The words spilled from her with a casualness you weren’t used to. For some reason, the question made your spoon stop on your plate.  

“Prince Yonji is out of the country. I think he will be for a few days.” you started, not noticing the slight, confused scrunching of Cosette’s face. Her head tilted acutely to the side, causing a few strands of her bangs to brush across her forehead. “And he doesn’t like when I disturb his evenings anyway.” 

“Oh,” Cosette mused with some thought and a few nods, withdrawing her touch as she sat up straight. But even with her upright posture, her cheek found her palm again, this time with her elbow resting on the counter to her left. She looked to the side toward the frosted glass window. “That’s odd.”

“What?” 

“Well, Master Yonji and Mistress Reiju returned a few hours ago. I’m back here for most of the day, so I can’t say I know this for certain, but—” 

You were too focused on Cosette and your food to notice the skidding outside the kitchen doors. Being quite the sight for royalty to be meandering aimlessly around the servants’ corridors, Yonji created quite the ruckus in the halls outside in the hall. 

He moved through them quickly, unsure where he was going until he caught a glimpse of you through the circular windows on the double kitchen doors. Yonji skidded to a halt, sliding an impressive distance on his heels before bursting through the doors with enough force to make them slam against the adjacent walls.

A small hoard of servants followed him, fuzzing over him and deeply concerned about what had upset him so much that he brought himself to the servants' corridors. Despite their volley of questions, Yonji ignored every probing servant as his gaze shot past every member of the stupified kitchen staff to where you sat with Cosette across the room.

His eyes were wide and round, and his lips parted as if he wanted to yell something across the halted kitchen. But the words stalled in his throat, and after a few moments of hesitant air, Yonji’s teeth reluctantly clenched.

The entirety of the servant’s halls stilled, with the staff mixed between hiding in storage closets and the braver of the group gathering near the kitchen to see what the commotion was about. After all, a member of the royal family remotely stepping foot in any servant territory was unheard of. And while Mistress Reiju appeared to be least likely to stick up her nose due to her status, even she wasn’t one to enter to step foot in the winding halls either.

All the kitchen staff immediately stopped in their tracks and bowed. Cosette jumped to her feet, racing across the floor faster than you could blink to bow deeply at the waist in front of Yonji. 

“Master Yonji!” she exclaimed. “How might I be of service to Your Highness?”

Despite her swiftness, Cosette was just as nervous as the rest of the kitchen. You could see it in the way she seemed to tremble. You didn’t have to see her eyes to know they were clenched shut. 

Yours were as well. You had dismounted from your stool to bow deeply along with the rest of the staff. As a civilian servant, there were no rules about which parts of the kingdom you were to remain in. You weren’t a soldier, after all, and so as long as your duties were done in the library and you weren’t ordered elsewhere, you had no post to adhere to.

Still, your thoughts weren’t far from the rest of the staff in the corridors. A member of the royal family coming to the main kitchen personally certainly meant little good. The lower you held your head, the better… at least you had thought so. 

You hardly noticed as Yonji pushed past Cosette, almost knocking her to the ground as he ignored her question. It only took him a few powerful strides until he crossed the kitchen, and it wasn’t until Yonji’s shadow had dwarfed you that you knew no amount of hiding your face could get you out of this one. You just weren’t quite sure what you had done.

He stood there for a moment, wordless. You couldn’t see his face to deduce what he was thinking, although you didn’t believe you were all that good at reading Yonji’s face to begin with. 

“How might I serve you, Prince Yonji?” you hummed. 

He frowned above you.

“Did I ask you to speak?” he gritted. Yonji made an irritated wave in the air, already rushing you to obey a command he had yet to give. “Get up. Up.”

You stood up straight. You had expected Yonji’s usual disdainful scowl, but instead, you were greeted with one of the deepest frowns you had ever recalled seeing him wear. His eyes were narrowed as he gazed down at you. The skin of his forehead between his brows twitched. Slowly, Yonji’s lips parted to reveal tightly clenched teeth.

“Why aren’t you in the library?”

“All of my duties were completed for the night, Prince Yonji—”

“A library attendant should be in the library!” He hardly let you finish before grabbing you by the arm. Yonji shoved you toward the exit, trailing closely behind you like a herding dog. 

He kept a hand splayed out in the center of your back as he corralled you forward. You practically jogged to keep up with the pace Yonji pushed you, moving quickly past Cosette and the rest of the kitchen staff. 

The double doors swung open, hitting the opposite walls in the hallway of the servant’s corridors, just like when Yonji came in. Castle staff scattered, and if the gathered didn’t run to hide, they stuck to the walls to allow you and Yonji to pass. 

Pity was by far the most common expression you saw as you passed. It was a look that was glanced at you for a fraction of a second, almost as if slipping it to you as consolation for what was perceived as a poor fate. You felt as if you were being patted on the shoulder for taking a penalty for the staff as a whole, for keeping the attention of one Germa prince meant lower chances for anyone else to be targeted.

But for the pity that flashed across the lowered faces you saw, a hidden disgust lurked. You were apparently the one who brought Yonji to these halls and, in turn, a potential threat to people just trying to do their jobs, as some might see it. You could see it in a few narrowed eyes, and while no one envied your position, you knew that Yonji’s firm touch on your back was more than enough to make imaginations run wild. 

You walked in front of him, which was unheard of for servants to do. Despite the initial shock that dragged your feet when you were in the kitchen, the demanding pressure between your shoulder blades wasn’t as needed as Yonji seemed to think. You had no reason to run, and as Yonji veered you sharply into a dead end, it became clear that he knew little about where you were going. 

“Prince Yonji?” you questioned.

“What?” he snapped, glancing at you with a snarl. His eyes searched the corridor, and his head swiveled angrily like a trapped animal. The grip on the back of your clothes grew tighter, scrunching the cloth into a ball.

“The exit is this way,” you hummed, accenting your words with a point. And for as tense and anxious as the entire hall of servants was from where they bowed behind you, you didn’t appear to have any qualms with being pulled from the kitchen. “I can show you.”

Yonji took a breath in as he released his grip. The fabric under his fingers remained partially wrinkled. 

“Well, go on then,” he grumbled, “I don’t have all day.”

Yonji gestured absentmindedly down the hall, waiting for you to lead the way. You started in the right direction, with Yonji trailing after you. 

***

The water was beginning to get choppy outside. The snails were starting to sway under your feet, and while Yonji had gotten his sea legs long before you ever did, the pace you walked made you think you might tumble down at any second. You hardly had the time to glimpse the greying sky above and the dark clouds in the distance. Your main goal was getting inside; the last thing you wanted was to be swept off deck by a wave. 

When you arrived at the southern tower, you closed the large, double doors with great effort. The wind fought you the entire way, and despite his superior strength, Yonji offered you no aid in closing the weather doors. Instead, he already made his way into the main chamber of the library. A metal apparatus had already been closed over the windows, protecting the glass from the harsh elements outside and leaving the chamber somewhat smaller without the view. 

You didn’t like the electric bulbs that glowed around the room. They weren’t consistent in color, illuminating the chamber in a light that felt sterile and yet dingy at the same time. Yonji stood in the center of the room, shadows cast on him, almost appearing disjointed and random due to the inconsistent lighting. 

He turned to you when you entered. The two doors to the library were the second set you had to tussle with. While they weren’t floor-to-ceiling like the one leading into the southern tower, they were by no means short and extended to where the balcony started. With the waves becoming increasingly violent, they either needed to be tethered open or bolted shut. You tried to bolt them shut.

Yonji scanned the chamber, pouring over the rows of locked-away books. For the first time in a few weeks, the main wooden table was completely clear.

“Isn’t there something you usually do around this time?” Yonji asked. It sounded like a question he had been thinking about for several moments, but with your battle with the door, you hardly registered him speaking.

One of the doors slammed shut with the ship's rocking, nearly taking one of your fingers off as it did. You tried to hold it in place as you attempted to corral the other one. Both doors were more than twice your height and difficult to pin down with the movement of the sea below.

“All of my duties are usually done before supper, Prince Yonji.”

You managed to pull the other door closed. You held both doors by their simple handles, waiting to catch your breath before you began on the locks. They wobbled and ripped, threatening to fling you away. 

“Not one of your duties,” he huffed, rummaging through one of the storm boxes somewhere behind you. He spoke with an added gruffness as if he thought you were dodging his unspoken question on purpose. 

By the time you managed to lock both doors, Yonji had performed a complete search of the boxes that held the books from the table. You nearly keeled over, huffing from exhaustion as Yonji stood over you with crossed arms. 

“I suppose I usually do some reading before dinner—”

“What kind of library attendant are you?” He had already moved on to another topic. Yonji did so often as his brain fired and processed at a rate much higher than the average person, leaving you to connect the dots to determine what he was talking about. “Can’t even keep your shit straight.”

“I apologize for my performance not being up to standard.” You bowed.

“Which one of ‘em came down here?” 

You blinked at him; your mental scramble to piece together what he was asking you made your brain fuzzier than his actual question.

“Master Ichiji,” you answered.

“Figures,” Yonji grumbled. The ship continued to rock. You shifted your weight, making minute changes to your stance as the floor bobbed. Yonji turned to you, a hand splayed over his jaw. The knuckle of his index finger just barely touched his bottom lip. “What did he want?”

His four-word sentence was devoid of his usual bitterness for how he spoke. You would have thought Yonji’s words sounded tentative if you hadn't known better. A vein in his temple twitched as he stared off somewhere into the library chamber. The waves outside didn’t appear to affect him at all.

The memory of Ichiji flashed across your mind, and even just the vision of his cold scowl made you consider your response carefully. The truth played on your lips.

“Master Ichiji came to inspect both myself and the library. He appeared to be displeased with how much time you’ve been spending here,” you considered saying but ultimately decided that perhaps such terms sounded charged. While you believed you knew Yonji decently well, you weren’t confident in making any assumptions about his relationships with his brothers. You hardly wanted to open yourself up to scrutinization or mistakenly place yourself in a position higher than you were. 

You also knew better than to hide things from Yonji.

“I believe that Master Ichiji came to review both the library and my performance,” you offered. It was technically accurate. After all, you weren’t exactly sure why Ichiji had come to begin with.

“A what? I’ve never heard of anything like that,” Yonji spat rudely, wearing his confusion on the scrunched-up expression he wore. “What was it? Orderd by our dad or something?”

“Master Ichiji did not mention anything concerning Lord Judge,” you said. Yonji let out a great huff. 

“Pretentious dickwad,” you heard him mutter before he turned to face you. His arms had coiled over his chest once again. “What did he do?” You almost blinked at the question.

“Little more than a simple walkthrough,” you answered, glancing off toward the floor. You didn’t think mentioning Ichiji’s apparent disdain toward you was worth mentioning. It came with too many assumptions, and that was assuming Yonji cared about those things at all. “Master Ichiji didn’t say much about it.” Yonji frowned.

“A bit simple for a formal review.” The vein in his forehead twitched again. You couldn’t help but wonder why Yonji was so fixated on his brother’s visit. While underutilized, the royal library was intended as a resource for the royal family. “If he asked you to reorganize everything in reverse alphabetical order and then put it back into alphabetical order, let me tell ya that you can ignore that under my orders.”

Your breath almost stalled in your throat. Was that something they had wanted you to do?

“Master Ichiji only requested that a single book be removed from the library.” Your statement flooded the room, filling the space in the chamber from the floor to the high ceiling. Yonji paused. His eyes darted from your reading chair and back to you.

“And did you?” He glanced at you, meeting your eye in a second with narrowed ones of his own.

“Of course, Prince Yonji.” You nodded, but your affirmation did nothing in the face of Yonji’s deep scowl. 

You stood, frozen in one place, as Yonji stalked toward you. The ship continued to waver on the waves, making it difficult to keep your balance and focus. But as he grew closer, Yonji’s vexed grimace started to slowly morph into a sinister smile. His eyes widened slightly, as did yours.

“If it were between my word and my brother’s word, who would you listen to?” he asked slowly. Yonji shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, taking a step just an inch too close before stopping. He tilted his head to the side. “Me? Or Ichiji?”

The doors to the chamber rattled just a step behind you. Yonji had cornered you with a calculated amount of space to spare, an illusion of escape even if you wanted to. Like all the pointed questions he asked, you knew Yonji had a correct answer in mind. Although there was right in the eyes of Germa, there was right in the eyes of Yonji.

“Prince Yonji, you know my loyalty lies with the Germa kingdom. I would never refuse a member of the royal family.” Yonji’s nose scrunched into a familiar snarl that melted into the corner of his lip. He was giving you an opportunity to remedy your answer. “Your Highness has spent much time here and knows this library intimately. I would readily trust your discretion, Prince Yonji.”

Yonji let out a single chuckle which bounced his chest with tentative amusement. He stared at you, judging you incredulously. 

“If I gave you an order, and Ichiji told you the opposite, you would obey me.” It was a question as much as it was a boast, like a child confirming superiority over the playground. Yonji leaned down to further lord his smug expression over you. “You’d sideline the eldest Vinsmoke prince just like that. Careful, that sounds a little treasonous to me.”

He liked to lead, asking pointed questions to drag you through carefully set-up hoops until you found yourself stuck. It took time to separate him from the game and an even greater effort to remind yourself that, for his words, Yonji was greatly pleased. He was pleased for the same reason he preferred you call him Prince Yonji.

“I have served as your personal aid for quite some time, and out of everyone in the royal family, you have spent the most time here by far. I would argue that myself and this place are at your disposal.”

“Ha! Shut up. You’re so annoying.” Yonji muscled you out of the way and made short work of the door latches you spent so long to secure. “If Ichiji— if any of my siblings— come sniffing around here and have problems, you send ‘em to me. I don’t care what any of them have to say.” Yonji turned to you as the doors flew open, nearly knocking you off your feet. His gaze was acutely darkened, and his grin was wolffish. “As far as I’m concerned, this place is mine.”

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: Yes! We are back baybeeeee! I think it's awesome that this series has somewhat of a following. Thank you all. i actually already have chapter 5 written, but as a rule of thumb I only update series when the previous chapter (so this chapter) has about 100 combined likes and reblogs. So I suppose I'll see you all later.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX

[bigfan-fanfic]

Star Shower (Batdad Pokemon Fanfic)

Can you do a fic where the batboys seeing batdad do a pokemon contest performance for the first time in real life? Batdad used to be a top pokemon coordinator and sorta quietly stopped being a coordinator because of Bruce disappearing and the whole family of vigilantes and having to take care Wanye Enterprise. Now that the batboys are adults and (mostly) stop vigilante-ing, batdad decided to re-debut.

Bruce, of course, leads the family down the red carpet.

He's so very proud of his husband. He has always felt a little guilty about the fact that you had to take an early retirement from your Coordinator career to run Wayne Enterprises and watch over the family after he came back.

But now you're back in full form, and the press is on fire, calling it "The Return of the King" and other such dramatic claims.

You were known for the powerful combination of your Lucario and Gardevoir - a glorious display of simple martial prowess combined with psychic illusions and effects.

But there's been a surprising development.

Instead of Lucario, you've registered with Gardevoir and Cubone.

The very same Cubone you raised from an egg.

People are intrigued, knowing you're bringing something completely new, but totally unable to keep from speculating.

"B, did you ever go to one of Pops' shows?" Dick asks. He, Bruce, Tim, and Barbara head down the carpet - Jason and Damian and the others have sought out a more discreet entrance.

"I did, once, before I left for training. It was... beautiful. He actually pulled me onstage and kissed me in public for the first time, after the performance. Honestly, I can't recall much about that show, but I remember the cologne he wore that night." Bruce sighs happily.

Tim rolls his eyes. "Some help you are. I still don't know what we're going to see tonight."

"I sent you a whole file of Contest performances last month to get you up to speed!" Barbara protests. "Do you... mute the group chat?"

"It's just not as fun now that it's... just a normal family chat."

Dick laughs. "I don't think we're that normal, Timmy."

They do a few short sound bites for the press, making it clear that tonight they are here for you. And backstage, Jason and Damian have come to give you good luck hugs.

"Awwww, my baby boys." You chuckle.

"Papa, are you sure you'll be alright that Brown and Cain and the Rows and Thomas won't-"

"Don't remind him of that!" Jason growls. "He doesn't need-"

"It'll be fine. Alfred's watching them all, and I don't blame them for avoiding the press. It doesn't mean they aren't with me." You smile. "Plus, I know Tim will be recording it for them."

Jason hugs you. "Go get em, Dad."

You smile softly, then look down to Damian. "Dami? You alright?"

Damian gives you a little shaky smile. "I suppose I'm just... excited, is all. To see you perform."

"Me too, kiddo. Go find your seats, okay? I want you to make sure you stick by your dad. You know he gets anxious when you're all out in public."

As they head back, you don the classic hat and tailored suit you were known for as a young Coordinator, adjusted and updated for the man you are now.

And you walk out on stage to thunderous applause from the audience - the loudest cheers from your family. The other Coordinators flourish on their entrance, throwing their Pokeballs into the air wildly, but you simply open your hands and let them exit. A little shy to debut, Cubone tries to hide behind you, but Gardevoir lifts the little thing up with psychic power into your arms for a quick cuddle, making the audience "awwww."

Eventually the show continues, each Coordinator doing their set, leaving you for last. Which definitely sets them on edge, you can tell.

But you're here because you wanna show the world that you didn't lose yourself all those years ago.

You start out cross-legged on the stage, sitting down. Cubone cuddles in your lap before tumbling out, seemingly eager to show you something.

The audience gives a little chuckle at the orchestrated adorable tumble.

Cubone withdraws a large bone and begins to slowly swing it around, twirling it like a baton. And when it tosses the bone into the air, it... lifts.

And then another, and another. Seven bones float in a large oval, continuing to revolve faster and faster as they spin across the stage.

The spotlight darkens, as light fractures behind you both - the stage becoming a prismatic field of light. Gardevoir appears, floating in the middle of the circle of spinning bones.

Cubone gives an excited cry and hurls a Bonemerang and one by one the bones break open in bursts of glitter powder, which swirl and swirl like a nebula forming into a planetary ring.

Gardevoir twirls in midair, the center of the nebula, and sends the shining rainbow powder running down to the stage-

-only for Cubone to use Icy Wind to freeze the powder in midair, making a beautiful mix of rainbow and snow, in an intricate swirl as Gardevoir manipulates the crystal formation.

As a grand finale, Gardevoir levitates Cubone into the center of a globe formed of ice and glitter, only for it to use Earth Power, bursting out in green and gold light, dissolving the ice and sending the glitter drifting like stardust across the audience.

There's a moment of stunned silence. And then in a great wave, the audience stands, and as they applaud, you see your husband practically glowing with pride and awe.

Of course, you win the Contest, and you hold your Cubone close in reward. The press calls it the greatest Contest Comeback of all time, but you're too busy watching your family gently praise your shy little Cubone and elegant Gardevoir.

And your husband never leaves your side the rest of the night.

[chesstrainer24]

Chess has always been a game of intellect, strategy, and foresight. In the digital age, mastering chess has become more accessible than ever. A Personalized Approach to Improvement is essential for any player aiming to elevate their skills and compete at higher levels. With the advent of chess training programs and interactive chess tutorials, players can now receive tailored guidance and instruction from the comfort of their homes.

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In the realm of chess, a one-size-fits-all approach rarely yields the best results. A Personalized Approach to Improvement focuses on the unique strengths and weaknesses of each player, ensuring that training is both effective and engaging.

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Customized Chess Training: Tailors lessons to address specific areas of improvement.

Chess Skill Enhancement: Focuses on developing individual strengths and addressing weaknesses.

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Chess training programs are designed to cater to players of all levels, from beginners to advanced competitors. These programs typically include a mix of theory, practice, and analysis, ensuring a comprehensive approach to learning.

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Interactive chess tutorials are a key component of modern chess training. These tutorials use engaging, hands-on methods to teach important concepts and tactics.

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Virtual chess classes provide an opportunity to learn in a group setting, benefiting from the collective knowledge and experience of peers. These classes often include live instruction, Q&A sessions, and practice games.

Customized Chess Training

The core of A Personalized Approach to Improvement is customized chess training. This approach involves creating a tailored training plan that addresses the specific needs of the player.

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Continue Reading: https://chesstrainer.com/online-chess-training-a-personalized-approach-to-improvement/

[tulliok]

can you tell us about your oc's you know the 1920's ones to be specific

Absolutely! They are from a very personal story I've been developing for almost 6 years now. The story is being heavily revamped, but I'll share a little piece of what I've been cooking up.

A tale of mystery, love, and a little pinch of horror~

The story is based in 1930s America- the setting is a small town with a bustling nightlife. It follows an aromantic wedding photographer named Connor (dark hair and big coat), who lives the life of a vagabond; a man without a family or home, carrying nothing but a suitcase and relying on the town's night trolley to move from place to place. One day, the news of a sudden passing accompanied by a will grant him ownership of a mysterious house on the outskirts of town. The few that have seen the estate see it as a blight in the community, attributing it to bad omens and even supernatural occurrences. However, Connor feels a strange warmth coming from the house's tattered walls—the creaks of the floorboards reverberate through the halls like comforting whispers, luring him come closer...

As for my supporting characters:

Wallace (red-haired tall man) is a socialite and the conductor of the night train. His relationship with Connor is a transactional one, allowing him to ride as a stowaway in exchange for gossip and information.

Cheryl (red-haired tiny lady) is a tailor, and Wallace's older sibling. Throughout the story, she grows closer to Connor as the two bond over their differing perspectives of being outcasts of their own community.

The story is heavily inspired by several things I love or have a deep interest in, such as classic horror and ghost stories, 1900s fashion, Old Hollywood culture, romantic art, and the abstract storytelling of theater. It also works as a very personal dive into my experiences with gender, relationships, and sexuality; a big reason for why the story is constantly changing.

At the moment, I'm pretty pleased with its current direction, and hopefully, I'll have more to share with you all this year. : )

[sakachichi]

Drabble!Choso and you work at an office job, typing at the computer allllll day, eyes and heads burning from starring at your computer screens for nearly 10 hours a day.

But how did you even get such a draining job like this? Well after mindlessly applying to several jobs for weeks, this was the only place to call you back and hire you quite literally on the spot (after doing a 10 minute interview ofc). That was on a Friday, now it’s Monday and it’s your first day. Your boss comes up to you with a silver magnet badge with your name on it, giving you instructions to go to cubicle number 18. And so you do and you’re greeted by a slightly hunch backed, raven slick back shiny hair, and well tailored black and white suit wearing man.

You clear your throat before clacking your long acrylics against the cubicle wall, immediately catching his attention. Now you have a good view of him, he’s undoubtedly handsome, a thin black stripe running along his nose and half of his cheeks, and those typical thin black rimmed glasses resting on his nose.

“Yes?” His voice low and deep, rumbling through the air. “I was sent for training…” you confidently reply.

He hums before checking his watch, mentally preparing for a long day of human interaction. “Ok. Follow me” and so you do, for the next 10 hours you had to sit through and listen to the most vague conversation you’ve ever had, feeling so dumbfounded because you have zero understanding of anything.

And this goes on for a whole week, and you repeatedly ask yourself if he’s even trying to train you. But you prevail and try to work with you got.

Months go by and you’re doing well, getting bonuses for your hard work.

You have befriended almost everyone at work, creating a good routine there. And one thing on your routine was to annoy Choso with your flirting any chance you got. You can’t deny and say you hadn’t developed a crush on him, he’s so cute and a little mean you love it!

He’s always rolling his eyes and deadpanning at your flirtatious actions, ushering you coldly back to work before you could go any further.

It wasn’t until one day where you wore a rather tight dress, hugging so nicely at your curves, showing just the right amount of cleavage, and a glittery diamond necklace nicely sitting at the dip of your pushed together tits. Your hair curled to perfection and make up so soft and sultry at the same time, you looked stunning and Choso noticed.

His growing bulge was unavoidable, he couldn’t ignore his uncomfortable feeling. Periodically shifting in his seat, repeatedly clearing his throat and sighing as he tried to relax his emotions, taking loud slurping sips of his hot black coffee. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you and he hated it! Why’d you have to wear something like that to work?

He was gonna do something about it — he fiercely walks up to you, pointing a long finger at your face his expression covered in anger, frustration, and undeniable horniness.

“Miss <last name> you are violating the dress code, I’m gonna have to write you up for this!” He loudly whispered, and you look up at him with the sweetest doe eyes, trying to look as innocent as possible.

“Huh? Oh really? Oh gosh I must’ve not read the manual correctly, I’m sooo sorry Choso” you reply sweetly, Choso brings his index finger to raise up his glasses before nodding.

“Can we go to a conference room so you could help me read it better? It would also help to punish me..” you flirt, batting your eyelashes. Choso thickly gulps as he hesitates, he knows your flirting but for some reason he agrees. Leading you to a conference room, locking the door behind him and luckily the blinds were drawn..

He takes your request seriously, reading and explaining the dress code section of the companies manual while you sit there bored out of your mind not even hiding that you aren’t listening to a word he says.

Choso on the other hand, doesn’t mind, shamelessly staring at your tits from above his glasses. “Cho, I think I understand now”

“You do?” You nod and hum, gently scratching your acrylics against the wooden table before smoothly getting on your knees before him. Your hands gripping on his thick muscular thighs, shocked as you never knew he was built like that.

“How about you punish me now? Hm?” Choso raises his brow, “punish? How?”

A wicked smirk curves your ruby lips, “I suck your dick, and you gag me until you’re pleased. Until my throat is sore and my voice is hoarse”

Choso rolls his eyes and pushes your hands away, “no way in hell, I should report you to HR now.” That threat makes your heart drop, but you continue to pretend you’re not scared.

“Oh c’mon Cho, don’t be so prude~” you purr, hand now resting on his raging bulge. “You think I didn’t notice your friend here?” Your hand dangerously rubbing against his slacks, earning a sweet groan from Choso.

“Wouldn’t you like to shut me up? After months of tormenting you I’m sure you’d enjoy some peace and quiet, no?” You kept going, eyes staring at him so seductively. And Choso couldn’t help it anymore, rolling his head back as he lets out a frustrated groan. “Fuck! Fine do it, but if we get caught I’m reporting you”

You hum a smile, eagerly taking out his huuge cock, twitching after finally getting some fresh air. The tip fuming with pre-cum pooling up, veins so prominent you fear they might pop, and his pretty fat balls full with his precious cum. Your drooling as your lol out your tongue to lick under his dick, his thick vein hitting your tongue and you jolt.

“Oh! You’re big” you say before wrapping your mouth around his warm tip, and he lets out a sigh as his fingers grip at the arm rest.

Soon your bopping your head down his girthy shaft, hands playing his warm swollen balls. His bottom lip tucked in between his teeth as he swallows his moans, “shiiit, are you gonna gag on my cock or what? Make it quick”

God he’s so impatient! His fingers now gripping on your curly locks as he makes repeatedly gag on his fat cock, and you fucking love it. Tears fell down your face as you gripped onto his thighs, your toes curling in your heels as you held your breath.

This went on a good 30 minutes and 2 delicious orgasms from Choso, no breaks ofc! It’s your punishment after all.

“Are you gonna write me up, handsome?” You wipe your mouth and smile smugly at him.

“Just get get back to work, don’t let this happen again”

“I won’t make any promises, baby!”

Woooooow 🤯 this has been sitting in my drafts for decades! I love this lol 😛 it’s supposed to be a drabble but it’s long 😭😭