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mamaqknowu · 23 days ago

Text

˓ ㅤ 𔕛 KINKTOBER 2025 : Drug Gone Wrong

Paring : Tang Chen x Amab Assain!Reader

Rating : nsfw

Words : 2.6K

C/W : bottom tangchen/ amab reader/ top reader / age gab / game gone wrong / overstimulation / loss of virginity / rough sex / dirty talk / smut / kink / belly bulge / hunter / prey / sex while camping / drug.

Version : eng

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The moon hung low in the night sky, its pale light painting the forest in ghostly silver and deep pools of shadow.

The air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of pine and moss, but beneath it all lay a darker note—a promise of blood and sweat, of need that had been brewing for far too long.

You moved through the trees like a whisper, every step calculated, every breath measured. You had waited weeks for this moment, studied his patterns, watched from the shadows as he cut down enemies and shattered stone with the same calm ease

Tang Chen, the Clear Sky Sect’s final blade, a living legend—and tonight, your target.

You had meant to kill him. You had meant to slip your dagger between his ribs and end the myth with a single stroke.

But as you watched him by the flickering light of his campfire, the flicker of shadow and flame dancing over his sharp, elegant features, you felt the first thread of doubt coil in your gut.

He looked so alive, so powerful, sitting there with his long hair tumbling over his shoulders, his crimson eyes narrowed against the smoke.

And something inside you—something you didn’t want to name—ached to see him brought low not by death, but by you.

Your hand tightened around the hilt of your dagger, your breath shallow as you circled the clearing. He was alone, unguarded, but every inch of him radiated lethal power.

His spirit pressure crackled in the air, making your skin prickle with a thrill you’d never admit. You’d expected fear—expected to feel the icy calm of the kill—but instead, your blood pulsed hot, your thoughts dark and carnal.

The dagger slipped free of its sheath with a soft whisper, the cold steel a promise in your hand. You stepped forward, a phantom in the night, your heart pounding as you closed the final distance.

He moved before you could strike, his head turning just enough for his crimson gaze to lock on yours.

For a heartbeat, the world fell away—no rustling leaves, no crackle of fire, only the hot press of his stare and the sudden, delicious weight of your desire.

“Assassin,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like silk over a blade.

“Do you really think you can kill me?”

You didn’t answer. Words were useless here, nothing but air and heat.

You lunged, your dagger flashing in the firelight, but he was faster—he caught your wrist in a bruising grip, twisting it until the blade clattered to the ground.

You hissed, twisting your body to break free, but he only smirked, his other hand sliding to your throat in a grip that was half-threat, half-caress.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted across your lips.

“Are you afraid… or excited?”

You shuddered, the heat of him seeping into your skin, his scent—iron and pine and sweat—making your head spin.

Your body was a live wire, every nerve thrumming with the drug’s warmth that still coursed through your veins, every breath ragged with the realization that this was no longer a hunt. It was a surrender.

Your free hand fisted in his hair, yanking him closer, your lips brushing his as you growled out the truth that burned in your chest.

“Both,” said you.

The word was a promise, and he took it—took your mouth with a ferocity that left you gasping. His teeth scraped your lower lip, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the sweetness of his tongue as he claimed you, body and soul.

He pressed you back against the rough bark of a tree, his thigh sliding between yours, the hard line of his cock already straining against the fabric of his pants.

You could feel the heat of him, the pulse of his need, and it made you ache—made you want to tear him open and devour every inch.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, your hand slipping from his hair to his throat, pushing him back just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils had blown wide with hunger.

“On your knees,” your eyes stare at him relentlessly.

The words were a low command, a dark caress, and for a moment he hesitated—proud warrior, living legend, brought to this. But then he sank down, the leaves crunching beneath him as he knelt before you, his breath ragged, his crimson eyes fixed on your face.

You drew your dagger again, pressing the cold steel to his lips, watching as he parted them with a soft, shuddering sigh. He took the blade into his mouth, the silver edge glinting as his tongue flicked out to taste it, a silent offering of surrender.

Your breath caught, your pulse a wild drumbeat as you slid the blade lower, tracing it down his throat, over the sharp line of his collarbone, down to where his shirt hung open, exposing the hard planes of his chest.

He didn’t flinch—didn’t move—just watched you with that hungry, defiant stare that made your blood burn.

You pushed the blade lower still, until it pressed against the waistband of his pants. He gasped, a soft, broken sound that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

“Do it,” he rasped. “Take what you want… I’ll give you everything.”

Your hands moved with a practiced, ruthless efficiency, stripping away his clothes until he was bare before you, every inch of hard muscle and pale skin yours to claim.

His cock stood thick and flushed, already leaking, and you could see the way his body trembled with the need to be touched.

You sheathed your dagger, your hands sliding over his shoulders, pushing him back until he lay sprawled in the dirt, the moonlight turning his sweat-slick skin to silver.

You straddled his hips, your own clothes falling away as you pressed the head of your cock against his entrance.

He gasped, his hands fisting in the dirt, the stretch of you inside him making his back arch and his lips part in a breathless moan.

“Look at you… the great Tang Chen, reduced to this.”

“Tell me—tell me how badly you want it.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes dark and wild as he met your gaze.

“I want it… I want all of you. Please… don’t stop.”

You didn’t. You rocked your hips forward, filling him inch by slow, deliberate inch, the tight heat of his body making you groan as you buried yourself deep. He cried out, his hands scrabbling at your shoulders, his thighs trembling as you began to move.

Each thrust was a claim, a brand, your breath ragged as you fucked him harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the forest.

His moans filled the night, soft and desperate, the drug’s haze making every sensation sharper, every touch electric.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear as you growled.

“You’re mine now, Tang Chen. Say it.”

He shuddered, his voice breaking as he gasped out the words.

“Yours… I’m yours. Please—harder—fuck—!”

You gave him what he begged for, your hips slamming into his with a brutal rhythm that had his whole body shaking, the bulge of you moving inside him visible against the taut skin of his belly.

You pressed your hand there, feeling the way he clenched around you, every pulse of pleasure a shiver under your fingertips.

His cock was trapped between your bodies, leaking against his stomach, each thrust sending shivers of overstimulation through him until he was sobbing your name, lost in the haze of sensation.

“I—I can’t—too much—”

“You can,” you snarled, your breath hot against his lips.

“You’ll take every inch of me. You’ll remember this every time you close your eyes.”

He came first, a cry tearing from his throat as his body tensed and shuddered, hot ropes of cum painting his belly as you fucked him through it, your own climax building until your vision went white.

You buried yourself as deep as you could go, your release spilling inside him, filling him with a heat that left him gasping, trembling beneath you.

For a moment, the forest was silent but for your ragged breaths, the soft crackle of the dying fire, the slow, shuddering whimpers that slipped from his lips.

You stayed there, buried in him, your hand still pressed to his belly, feeling the slow, steady pulse of your cum inside him. And when you finally pulled back, you caught his face in your hands, your thumb brushing away the sweat and tears.

“Remember this, Tang Chen. Remember who you belong to.”

He nodded, his breath still ragged, his lips parting in a soft, breathless sigh.

“Yours… I’ll always be yours.”

And as the moon watched from above, the assassin and the legendary warrior lay tangled in the dirt and sweat, bound by blood and desire and the promise of the next dark, delicious game.

The forest night closed in around you, a cocoon of shadows and silver light that seemed to hold its breath as you pinned Tang Chen’s hips to the earth, his flushed, sweat-slick skin glowing in the flickering firelight.

Every inch of him was yours—his soft gasps, the tremor in his thighs as he tried to close them around your hips, the way his fingers dug into the dirt as if he could anchor himself in the spinning haze of sensation you had wrapped him in.

You hovered over him, your breath ragged, your cock still buried in the tight heat of his body. You could feel every flutter of his walls, every twitch and shudder that told you how close he was to shattering again.

His crimson eyes were half-lidded, lips parted around desperate little whimpers that made your own pulse thunder in your ears.

Your hand slid over the taut swell of his belly, pressing down just enough to feel the thick bulge of your cock moving inside him.

He sobbed at the touch, a broken, keening sound that had your own hips bucking forward, a deep, primal groan tearing from your throat.

“Look at you… so full. You can feel me in your guts, can’t you?”

His head lolled back against the earth, moonlight turning the tear-tracks on his cheeks to silver.

“Yes… gods… it’s too much—”

His words dissolved into a low moan as you ground deeper, the tip of your cock brushing that sweet, swollen spot inside him that made his toes curl and his whole body arch.

You leaned in, your mouth at his ear, your voice a dark, hungry purr.

“But you’re not done yet. I want to see you come again… to feel you clench around me so tight I can’t breathe.”

Your hand slid lower, fingers wrapping around the hard length of his cock, still leaking against his belly. He was so sensitive, every stroke making him gasp and buck beneath you, his thighs trembling, his whole body quivering like a bowstring drawn tight.

You started to move again, slow at first, rolling your hips in lazy, deliberate circles that had him choking on every breath.

Each thrust pushed that thick bulge higher under your palm, the drug’s heat making every slide of your cock a lightning strike that left him raw and desperate.

He tried to speak, but the words came out in a stuttering, breathless rush, his hands scrabbling for purchase as you fucked him harder, deeper, until he was babbling nonsense, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

“Please… please, it’s—gods, it’s too much—!”

“No,” you growled, your hand tightening around his cock, your other still pressing down on his belly to feel every inch of you moving inside him.

“You’re mine, Tang Chen. You’ll take everything I give you… every thrust, every drop.”

Your pace quickened, the slap of your hips echoing in the still night, the forest around you a silent, watchful witness to the debauchery you wrought.

His cries grew louder, the pitch of them raw and pleading as you forced him to the edge over and over, the drag of your cock inside him making him see stars.

You could feel the way he clenched around you, that tight heat milking you with every thrust, and it made your own head spin, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you fucked him harder, chasing that sweet, bone-deep pleasure.

“Cum for me again,” you snarled, your fingers working his cock with relentless, punishing strokes.

“I want to feel you break.”

And he did—his body locking up, back arching off the ground as he came with a strangled scream, hot, sticky release spilling over your hand, his cunt clenching so tight around you that your own orgasm tore through you like a storm.

You buried yourself to the hilt, the hot, pulsing pleasure making your vision go white as you filled him again, spilling so deep you could see the bulge of it in his belly, your cum leaking out around your cock to soak the dirt and leaves beneath him.

For a long moment, there was only the ragged sound of your breathing, the slow, shuddering gasps of Tang Chen as he lay limp and trembling under you, his body still twitching with the aftershocks of overstimulation.

You didn’t pull out—couldn’t, not yet. Instead, you leaned down, your lips brushing his ear, your voice a low, feral whisper.

“We’re not done, Tang Chen… I’m going to fuck you until the dawn breaks and the forest is filled with your cries. I want to see you come so many times you can’t even remember your own name.”

He whimpered at that, a soft, broken sound that had your cock twitching inside him, already hardening again at the thought of how much more he could take.

You rolled your hips, slow and deliberate, feeling the way he sobbed under you, his body so sensitive he flinched at every motion, every brush of your cock against that tender, swollen spot deep inside him.

Your hand slid down to his belly again, pressing harder this time, forcing him to feel the way your cock moved inside him, the thick, pulsing bulge that filled him so completely.

“You’re so tight around me… so fucking perfect.”

You bit down on his shoulder, your voice muffled against his skin as you rutted into him with slow, grinding thrusts that made him keen and sob.

“You were made for this… for me.”

And he was. Tang Chen, the living legend, the spirit master who had a strongest aura beyond a thousand men, reduced to nothing more than a shaking, pliant mess under you, his voice hoarse with pleading as you fucked him slow and deep, the moonlight turning his tears to silver.

You knew you could keep him here all night, that the drug’s fire would only make him more pliant, more desperate, every orgasm leaving him softer, needier, more yours.

You would push him to the edge again and again, until his voice was hoarse with your name and his body no longer remembered anything but the stretch of your cock and the press of your hands.

And as the forest watched, silent and eternal, you claimed him again and again, your name the only word he could remember, your body the only god he would ever worship.

dividers : @uzmacchiato @cafekitsune

57 notes · View notes

hummingbird24220 · 2 months ago

Note

I loved how you interpreted my string of fate request! The scene where reader mimics the strawhats fighting styles was amazing! I'd definitely love to see more if you feel inspired to!

Also the end scene with luffy was adorable!

Helloooo, im glad you liked it^^ it was really fun to write, thinking of the ways it could go.

Hope you like this second part :3

Ties That Bind (Part 2)

One Piece x Fem!Reader

The days after the battle passed in a kind of golden haze.

It wasn’t just that you'd gotten stronger—it was that everyone knew it now. The bracelets became a part of daily life aboard the Sunny. Little flickers of color on wrists, sometimes twisted into hair or tucked into belts. Worn proudly. Worn openly.

Sometimes, when you caught one of the crew fiddling with their bracelet absentmindedly—Robin tracing hers while reading, Usopp adjusting his during a tall tale, Chopper polishing his bead with meticulous care—you felt the invisible threads between you hum with warmth.

And you knew: You weren’t alone anymore. You never would be again.

The next island the Sunny reached was a vibrant, mist-wreathed place called Velora—a land known for its floating gardens and shimmering, crystal-clear lakes.

Which, naturally, meant it was also crawling with bounty hunters.

"Just our luck," Nami grumbled, yanking her orange parka tighter as the Sunny docked. "We can't even stop for groceries without someone trying to kill us."

"We'll just hit them harder!" Luffy declared with a grin, fist pumping the air.

"Preferably after groceries," Sanji amended, brandishing a shopping list like it was a sacred scroll.

You stood on the deck, tying your hair back, your bracelet glinting in the misty morning sun. You could feel it already—the slight tug of threads around you. Threads that were quiet now, but alert. Ready.

The ties that bound you to this crew weren’t just sentimental anymore. They were real. They were power.

And today, you'd need them.

It started simple.

Velora's marketplace was a breathtaking sight: floating bridges woven with flower petals, shops balanced atop slow-drifting lily pads the size of taverns. Music floated through the air, sweet and strange.

You were laughing with Usopp and Chopper, arguing over candy purchases, when the first attack came.

A flash of steel. A shout. A ripple in the threads around you.

You moved before you even thought.

A whip of energy lanced toward Chopper—and you shoved him aside, intercepting the blow with your arm, which shimmered faintly with the memory of Zoro’s stance.

Pain jolted up your side—but you stayed standing, grinning fiercely at the cloaked figure who’d attacked.

“Oh,” you said, voice low and steady. “You messed up.”

The crew snapped into action instantly.

Nami readied her clima-tact while Robin conjured arms to help fleeing civilians. Sanji blurred forward, flames igniting at his heels. Zoro drew his swords with a metallic shing, and Luffy—Luffy just laughed, launching himself into the fray like it was a party.

You moved with them. No—through them.

You ducked and spun, catching a blade with your forearm—Sanji’s quick dodge guiding your steps. You threw a punch—Luffy’s chaotic, joyful strength sparking through your bones. You pivoted on your heel—Zoro’s solid grounding anchoring you.

The threads sang.

And then—something new.

A burst of panic rippled down the bonds. Not from yourself.

From Luffy.

You whipped your head around—and saw it:

A figure behind him. A second blade raised. A sneak attack.

Your heart stopped.

Without thinking, without planning, you pulled.

You yanked on the thread between you and Luffy—hard, desperate—and for the first time, it responded.

Luffy jerked to the side unnaturally fast, like something unseen had tugged him away. The blade slashed through empty air. He landed in a crouch, blinking in confusion, then turned—and caught the assassin with a brutal uppercut that sent him flying into a market stall.

Silence fell.

The bounty hunters, already realizing they were hopelessly outmatched, scattered like rats.

You stood frozen in place, heart hammering against your ribs.

You had pulled the bond. Not just borrowed strength. You had protected him through it.

And Luffy—Luffy turned to you with the brightest, wildest grin you’d ever seen.

“[Y/N]!” he whooped, bounding over. “That was awesome! You saved me!”

You stumbled forward a step, adrenaline draining out of you all at once. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

Luffy caught you before you could fall, arms steady, laughter rumbling through his chest.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said easily. “You did it.”

Behind him, the others gathered, expressions ranging from impressed (Sanji) to vaguely terrified (Usopp).

“That wasn’t just instinct,” Robin said quietly, her eyes sharp. “You wielded it.”

You nodded shakily.

You had.

And that changed everything.

Back aboard the Sunny, you sat cross-legged on the lawn deck, the others surrounding you like an impromptu council.

"You pulled on Luffy’s thread," Chopper said excitedly, tail wagging. "Like a lifeline!"

"It's new," you admitted, picking at the grass. "Before, I could only borrow strength. But now... if the bond is strong enough, I can protect people. Move them. Maybe even heal them, if I figure it out."

Robin hummed, intrigued. "Fascinating. It’s evolving."

"Like your feelings are making your power stronger," Usopp said.

You flushed slightly. "Well... maybe."

Nami smiled softly. “It makes sense. You trust us. We trust you.”

“Damn right we do,” Zoro grunted, arms crossed, but with a small approving smirk tugging at his mouth.

Luffy plopped down in front of you, grinning so hard it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Means we gotta make even stronger bonds!” he declared.

You laughed breathlessly. “You’re gonna turn me into a god if you keep this up.”

He blinked, head tilting. “Is that bad?”

The crew howled with laughter.

That night, you stood at the bow again, the sea whispering below.

The threads glowed, pulsing in soft time with your heartbeat.

And the one tied to Luffy?

It blazed so brightly now that it practically lit up the deck in your mind’s eye. Stronger than steel. Wilder than any fate you could imagine.

You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly against the bracelet on your wrist.

You didn’t need to see the threads to know:

You were tied to something unbreakable now.

To them.

To him.

And whatever came next—whatever enemies, adventures, storms—you would face them together.

Bound not by chains. But by choice.

By love.

By the ties that you had woven, one by one, knot by knot, until they became something unshakable.

Family.

Home.

The storm hit without warning.

One moment, the Sunny was sailing peacefully toward the next island. The next— A warship. Two more behind it. Cannons roaring. Chain-net launchers snapping over the water.

It was an ambush.

You barely had time to shout a warning before the first shot ripped into the hull, and the battle exploded into chaos.

You fought like hell. You fought like the family you'd found depended on it.

But this enemy... this was different.

They were prepared for Devil Fruit users. Haki-imbued chains. Weapons designed to cut through powers like yours.

The battlefield became a mess of smoke, broken masts, and bloodied decks. One by one, the crew got pushed back:

Chopper was crumpled against the rail, bruised but breathing.

Nami was cornered, her Climatact broken and sparks flying.

Zoro, his swords bloodied, was down on one knee, panting heavily.

Sanji’s coat was scorched, and he was still fighting—but slower, desperate.

Robin's arms flickered as she defended herself, but exhaustion weighed her down.

And Luffy—

Luffy was pinned.

Chains wrapped around his arms and torso, the enemies holding him down. His hat had been knocked away, lying forgotten in the bloodstained wood.

You were panting, half-collapsed against a shattered barrel, clutching your side where a cut bled sluggishly. Your vision swam.

It was bad. The worst it had ever been.

And through the pain and fear and smoke— you felt it. The thread to Luffy.

Bright. Blazing. Alive.

You staggered to your feet, hand clutching your bracelet so hard the beads cut into your palm.

“No,” you whispered. “Not like this.”

You took one shaky step forward, your gaze locking on Luffy's.

He met your eyes across the battlefield— even chained, even beaten— and he grinned.

A wild, reckless, unwavering grin that said I believe in you. Always had. Always would.

And something inside you snapped.

Not in defeat. In awakening.

You grabbed the thread to Luffy—not gently this time, not carefully like before. You yanked it with everything you had, pouring your heart, your fear, your love into it.

And the world— changed.

The battlefield bent. Warped. The air shimmered, rubbery and surreal.

Your body shined, a wild, untamed white light bursting from your skin. Your laughter—raw, ragged, full of something bigger than yourself—ripped from your chest as the ground itself seemed to bounce beneath your feet.

Energy flooded you, uncontrollable, exhilarating.

You felt your body stretch, bend, dance with impossible freedom.

Gear Five. Awakened. Through your bond with Luffy.

The enemy captain turned, sneering— Only for his face to drop in horror as you skipped across the air itself, the world responding like it was your playground.

"WHAT THE HELL—"

You laughed—a wild, ringing laugh, echoing like a bell through the smoke.

"You picked the wrong family," you said, your voice vibrating with power.

Then you moved.

You twisted the air like cloth. You snapped the chains binding Luffy with a flick of your fingers—turning them to literal rubber snakes that bit their captors.

You caught cannonballs midair with your hands, kneading them into giant rubber ducks and hurling them back with cartoonish violence.

The battlefield became a living dreamscape—your dreamscape.

Nothing could touch you. Nothing could stop you.

Sanji, battered and bleeding, stared from where he leaned against a mast. "Am I... am I seeing this? She's—she's moving like—"

"Like Luffy," Nami finished, wide-eyed, gripping her broken staff.

"NO," Zoro growled, dragging himself to his feet, a smirk curling on his lips. "She's moving like herself."

You zipped through the battlefield, a living streak of white and gold, laughing wildly.

You tied the threads between you and your crewmates tighter—pulling them back from the brink:

Chopper’s bruises faded, his hooves steady again.

Robin straightened, strength flowing back into her weary limbs.

Sanji’s battered body reignited, feet burning blue-hot.

Zoro's swords sang as he rose with fresh fury.

You weren't just borrowing power anymore. You were amplifying it.

Every bond. Every love. Every heartbeat.

And the enemy?

They broke.

One by one, they fled, scrambling over their own fallen in panic.

Not because of an army. Not because of a devil fruit. Because of you.

Because you had become the living, breathing proof that love could tear the world apart if it had to.

When the last enemy ship vanished over the horizon, when the smoke cleared and the sun poured down bright and clean— you finally let the power bleed away.

Your body collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

But before you hit the deck, strong arms caught you.

Luffy.

Of course.

You blinked up at him, dazed, your heart pounding, your bracelet still glowing faintly against your wrist.

He was grinning that wild, proud grin again.

"You were amazing," he said.

You smiled weakly. "I think... I might've gone a little overboard."

He laughed and hugged you tight enough to knock the air from your lungs. "No such thing."

Later, you lay on the lawn deck, the sea breeze brushing your hair, the stars yawning open above you.

The threads stretched around you like constellations, stronger than ever.

Unbreakable.

You had fought with everything you had. You had fought with them.

And you had won.

Not because you had to prove yourself.

But because you had something worth fighting for.

Something worth protecting.

Something that had turned fragile thread into an unstoppable force:

Love.

You barely remembered getting back to the Sunny.

Somewhere between Luffy catching you and Sanji shouting about "Emergency Recovery Snacks!" the world became a blur of warm hands, worried voices, and a fuzzy, floating feeling like your soul had turned into marshmallow.

Now, you lay sprawled across the deck, a towel over your shoulders, a cup of Chopper’s supercharged recovery tea cradled between jelly-like fingers.

Your everything hurt. Your muscles. Your bones. Your eyelashes. You felt like you could melt straight through the floorboards if you moved wrong.

“…Is this what dying feels like?” you croaked.

Chopper, hovering nervously at your side, patted your head like you were a fevered child. “No! No, you’re just exhausted! You unlocked a whole new level of power without training! Your body’s adapting!”

You whimpered. “I hate adapting.”

Sanji was immediately at your side, gently fluffing your pillow and offering you cut-up fruit. “You were magnifique, [Y/N]-chan! A masterpiece in motion! A shooting star!” His eyes were literal hearts. “But please, never scare me like that again—!”

Before you could answer, a sudden, heavy plop hit your side.

You cracked an eye open.

It was Luffy.

He had draped himself across you like a giant human blanket—arms and legs flung out, head resting heavily on your shoulder.

He was beaming.

"My protégé!" he declared proudly to absolutely no one and everyone at once. "My super cool student! You’re awesome, [Y/N]!"

You coughed out a weak laugh. “Student? Since when—?”

“Since now!” he said, squeezing you lightly like a prize he won at a fair. “You’re gonna be the strongest ever! Strong like me!”

You wriggled feebly. “Luffy...can’t...breathe...jelly…”

He made an exaggerated gasp and rolled off dramatically onto the deck beside you, arms sprawled wide.

“That’s it!” he announced to the world. “I’m retiring. [Y/N] can be Pirate King now!”

The crew immediately erupted.

“No she can’t!” Usopp cried. “I still have so many lies to tell!”

“She doesn't even want to be Pirate King,” Nami said dryly, sipping her drink.

Franky crossed his arms. “She’s super tough, but Pirate King’s a full-time job.”

Robin laughed lightly behind her hand. "Maybe co-captain?"

You, from the floor, mumbled, “I just want a nap.”

Sanji swooned. “The most adorable future Pirate Queen ever…”

Zoro, who had been silently leaning against the mast with his arms crossed, now spoke up with a low grunt:

“Tch. Don’t inflate her ego. She only fought that well because she copied my style.”

Sanji immediately whipped around, practically frothing at the mouth. “YOUR style?! She moved like poetry, you damn mosshead! That was clearly my influence! Light, precise, beautiful!”

“Yeah, beautifully easy to dodge,” Zoro shot back. "She parried with power. Held her ground. That's me."

“She literally kicked three guys into orbit!" Sanji barked. "THAT’S MY FOOTWORK!"

They immediately got in each other’s faces, shouting over one another, gesturing wildly as if the louder one would claim ownership over your soul.

You, still flat on the deck like a dying fish, raised a trembling hand and croaked:

“…I was just trying not to die…”

No one heard you.

Zoro jabbed a finger into Sanji’s chest. “Face it, curly-brow. When it counts, she fights like a swordsman.”

"She fights with flair!" Sanji snapped. “Like a true master chef of combat!"

“You kick tomatoes, not enemies.”

“You slice onions, not warriors—!”

A vein popped visibly on Nami’s forehead. “Enough!” she shouted, whacking both of them with her staff in a single, devastating blow.

WHAP.

Both collapsed onto the deck beside you in a dazed heap.

You shifted your jelly limbs an inch to the left to avoid Sanji’s unconscious arm and muttered, “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Luffy cackled from where he lay sprawled, staring up at the sunny sky. “They’re your idiots now!”

You couldn’t even argue.

You smiled faintly, letting your eyes drift closed.

The threads shimmered in your mind’s eye, pulsing faint and steady.

Stronger than before. Stronger than steel. Still tied. Still alive.

You were exhausted. You were battered. You felt like overcooked pasta.

And yet—you had never felt more like yourself.

Somewhere in the warm haze of sleepiness, you heard Luffy's voice again, soft this time:

“You’re amazing, [Y/N]. I’m glad you’re ours.”

You didn’t answer aloud.

You just reached out blindly and caught his hand, squeezing once.

The threads between you flared, warm and sure.

Family.

Home.

Always.

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zepskies · 2 years ago

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OMG I KEED A PART 2 TO SAM HAVING A CRUSH ON DEANS GF

Like idk maybe say Sam didn't listen to Dean and tried making a move on reader? Like ofc he wouldn't ever do that *I don't think* but in this hypothetical scenerio it happens

Hey hun!

Oooof, that's hard. You guys really like this angsty love triangle stuff, huh? 😂 I genuinely think Sam would rather saw off his own hand than hurt Dean that way. But this is like, the only thing I could think of on this one. 😅

See this imagine for context: You are Dean's one exception.

Pairing: Dean W. x Reader, one-sided Sam W. x Reader Word Count: 1,100

Imagine: Sam crosses the line.

Goddamn witches.

That's the last coherent thought Sam has, before his mind is no longer completely his to control.

Well, it's still his mind. His body. But the careful door in his mind and in his heart, reinforced with steel and chained shut with titanium, combo-coded, locked and loaded, now has broken hinges.

Thoughts he hasn't allowed himself to think for months are pried open, with a sick kind of enjoyment in pain.

You're his brother's girl. Sam can't help but love you. He wants you. And now, he might be able to have you.

The witch is dead, but the spell she just hit Sam with remains. He's not dead, so that's a plus.

"Are you okay?" you ask him, slightly breathless. You're the closest to where he's sprawled on the ground, so you go to him. You touch his arm, and he can't help but clamp down on your hand. He looks at you with the thinly veiled eyes of a hunter as he smiles. Because your concern reaches the deepest parts of him.

"I'm fine," he says.

But Dean reads the hunger in his brother's eyes. He's subtle in the way he grasps your shoulder and Sam's (noticeably tighter).

"But what happened? How do you feel?" you ask, trying to take stock of what you're all dealing with here.

"I uh...feel fine, actually," Sam says. He rolls his shoulders. His gaze focuses on you. Dean holds him back from getting off the ground.

"Get the book. See if there's a way to fix this," Dean tells you without taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam tilts his head at Dean, the beginning of an angry frown on his lip as you rush away to find the witch's spell book.

"What's the matter, Dean?" Sam asks. He doesn't bother to lower his voice. (He literally doesn't have a filter anymore.) "Afraid of what might happen when she actually has the chance to choose?"

Dean's lips purse as his eyes darken. "This isn't you. And when you wake up from this, you're either gonna hate yourself for even thinkin' what you're thinkin', or you're gonna have one hell of a headache."

Sam stares back incredulously. He scoffs. "What're you gonna do, kill me?" They both know that's not happening.

But that's also when Dean knocks him the hell out.

When Sam wakes, it's to you stuffing tissues in his bloody nose. He groans a bit. He looks at you and still wants. But when he looks down at himself, he's in the bunker, handcuffed to the war room table.

You look worried for him as you go back to your side of the table with the book. Dean is oddly nowhere in sight. Sam thought he'd be watching you (and Sam) like a hawk.

"Dean'll be back in a sec. He's trying to get ahold of Rowena," you supply. "But how're you feeling? What's the spell doing to you exactly?"

Sam rolls the kinks out of his neck and removes the tissues, even though his entire face radiates with pain. His brother once promised to break his nose, and he did just that.

"Basically? I think it took away my inhibitions," he replies. More like threw them in a blender and put his deepest, headiest desires into overdrive.

You frown. "Like a really bad bender, or a truth serum kind of thing? But why would he punch you out for that?"

Your gears are turning rapidly, weighing out all the options. You always were smart. Sam leans forward slowly. Noting your thread of wariness, his face softens. He doesn't want to scare you...

He sighs. "Listen...there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a while now."

He reaches out a hand. You're looking at him in frozen surprise. His curled fingers brush your cheek. He leans in toward your face.

But you flinch and pull away.

"What the hell are you doing?" you ask.

Sam should've known, but it still hurts him. His jaw clenches. The spell takes away his self-preservation, however.

Just as he might've tried with words to finally confess the depths of his heart, the door creaks open.

The sound of Dean's heavy boots approaching makes him flinch. But Sam looks over with an unrepentant stare.

Dean glances at Rowena, nostrils flaring. "Fix him." He gestures at Sam before he joins you on your side of the table, resting a protective hand on your back.

Rowena shoots him a droll look. "Only because you asked so nicely."

"I don't need fixing!" Sam argues, glaring at Dean. His voice echoes on the bunker's walls. "You're just afraid of what happens if she knows the truth!"

Your eyes widen further. You look from Sam, to your boyfriend. Dean's jaw is clenched tight.

"Okay, what the fuck is going on?!" you ask in earnest. Dean meets your gaze for a moment, his face tense. His reluctant eyes communicate to you things you never knew. Things that clog emotion in your throat. Dean turns back to Sam.

"Don't do this, Sammy. It don't end well for you," Dean says.

"Like hell," Sam retorts.

"Okay, sleep now, dear," Rowena says. And with a wave of her hand and a haze of violet, Sam's world once again blackens.

When he next wakes, he's in his own bed. Not restrained. He indeed has a massive headache, and it's hard to breathe through his still broken nose. He groans and turns, and his brother is there.

When the overwhelming guilt sets in, Sam knows he's himself again, with all the careful walls around his heart put back in place. Rowena must've broken the spell when he was unconscious. Dean can see the truth in Sam's eyes.

"There he is," Dean remarks dryly. "Our giant Jekyll and Hyde."

Sam inhales deeply. "Dean..." I'm sorry doesn't quite cut it.

"She knows," Dean says, after a moment. "Obviously."

Sam nods, swallowing past a lump in his throat. He hesitates to ask the next burning question, because part of him knows the answer.

"It doesn't change anything."

Sam's head turns at the sound of your voice. You stand in the doorway, with your arms crossed despite the disheartened look on your face. Your eyes meet his, steady and sad, but firm.

"I know," Sam says, with a small, self-deprecating smile. "I'm sorry...for all this."

"It's not your fault," you reply. Spell or no spell, the way he feels is not his fault.

You step into the bedroom and go to Sam's bedside, laying a hand on Dean's shoulder. That hand smoothes up his neck, and your fingers briefly thread into his hair. Another silent conversation passes between you and Dean, the way only lovers that close can accomplish.

After a beat, Dean nods and gets up out of his chair. He thumbs at your cheek; it's both an answer to your unspoken request and an endearment. Then he pats Sam's shoulder before he leaves you and Sam alone in the room.

Trust. That's what that is. Dean trusts you, and now that the spell has worn off, he trusts Sam again.

Sam meets your gaze. As awful as he feels, he still loves you. He knows you know by the way your gaze meets his.

All he wants to do is touch you.

To apologize, and to touch you.

He hates himself.

You shake your head. "I love you, Sam. As my friend. My brother."

"I know," he nods. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," you reply. "You just have to respect that."

"'Course, I do," Sam nods again. You would've never known, if not for the damn spell.

You surprise him by taking his hand. Yours is soft and warm and kind.

Always kind...

But never truly his to hold.

AN: GAH! The Angst. You could bottle it. 😩

Want to know what that conversation was like between Dean and the reader after she "found out?"

Read It Here: You and Dean talk about Sam's feelings.

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#ask me stuff #dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #Sam crosses the line #being deans one exception sequel #sam in love with deans girlfriend #sam winchester #sam winchester imagine #sam and dean #angst #unrequited love #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #spn #supernatural #zepskies answers

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

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charmed parker caine x male reader

ALWAYS LET ME IN

PARKER CAINE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You were born a child of duality, part demon and part witch, with strong magical and demonic abilities. Your blood is tied to the Caines, a noble demon family, making you their legacy. You were brought up alongside Alistair Caine's children—Abigail, Parker, and Hunter.

Abigail was fierce and cunning; Parker was kind and burdened by his lineage; and Hunter was mysterious and captivating.

As tensions rise within the family, your role as a mediator becomes crucial. Alistair's power is diminishing, and rumors of a battle for succession spread. You are the wild card everyone desires, poised on the brink of a vital choice about loyalty and identity.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 10.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with another request! This was really fun because I was going more for a little royal/demonic lifestyle for Parker and I love how it turns out—I even make a part 2 but after I complete my to-do list. Anyway, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

YOU WERE born beneath the surface of the world, in a subterranean sanctum carved from volcanic obsidian and scorched basalt. The chamber was alive with old power, the kind that sang through stone and wept fire from its cracks. Runes etched into the walls glowed faintly with eldritch light, pulsing in rhythm with the earth's molten breath. It was not a place meant for innocence, and yet it was the cradle of your life. The moment your newborn wail pierced the charged silence, the coven gathered around knew—this was no ordinary child. You were an omen.

A child of duality. Demon and witch. Your blood carried the infernal legacy of brimstone and darkness, fused with an ancient strain of magic so potent it warped the very air around you. Midwives recoiled at the first sparks of telekinesis that shattered the steel instruments meant to measure your power. By the time you were three, your mind had begun creeping into others'—thoughts unspooling before your eyes like threads waiting to be pulled. By five, your tantrums could fracture enchanted barriers and crack the walls of your stone-formed nursery.

You were raised in fear and reverence—equal parts blessed and cursed. Your telekinesis matured into something surgical and cruel, able to splinter bone with a flick of your wrist or suspend entire battalions midair. Your telepathy grew more refined, more invasive. You didn't just read thoughts; you could twist them, implant fears, shatter psyches.

But it was the demon in you that demanded true caution. Your strength exceeded even the elite warriors of the underworld. You once punched through a tower wall for being denied a spellbook. You learned to "flame" at an age when others were still struggling with basic summoning—ripping through walls of fire and stepping from shadow to shadow like a whisper. Heat lived beneath your skin. When angry, the air around you warped with thermal distortion. And when truly enraged—when that ancient, inherited wrath flared—your touch disintegrated matter, reducing flesh and stone alike to vapor and glowing ash. It didn't just kill. It erased.

Your bloodline bound you to the Caines—demon nobility feared across realms. For generations, your ancestors served Alistair Caine: a demon lord born not of rank but of raw conquest, who clawed his way to power through blood and black magic. Your parents were his closest—his war strategists, his enforcers, his right and left hands in every campaign he led. You were his legacy by association. His investment.

And so you were raised beside his children—not as an equal, not as a rival, but something more dangerous: a tether.

Abigail Caine, the scalding daughter of ambition and cruelty, treated affection like a weapon and loyalty like currency. Her beauty was a wildfire—dangerous, blinding, and born to consume. She trusted no one except perhaps you, and even then only in whispers and half-truths.

Parker Caine, her half-brother, was a contradiction in human form. Half-demon, half-mortal, he bore the curse of compassion and the burden of a lineage he never asked for. His eyes held kindness and ache, and when he looked at you, it was as if he saw not the power, but the boy beneath it. And that... unnerved you.

Then there was Hunter.

Hunter Caine was the ghost in every room—the one who didn't need to speak to command presence. His silver eyes were voids of knowing, his smile curved with secrets you weren't sure you wanted to learn. He was beautiful in that predatory way some nightmares are—sharp lines, cool shadows, the kind of man whose silence made your pulse quicken more than any scream. When he touched your shoulder in passing, it burned. Not from heat. From hunger.

You watched them grow, trained with them, bled beside them. You became their confidant, their counselor, their blade when needed. They stood at the center of a tempest of power and expectation—and you were the still eye of the storm. Never choosing sides. Never needing to. You were what held the family together.

Abigail came to you with whispered plans in the dead of night. Parker came to you when the weight of his bloodline crushed him. They confided in you because you listened. Because you understood. But understanding comes at a cost. You became the mediator of their war, the bridge between hate and heritage. And slowly, dangerously, that power—their reliance on you—became something neither of them could ignore.

And now...

Alistair is fading. Not in strength, but in patience. The mantle of the Source—the living conduit of evil's most potent force—is ready to be passed. Whispers swirl through the demon courts. Blood will be shed. Only one heir can rise.

You are the wild card.

You are the one everyone wants but no one can truly claim. You are power unbound, loyalty uncertain, and desire incarnate. You stand on the edge of prophecy, a creature born of fire and spell, of love and war, with eyes that have seen too much and hands that can destroy worlds.

And soon, you will have to choose who—if anyone—you'll burn for.

THE AIR in the courtyard of the Caine estate churned with a suffocating heaviness, a thick blend of brimstone, magic, and ambition that made your skin prickle beneath your ceremonial armor. Sulfur clung to every breath like ash from a dying fire, and the torchlight burned hot against the carved obsidian pillars that encircled the space like a dark coliseum. Flames flickered wildly atop twisted iron sconces, casting restless shadows across the sea of gathered followers—demons with glistening fangs, warlocks cloaked in charmed bone, creatures older than language with eyes like molten ore.

This was not a gathering. It was a reckoning.

You stood near the front, a breath away from the central dais, where the throne—monstrous and magnificent—rose like a wound in the world. Forged from volcanic glass and blackened bone, it pulsed with residual magic, hungry and sentient, as if aching for its next master. Though no heir had yet claimed the title of Source, the throne already exuded a force that reached into your bones and dared you to kneel.

But you didn't.

At the apex of the platform, Alistair Caine towered like the final word in a spell. His presence bled through the crowd like fire through parchment. Tall and terrifying, he wore ceremonial robes the color of aged blood, their edges embroidered with infernal script that shimmered in tandem with the flickering light. His molten-gold eyes scanned the court with predatory calm, and the weight of his power pressed down on your mind like a grinding vice.

Then he stood. Slowly. Deliberately.

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute—like the entire underworld inhaled and forgot how to exhale.

You stood still, every muscle coiled, every sense sharp. The heat of the torches blurred the edges of your vision. Power, dark and ancient, rippled across the stones like a tide preparing to break.

Then—you felt it.

A shift in the air. A quiet pull.

A gaze.

You scanned the crowd, drawn to it like gravity. And then your eyes met his.

Hunter Caine.

He stood in the shadows, near the eastern archway where the firelight faltered. A few minor demons hovered around him like moths to a blade, but he remained still—statuesque and silent, wrapped in a fitted black coat lined with silver runes. His silver eyes—icy, unblinking—locked on yours with a focus so intense it silenced everything else. There was no smirk, no raised brow, no hint of charm. Just that devastating stillness, that impossible attention.

It was the kind of look that didn't ask a question, but demanded an answer.

And something inside you responded.

The air between you vibrated, taut with something unspeakable. That familiar flutter stirred in your chest—heat, tension, the ache of wanting something you shouldn't. It had never left you, not since the first time you saw Hunter watching you across the training yard years ago, expression unreadable, eyes burning with everything he refused to say.

Then—

"You're staring," came a low murmur at your ear, thick with amusement.

You turned, startled—but not alarmed.

Parker Caine stood at your side now, as if he had always been there. Loose-limbed and effortlessly magnetic, his dark curls were slightly windblown, a few strands falling over his brow with calculated mess. His ceremonial coat hung open at the neck, collar unfastened like he didn't give a damn about protocol.

"Didn't know he had it in him to hold a stare that long," Parker said, smirking as his eyes flicked toward his brother. "Must be your influence."

You exhaled a dry laugh, trying to mask the heat lingering in your cheeks. "Maybe he's just finally learning to pay attention."

"Or maybe you're just too damn magnetic to ignore," he said, his tone dipping lower, his body leaning closer. The scent of him—cedarwood, musk, and something faintly spiced—brushed against your senses. A slow, warm pull.

You arched a brow, lips twitching. "Flirting? Really? Here?"

Parker's grin widened. "I like to think of it as... strategic reassurance. This war's going to get messy. Figured a little charm might help." He bumped your arm gently, eyes dancing. "Besides, I'm not the only one watching you tonight."

Your gaze flicked instinctively back toward Hunter, only to find his eyes now locked on Alistair. His jaw was clenched, mouth drawn in that perfect line of cold restraint. But the shift in his posture—shoulders squared, spine taut—told you the moment between you hadn't gone unnoticed.

The weight of it lingered.

Just like that, whatever had passed between you and Hunter dissolved into smoke, swallowed by duty, by legacy, by the storm rising around you.

And then Alistair spoke.

His voice rolled across the courtyard like thunder cracking through the bones of the world—ancient, commanding, heavy with finality. The crowd bowed their heads. The flames bowed with them. And beside you, Parker's fingers briefly brushed your forearm, grounding you—whether in comfort or possession, you weren't sure.

The war for the leader of the Caine dynasty had begun.

And you—caught between ambition and desire, loyalty and danger—stood exactly where fate wanted you.

In the eye of the storm.

Parker's voice curled into your ear like a silk ribbon—soft, warm, threaded with that casual mischief that always seemed too effortless to be harmless.

"You've been avoiding me," he murmured, barely above the low rumble of the crowd. His breath ghosted near your cheek as he leaned just close enough for your shoulders to touch, the brush of his coat against yours sending a faint jolt down your arm.

You kept your eyes forward, but your lips tugged sideways. "Maybe I like the silence."

He chuckled, low and easy, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "Liar. You miss me. Admit it."

You turned slightly, fixing him with a sidelong glance. "I miss you the way I miss hexing myself in the face."

It was meant to be cold. Flat. But the faint twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you, and Parker saw it instantly.

His grin split wider, victorious. "Adorable," he declared, as if he hadn't just been insulted. "You're absolutely adorable when you lie."

He bumped your elbow with his, playfully. That familiar charm rolled off him in waves—dangerous in its ease, in the way it snuck into your bones before you could remember not to let it.

"And the way you were looking at Hunter just now?" Parker continued, voice dipping into something silkier, almost suggestive. "You might need a cold shower. Or..." He leaned in, just a breath away now, his voice a whisper only you could hear. "You could let me help with that heat."

Your pulse stuttered. Just slightly. But enough.

You masked it with a dry scoff, head tilting ever so slightly toward him. "Keep dreaming, Caine."

"I do," he whispered, the words a confession wrapped in flirtation. "Vividly."

But before he could press the moment further, another voice sliced through the charged air like a dagger wrapped in fire.

"Oh, gods. Are you two flirting again?"

You turned to see Abigail Caine striding toward you, her ceremonial robes trailing behind her like liquid flame. The fabric shimmered with layered enchantments, catching the torchlight as she moved with theatrical grace. Her arms were crossed, expression sharp with faux-annoyance, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

"Honestly, Parker," she sighed, stopping in front of you both. "Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?"

"Never," Parker said without missing a beat. He turned to her with a smirk full of teeth. "It's a gift. Like my face. Or my charm. Or my ability to be heartbreakingly irresistible."

Abigail rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. "Heartbreaking is right. But not for the reasons you think."

Then she turned her gaze to you, and that glint sharpened into something more discerning. "And you. You're supposed to be the sensible one. Don't tell me he's finally managed to drag you down into the muck with him."

You gave her a measured smile. "I'm humoring him."

"You always humor him. That's the problem."

Their bickering resumed like a well-rehearsed play—barbs sharpened by years of rivalry, affection buried beneath sarcasm. You stood between them, the reluctant fulcrum of their fire-forged dynamic, and despite yourself, something warm curled low in your chest. This—this was familiar. This was how you'd survived the chaos of the Caine legacy for so long.

But the moment broke.

The ground beneath your feet trembled, subtly at first, like a heartbeat deep in the stone. The torches flared high along the courtyard walls, their flames crackling with renewed violence.

A hush fell over the crowd like a blanket of ash.

Alistair's voice rang out, the silence became something sacred. Every creature, every demon, every warlock froze as though instinctively recognizing the shift in gravity—the world tilting toward something inevitable.

"My blood. My legacy. My chosen."

His voice thundered through the air like a death knell. Atop the dais, the Sacred Flame flared behind him, bathing his silhouette in a terrible glow. The jagged crown of obsidian and bone on his brow shimmered with runes that pulsed with infernal light.

"Abigail. Parker. Hunter. Step forward."

The words weren't a command. They were a decree.

Your breath hitched.

Beside you, Parker straightened, all playfulness draining from his face. In its place—something harder. Sharper. He no longer looked like the flirt by your side, but the heir to a kingdom of fire and shadows.

Abigail's smirk faded as well. Her chin lifted, eyes burning with ambition, with defiance. She moved first—measured, powerful, no trace of hesitation.

And then Hunter emerged from the darkness like he had been born there. No fanfare. No pretense. Just quiet certainty. He walked past you without a glance, but you felt him. The cold weight of his presence brushed your chest like a whisper that knew too much.

The three of them climbed the obsidian steps together, casting elongated shadows across the platform as they stood at their father's side.

Together—for now.

But you knew the truth.

Only one would remain standing when the flame chose its master.

And down below, with the torchlight flickering against your face and your heartbeat still recovering from Parker's nearness and Hunter's silence, you stood motionless.

"The three of you," Alistair spoke, his voice low and deliberate, heavy enough to vibrate through your ribs, "are bound by blood, by name, and by my legacy."

A current of dread and reverence swept through the crowd. His tone alone had weight—enough to bend weaker minds, enough to silence even the eldest fiends.

"But only one," he continued, stepping forward as the Sacred Flame roared higher behind him, licking upward in tongues of crimson and gold, "will rise to claim the throne of my dominion. When I ascend fully as the Source, I will leave behind a kingdom forged in chaos. That kingdom—my kingdom—demands more than bloodline. It demands dominance."

He stopped at the edge of the dais, the flame casting his shadow over the siblings. The light painted them in firelight—Abigail gleaming like a blade, Parker dark and thoughtful, and Hunter cloaked in flickering shadow.

"This realm was born of treachery. Of blood spilled by kin, and empires won by will alone. I did not inherit. I took. You will not be handed my power. You will seize it. If you can."

His eyes moved from Abigail... to Parker... and then rested, longer than before, on Hunter. The pause was subtle. But the tension it carried was razor-sharp.

Hunter didn't flinch. He didn't move. But you saw it—the faint flicker in his eyes. A ripple, like the first crack in calm water.

The silence in the courtyard stretched, taut as a pulled string.

Then Alistair turned. The shift in his stance was slight, but the power of it rippled outward. He was no longer a father addressing his children. He was the king addressing his court.

"My loyal legion," he declared, his voice rising like a war cry cloaked in velvet. "Bear witness. Tonight, we gather not simply to celebrate my reign, but to mark the beginning of the Trials."

The word landed like a strike.

"The Infernal Atrium will host a gala at dusk," he continued, arms stretching wide. His robes flared, crimson silk and shadow billowing like wings of smoke. "All are welcome—every warlock, every demon, every serpent born of my dominion. Come. Drink. Feast. Wager. Let the walls echo with celebration."

He smiled then—a terrible, knowing thing that did not reach his eyes.

"For when the sun falls... my children will rise—or burn."

The Sacred Flame behind him exploded upward in violent ecstasy, spiraling into the air in a roaring column of heat and light. The inferno swallowed the top of the dais for a moment, casting monstrous shadows across the courtyard.

Gasps. Whispers. A low, restless murmur rippled through the horde.

The Infernal Atrium. You knew it well. A place of opulence steeped in cruelty. Where laughter was laced with poison, and every dance step doubled as a threat. Where alliances were born with kisses and murdered with smiles. Nothing was sacred. Everything was spectacle.

And tonight, it would become a battlefield draped in elegance.

Your eyes returned to the siblings.

Abigail's smile was now sharpened into a predator's grin. She relished the challenge—craved it like blood in her teeth.

Parker stood still, but his jaw was tight. You could see the flicker of conflict in his eyes—strategy forming beneath layers of restraint.

And Hunter...

Hunter was watching you again.

His gaze met yours for only a breath, but in that second, the rest of the world dropped away. No fire. No crowd. Just the two of you, and that unspoken thing that curled between your ribs whenever he looked at you like that. Not desire. Not entirely. Not anymore.

He looked away.

And you knew, with a sick kind of certainty, that this night would be the last before everything changed.

The war hadn't begun in blood yet. But it had begun.

AS THE final echo of Alistair Caine's decree faded into the smoldering quiet, the courtyard held its breath, thick with heat and prophecy. The Sacred Flame continued to roar behind the throne, its light licking the obsidian walls in sharp, rhythmic pulses, but the center of gravity had shifted. The spectacle was over. The shadows lengthened, and now came the aftermath—the part where eyes sharpened, alliances whispered into being, and the siblings of House Caine were quietly weighed like coin.

Demons began to peel away from the edges of the gathering, their cloaks brushing stone, their murmurs low and loaded. You could hear them: speculation, strategy, bets placed like daggers on a game board. The war hadn't started yet—but it had most certainly begun.

You remained still, arms crossed over your chest, standing sentinel near the base of the dais. You didn't chase the crowd. You didn't need to. You were the gravity in this place now. And sure enough, they came to you—one from the left, one from the right.

Parker's steps were slower than usual, his charm thinned at the edges, as if the weight of what was coming dulled his usual sparkle. His dark curls were tousled from the anxious drag of his hand through them, and he wore his sarcasm like a thinning cloak.

"That went well," he muttered, voice dry, almost hollow. He stopped beside you, shoulder brushing lightly against yours, gaze flicking sideways.

From the opposite side, Abigail's heels clicked softly over scorched stone, her stride as smooth and sharp as ever, but tension radiated off her like a simmering flame. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, posture perfect but brittle, her crimson-lined eyes glinting with the venom of bitter truth.

"'Earn it,'" she echoed, voice low and razor-edged. "As if we haven't been bleeding for this legacy since we could walk. As if we weren't born into fire."

You looked between them—two siblings forged into weapons by the same father, taught to draw lines between loyalty and ambition in blood. They didn't trust each other. Not completely. But right now, they stood within arm's reach of you.

That meant something.

"Don't tell me you two are finally getting along," you said quietly, offering them a sliver of levity. Your voice was low and calm, the kind of tone you'd learned to master when everything around you threatened to break.

Parker scoffed, lips twitching into a tired smile. "Hardly. If she so much as breathes wrong at the gala tonight, I'm spiking her wine."

Abigail turned her head just enough to glare at him, though her expression lacked real bite. "Please. Your drinks are so diluted I'd get more kick from a healing tonic. You've never had the spine for anything stronger."

The exchange was sharp—but the fact that neither of them stepped away from you said more than the words did. You could feel it in the way their presence lingered close—tense, yes, but tethered. Seeking steadiness. Seeking you.

For all their fire, their arrogance, their pride—they were still just people. People raised in a gilded cage that looked like a palace but felt like a battlefield. And right now, behind the polish of their facades, they were fraying.

"You don't have to carry this alone," you said, voice steady as stone. You looked to Abigail first, then to Parker. "Either of you. This throne—this title—it's not just power. It's a crucible. It burns whatever touches it. Don't let it burn you away."

Abigail's eyes met yours, something flickering in their depths—faint, but real. Vulnerability, maybe. Or fear disguised as defiance.

"And what if it already has?" she murmured, her voice a whisper forged in glass.

Parker looked away, jaw tight as he stared toward the horizon. The sky above the cursed ridgelines was beginning to darken, the faint glow of dusk spreading like spilled ink across the brimstone clouds.

"We don't have a choice," he said softly. "The gala tonight... it's not just pageantry. It's a declaration of war dressed in silk and smiles. Everyone will be watching. Waiting for one of us to falter. And we've already been thrown onto the field."

You reached out without ceremony—one hand settling on Parker's shoulder, the other on Abigail's. The gesture was quiet, but it anchored them both. Not with magic. Not with command. Just presence.

The kind they had come to rely on more than they would ever admit aloud.

"You have me," you said, and there was no room for doubt in your voice. "Both of you. No matter how vicious this gets, no matter how many masks you have to wear—I'll be the one thing that doesn't change."

Neither of them spoke at first.

But neither pulled away.

You stood like that for a long moment—shoulder to shoulder, tethered not by peace, but by you. Their brother in everything but blood. Their compass in a world built on shifting ground.

And for one breath in time, before the poison-draped elegance of the gala swallowed them whole, before the betrayals bloomed like thorns beneath laughter and music—they weren't heirs. They weren't rivals.

They were just Parker and Abigail.

Still human, still holding on.

Still standing in your shadow.

Suddenly, your name echoed through the thickened air like a low spell, summoned not with urgency but with authority. You turned, your expression tightening just slightly, muscles coiling beneath your skin as one of Hunter's guards—an armored demon with obsidian-plated limbs and hollow eyes—approached with a beckoning gesture. The creature didn't spare Parker or Abigail so much as a glance. Its sole focus was you.

Without a word, you stepped away.

You didn't look back—but they watched you go.

At the base of the spire, beneath an arch carved from molten rock and stitched with glowing runes, Hunter stood waiting. Still as a statue. Cloaked in black trimmed with faint silver threading that caught the light of the Sacred Flame in strange, fleeting ways. The fire bathed his features in a warm, deceptive glow, but his expression remained untouched by it—his silver eyes locked on you with that unwavering intensity that always made your chest tighten.

There was no smirk. No smoldering charm. Just that quiet, deadly focus. The kind that stripped you bare whether you were ready or not.

Behind you, a breath escaped Abigail—quiet but sharp. Her arms stayed crossed, her gaze narrowed as she followed your retreating form with something that danced between suspicion and concern. Her voice was low when she finally spoke, but it cut through the air like a blade.

"You're wasting time."

Parker, still beside her, barely flinched.

"If you want him," she continued, her tone laced with warning as she turned her head to fix him with a look, "then act. Because if Hunter gets his hands on him..." Her words lingered, unfinished. But her meaning was clear. Hunter doesn't share. Hunter doesn't release.

And when Hunter claims something, it's with claws and fire.

She waited for the reaction. A crack in Parker's carefully constructed smirk. A flash of unease.

Instead, Parker's lips curled—slow, deliberate. That familiar smirk returned, thick with arrogance, yet now edged in something darker. Possessive. Personal.

"Let him try," Parker murmured, voice dipped in satisfaction. "But he's already tasted what's mine."

Abigail's brow arched, skeptical. "So you've—?"

"Oh, I've done more than that," Parker interrupted, his tone turning silken with memory. His gaze drifted, no longer focused on her but on the shadows where you had disappeared. "While you were busy scheming and Hunter was brooding in corners, he was in my bed. Skin flushed, voice breaking. Trembling under me. Moaning my name into the sheets like a curse he couldn't stop chanting."

His voice didn't rise. It didn't boast. It claimed.

He turned toward her fully now, the smirk on his lips deepening—no longer flirtatious, but something far more primal. There was heat behind his eyes. And warning.

"So no, I'm not worried."

Abigail stared at him a moment longer, reading him like only a sister could. She didn't challenge the truth of what he said. Didn't try to unravel it. There was nothing to unravel.

Parker didn't lie about things like that.

Still, a flicker passed behind her eyes—something taut and conflicted. Maybe envy. Maybe fear for you. Maybe both.

Because Parker, for all his charm, had never let anyone in—not like that. And she knew what it meant that he had. And she knew, too, how far Hunter would go to win anything he truly desired.

Her gaze slid once more to the darkened corridor where you'd vanished, swallowed by firelight and stone.

"Be careful," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Hunter doesn't play fair. And he doesn't lose well."

Parker didn't respond right away. His smirk held steady, his posture unbothered.

But for the briefest moment, something behind his eyes shifted.

A flash of memory. Of caution. Of warning unspoken.

He already knew that.

THE CORRIDOR to Hunter's private wing felt like entering another realm entirely—severed from the grandeur and menace of the main Caine estate. There were no towering obsidian arches here. No gilded demonic reliefs leering down from above. This was something colder. Sharper. More intimate in its austerity.

The walls were carved from a dark stone so smooth it nearly reflected the low flicker of the sconces lining either side. Silver-veined and humming faintly with restrained magic, the stone radiated a chill that clung to your skin. The light here wasn't warm—it danced in a cold spectrum, casting warped shadows that crawled across the floor as you walked. The silence was profound, like a breath being held by the walls themselves.

Behind you, the metallic tread of Hunter's guard was the only sound accompanying your own footsteps, until even that ceased. No words were spoken. No gestures made. The demon simply halted and let you continue on alone, as if you had passed some invisible threshold meant only for you.

You stepped through the last door.

It closed behind you with a clang—sharp, decisive, final.

Inside, the chamber felt like the inner sanctum of a war god. Dimly lit, the only source of illumination came from a tall wall of blue flame that licked upward without smoke or heat, casting long, dancing shadows in hues of cobalt and steel. The air smelled of scorched parchment and metal, with an undercurrent of something older—blood, perhaps, or ash from a time long past.

In the center of the room sat a wide table made of blackened stone, the edges cracked and scorched, its surface covered in ancient artifacts. Blades forged in hellfire, scrolls bound in cracked skin, broken relics that buzzed faintly with trapped curses. This was no scholar's workspace. It was the collection of a strategist—a warrior who played in both blood and silence.

And there stood Hunter.

Half turned from you, still as death, framed in blue firelight. Arms crossed. Head slightly bowed. The fall of his coat made him look carved from the night itself. He hadn't acknowledged you with a glance. But you felt him. The weight of his presence was immediate—like walking into the center of a storm where the wind hasn't begun to scream yet.

"You came," he said, his voice low, rough velvet dragged across stone. It wasn't a question. It wasn't even surprise. It was an acknowledgment, laced with something too quiet to name.

"You summoned," you replied evenly, not rising to his bait.

Hunter turned slowly, like a shadow peeling free from the fire. The light touched his features as he moved—sharp cheekbones, a set jaw, silver eyes that burned cold. His face was unreadable, all edges and silence. But not empty. Never empty.

"You looked good standing beside them," he said at last, voice soft but cool. The words weren't a compliment. They were an observation shaped like a blade.

You held his gaze. "They needed me."

He took a step forward. The room felt smaller.

"Do you?"

The question wasn't casual. It hung between you like a suspended spell—fragile and ready to ignite. You felt the meaning beneath it, twisted through with something too intimate to be strategy.

You hesitated. Not because you didn't know the answer, but because with Hunter, every answer was a choice.

"I don't need anyone," you said at last, your voice low and certain.

A flicker passed through his expression. A subtle shift—like recognition. Like agreement.

"Good," he murmured.

And then he moved.

In a single, fluid motion, he crossed the space between you, silent as smoke. One hand braced the wall beside your head, the other hovered just near your waist, close enough to feel the tension, the heat. But he didn't touch. Not yet. His presence was a snare of power and restraint, coiling around your senses until your heart beat in rhythm with the fire.

He leaned in—slowly, dangerously. His breath ghosted across your skin.

"Because anyone who does..." His voice dipped into a near whisper, his silver eyes darkening. "Will lose."

You didn't blink. You didn't step back.

You let the moment consume the air between you. Let the heat build, taut and heady, wrapped in threat and promise both.

"Is that what this is?" you asked, your voice a hushed thread. "A warning?"

For the first time, Hunter's gaze dropped—to your lips. Just for a beat. Then back to your eyes, fiercer now.

"No," he breathed, the word edged in something feral.

"It's a promise."

THE HOUR had deepened into that cursed, molten twilight where even the skies of the Underworld bled. From your balcony, the horizon stretched in bruised shades of crimson and violet, fractured with streaks of scorched gold like veins beneath cracked stone. The Infernal Atrium flickered in the distance—its towering spires aflame with glamoured lanterns, casting halos of light that danced across a tide of arriving figures cloaked in shadow and silk. Music—deep, dark, and sinfully slow—throbbed through the sulfur-laced air, barely reaching your ears, but enough to vibrate in your bones.

Inside your chamber, the walls were painted in a soft, ember-glow from the sconces embedded in blackened rock. The flames licked lazily at the air, steady and subdued, casting shadows that rolled and twisted across the floor. The heat was comforting, almost lulling—until you looked at yourself.

You stood before a full-length mirror of obsidian polished to a flawless sheen. Your tuxedo—cut from infernal silk and stitched with threads of charmed obsidian—hugged your form with immaculate precision. The suit was black, of course, but not dead black—this was the kind that shimmered like liquid shadow, catching the low light and reflecting power in every curve. The lapels were sleek, edged in deep grey runes that pulsed faintly, and the cuffs gleamed with hexed silver buttons etched in demonic script. You looked like a weapon dressed in finery. Regal. Controlled. Untouchable.

But your reflection betrayed you.

Your eyes, dark and unreadable, held the weight of something you hadn't named. Not yet. Your jaw was set. Your chest rose too slow, too steady—as if any shift in rhythm might break the illusion you were wearing along with your suit.

You hadn't moved since fastening the final button.

Then—knock knock.

A double tap on the door. Not hurried. Not timid. Smooth. Confident. The kind of knock that wasn't a request—it was a statement.

You turned, slowly, tension coiling in your spine as the door creaked open.

He didn't wait for permission.

Parker Caine stepped inside like the room belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound somehow louder than it should've been in the quiet. His eyes—warm gold veined with the same mischief and madness that had haunted you since you were boys—found you instantly. And stayed there.

He was dressed in midnight blue and black, the jacket tailored within an inch of sin, its satin lining visible only when he moved, like the flick of a blade under moonlight. His shirt collar was open just enough to tease the hollow of his throat, where a delicate gold chain rested—a Caine heirloom you recognized from childhood, once worn by Alistair in his younger days. His cufflinks bore the family sigil in onyx and garnet, catching firelight with every breath he took.

But none of that held your attention for long.

It was the look in his eyes. The kind of look you didn't often get from Parker anymore. Hungry. Soft. Hungry again.

Like he was remembering every inch of you he'd ever touched. And imagining the ones he hadn't.

"Gods," he murmured, the word dragging over his tongue like molasses, thick and slow. "You clean up too damn well."

You arched a brow. "You're late."

Parker smirked, moving toward you with the unhurried, knowing stride of someone who already knew what game he was playing—and how it would end.

"Worth the wait," he said, stopping just close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off his skin. "But I'll admit..." His gaze swept over you again, slower this time. Down your chest. Over the sleek lines of your suit. "This is better than I imagined."

You swallowed once, resisting the urge to shift.

"And what, exactly, did you imagine?"

Parker's grin deepened into something wicked and devastating. "You. In that suit. Flushed. Breathless. Pressed against a wall."

Your heart gave one traitorous thump, loud enough you swore he could hear it.

He didn't touch you. Not yet. But the space between you was heavy now, humming with heat and tension so thick it felt like magic itself. Every breath was a dare. Every flicker of his gaze was a promise.

"You planning to ruin all my hard work before I even show up at the gala?" you asked, voice low and steady—but your throat felt tight. The thrum inside you was growing louder.

Parker tilted his head slightly, his eyes dipping to your lips for the barest second.

"Maybe," he said. "But if I don't, someone else might. And I'd rather the room know whose hands were on you first."

You opened your mouth to reply—but stopped.

Because he moved. Just a little.

His fingers rose, brushing the edge of your lapel. His touch was slow, deliberate—gliding down your chest until it reached your sternum, then pausing there. Right above your heart. The place where your pulse fluttered like something trying not to be caught.

"You look like royalty," he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper, and the heat behind it was enough to sear.

"But you feel like mine.”

Parker's fingers remained poised just above your heart, the pads of them warm against your skin through the fabric. His gaze was locked on the slight, betraying flutter beneath your shirt, as if he could read the rhythm of your pulse like a coded confession. He didn't press, didn't rush—his touch was steady, knowing, a slow burn instead of a blaze. Every movement told you one thing: he knew you. Knew how your body tensed when he got this close, how your breath always hitched before your walls fell.

Your chest rose with a shallow breath.

"Parker—"

You didn't finish the sentence.

Because in the next heartbeat, his lips were on yours.

It wasn't a collision. It wasn't chaos. It was claiming. A kiss that unfolded with simmering intensity—confident, deep, and intimate in a way that made your lungs forget their purpose. His hand cupped your jaw with practiced care, thumb brushing your cheekbone, while his other arm slipped around your waist and drew you into him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. The silk of your suit caught against his, sparking friction, heat, want.

And you kissed him back like you'd been waiting all night.

Your hands gripped the front of his jacket, fingers twisting in the lapels like anchors, like if you didn't hold on, you might unravel. He tasted like spice and control and the dangerous edge of something addictive. The low sound he made—half growl, half groan—vibrated into your mouth, down your spine, lighting a fuse under your skin.

He broke the kiss with devastating slowness, lips brushing yours, breath ghosting across your face as he whispered, "You still think I'm worried about Hunter?"

You didn't respond. Couldn't. The words had melted on your tongue, replaced by heat and hunger and something heavier—something you couldn't name without cracking open.

His mouth found your neck next, lips grazing the sensitive curve of your throat before his teeth scraped lightly, just enough to make your breath stutter. Then his tongue soothed the spot, slow and hot. A shiver lanced down your spine as his hands grew bolder—one trailing down your back, the other slipping under your jacket, fingers gliding over the fine line between tailored control and bare skin.

"You wore this for me, didn't you?" he murmured against your throat, his voice almost reverent. "You always do. Even if you'll never admit it."

And gods help you, you didn't stop him. Couldn't. You stood there and let it consume you, mind buzzing, body leaning into every touch.

With a quiet, possessive sound, he turned you—guiding you gently but firmly back until the backs of your thighs met the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror. The impact was soft, but your breath hitched all the same. His hands moved with familiar grace, pushing the jacket from your shoulders in one fluid motion, letting it slide to the floor like falling shadows.

His gaze stayed locked to yours, never wavering as his fingers found the buttons of your shirt—each one undone slowly, almost ceremonially. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. In your fingertips. In the way your skin tingled beneath his touch.

"I've had you beneath me," Parker whispered, voice low and tight with memory, "trembling... begging. Saying my name like it was the only thing you could remember."

The last button came free. Your shirt parted, revealing flushed skin and the rise and fall of your chest, ragged and uneven.

"Do you really think I'll let him take you?" he asked, almost gently. "You're mine."

The words burned. Not cruel. Not sweet. Just true. And gods, you felt it. In your blood. In your breath. In the heat gathering low in your belly.

Then he moved again.

His mouth traced a line across your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Every kiss left fire in its wake. His hands roamed lower, familiar and sure—one resting lightly on your hip, the other teasing the waistband of your trousers with maddening slowness.

That was when your control finally cracked.

You reached for him, hands sliding into the soft mess of his curls, tugging him up, pulling his mouth back to yours. The kiss this time was rougher—hot and hungry and full of need. You could feel him smile into it, wicked and satisfied, like he'd just won a game he'd always known he would.

And maybe he had.

Because right now, in this moment, you weren't thinking about the gala. Or the Atrium. Or the war waiting in lace and whispers.

You were only thinking of him.

And the way he made you forget the rest of the world.

"We don't have much time," Parker growled against your mouth, his voice low and frayed with urgency. "So we make it count."

Before you could respond, his grip found your hips—firm, commanding—and spun you back toward the velvet chaise. The world tilted with the motion, your heart thudding against your ribs as your knees brushed the edge of the plush seat. You barely had time to catch a breath before he dropped to his knees in front of you, his movements smooth, practiced, yet reverent in a way that made your breath hitch.

His fingers were already at your waistband, working the clasp with deft, impatient precision. A sharp click, a tug—and the tension unraveled. The fabric of your trousers slid down your legs in a fluid rush, followed by the softer brush of your boxers. Cool air ghosted over your now-bared thighs, the sudden exposure drawing a shiver from you—not from chill, but from anticipation. From the weight of his gaze.

Parker's palms slid upward from your calves to your knees, then along your inner thighs, calloused fingers leaving fire in their wake. He rose slowly, inch by inch, like a man savoring the sight of something he hadn't seen in years.

And gods, the way he looked at you...

"Fuck," he murmured, breath catching in his throat. "Look at you..."

His voice wasn't loud—it was broken reverence. The kind of awe that made your stomach twist and heat curl low in your belly.

Then it was his turn.

You watched, barely breathing, as he stood tall and reached for his belt. The sharp snap of the buckle being unfastened made your skin jump. Leather whispered as it slipped through the loops of his pants, his every move slow now, measured, seductive. He held your gaze the entire time, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, just enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

He tossed the belt aside with a flick of his wrist, then slid his fingers beneath the waistband of both his trousers and boxers. The garments dropped together, exposing the full, aching evidence of his dick—thick, flushed, already hard, and pulsing with the same impatience running through your veins.

The tension between you snapped tight. Hunger. Raw and molten and demanding.

Parker stepped forward again, closing the space between your bodies until you could feel the heat of him everywhere—your skin crackling, your breath tangled. His hand curled around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, firm but careful as he guided your forehead to his.

His eyes were molten gold, pupils blown wide, his breathing uneven as he whispered, "You're mine for the night."

His words coiled through your chest like smoke, thick with possession, rich with promise.

"So let me remind you why."

Then his mouth found yours again, crashing into you with raw need.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a brand.

Hot, consuming, desperate. A mess of teeth and tongue and breath stolen from between your lips. The kind of kiss that stripped away every last pretense and bared the truth: he wasn't just wanting you—he was already burning for you. His chest pressed hard into yours, every line of his body molded to you with perfect, feral alignment. You could feel the heat of his cock against your thigh, thick and flushed and achingly hard, dragging against your skin with every slight movement, leaving fire in its wake.

Then—he pulled back. Just enough to breathe.

His lips brushed against your cheek, trailing the ghost of the kiss in their wake, and in a voice that was more command than request, he murmured, "Turn around."

Your pulse jumped. You obeyed without speaking.

You pivoted slowly, the air thick around you, your hands reaching forward to brace against the cold obsidian wall. The stone bit into your palms, grounding you as your chest rose and fell with anticipation. Your stance shifted naturally, bowing forward slightly, your back curving in offering. Vulnerability made beautiful beneath the flicker of firelight.

You heard him move behind you—heard the faint inhale he took when he saw you like that.

Then his presence was there again, pressing in. The heat of his chest brushed your back, his breath warm against your spine. The air between your bodies disappeared as he leaned in, grounding you with every inch of his proximity.

And then—

Spit.

The crude, wet sound of it filled the air between you like a shot of lightning.

You swallowed hard, your eyes slipping closed as Parker slicked his spit over the full length of his cock. You could hear the slow, rhythmic glide of his hand stroking himself—long, deliberate pulls meant to torment you both. The wet friction was loud in the stillness, syncing with the ragged sound of your own breath, building a tension that crackled like live wire beneath your skin.

His hand slid to your hip, gripping tight—his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave the promise of bruises. And then his mouth was on you again, this time pressing a slow kiss to the back of your neck. A contrast to the roughness of his hands. A vow whispered in heat.

"You feel what you do to me?" he growled, the words rasped against your skin like fire catching silk. "All night... I've been thinking about this. About you. Bent over. Waiting."

You bit your lip as his cock nudged between your cheeks, the swollen tip slick and hot as it teased at your entrance. He held you still—one hand anchoring your hip, the other sliding up your spine like he wanted to memorize the curve of it. His body was coiled, every muscle tensed, his breath fanning hot across your back.

And then he paused. Right there at the brink. Poised. Ready.

His entire body humming with the promise of everything you both were about to become.

Parker's grip on your hips tightened like a vice, fingers sinking into your skin with a possessive force that bordered on desperate. There was no gentleness in it—just intent. He was anchoring himself to you, or maybe anchoring you to this moment, to him. His breath came hot and uneven against your shoulder as the swollen head of his cock pressed against your entrance—slick, throbbing, his heat radiating off him like a furnace.

He didn't move right away. He just held you there, teetering on the edge, the tip of him nudging against your entrance with unbearable patience.

And then—with a low, guttural groan that shivered down your spine—he pushed in.

Your breath left you in a sharp gasp as your body opened around him, stretching slowly to take him in. The burn was immediate—a tight, aching pull that lit your nerves alive and left your fingers scrabbling against the smooth obsidian wall. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch near-blinding as pressure gave way to sensation, and sensation to something deeper. Your forehead fell against the stonep, cool and grounding, as you moaned—soft, breathless, wrecked.

He stilled once he was fully seated inside you, the length of him pressed deep, his hips flush to yours, his chest curved over your back. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, feel his shuddered breath ghost over the side of your neck.

"Fuck..." he breathed, hoarse and reverent. His lips brushed against your skin as he spoke. "So tight... you feel perfect."

You whimpered, your body quivering from the fullness, from the way you could feel every vein, every throb. The sheer presence of him inside you left you trembling.

Then he moved.

He pulled back just slightly—barely enough to break contact—then rolled his hips forward in a slow, fluid thrust that drove into you like a wave. You gasped, your mouth falling open as he sank back in, deep and deliberate, stealing your breath all over again. There was no urgency in him. Not yet. Just a focused rhythm, relentless and devastating.

He was making you feel every inch.

"That's it," he murmured, voice gravel-thick and laced with heat. "Take me... just like that."

His hips rocked into yours again, deeper this time, his rhythm steady, agonizing in its restraint. Each movement sent a pulse of heat through your core, building tension with unbearable slowness. His hand slid from your hip to the front of your body, palm flat against your lower abdomen, grounding you as he held you still. The other trailed upward, over your chest, your clavicle, fingertips tracing the ridge of your collarbone—light enough to make you shiver, hard enough to remind you of his control.

You moaned again—louder this time, the sound breaking in your throat and echoing against the dark stone walls. The pressure was mounting, the heat pooling, and Parker... he knew. He thrust again, angling his hips slightly, and hit that spot inside you with surgical precision. Your knees nearly buckled.

"Yeah," he growled, his voice deeper now, raw and edged with hunger. "Right there. You feel me, don't you?"

You could only nod—barely—biting down on your lip as your back arched into him, wordless and shaking. Your hands fisted against the wall. Your body opened for him, needing more. Demanding it.

Parker pulled you tighter against him, his pace just beginning to quicken. The heat between you swelled—feral, sacred, consuming.

And still, he made you feel everything.

"Hold on," he growled, voice rough and dark with promise.

And then he moved.

Gone was the slow, teasing rhythm. Now, his pace was brutal—deep and unrelenting. He pulled back and slammed into you with purpose, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls, raw and obscene. Your body jolted with each thrust, the force of it pressing you forward against the obsidian wall until your palms flattened, your breath fogging the polished surface in frantic, broken gasps.

"Fuck—" you moaned, the word ripped from your throat as his hips snapped into you again, harder, faster. Your knees buckled from the sheer force of his rhythm, but Parker was already there—one arm banded tight around your waist, the other snaking across your chest, dragging you upright and slamming into you again.

"That's right," he hissed into your ear, his breath hot and filthy. "Let me feel you. Let them hear you."

And gods, they would. Anyone outside the chamber could hear this—the sound of Parker fucking you mercilessly, the helpless cries spilling from your lips, the wet, pounding rhythm of bodies colliding with desperate hunger.

He shifted his angle just slightly, and that was all it took—his cock driving into the exact spot that sent sparks through your entire body. You cried out, head falling back against his shoulder, the pleasure so sharp it left you shaking, overwhelmed, undone.

His thrusts came faster now, hips snapping into yours in a savage rhythm, relentless and claiming. His cock dragged against that spot again and again, deeper, harder, until your moans became breathless sobs of pleasure.

And then his hand slid lower.

You gasped as his fingers curled around your cock, already flushed and leaking. His grip was firm, confident—stroking you in time with the brutal rhythm of his hips. Each movement was perfectly synced, designed to unravel you. He knew your body too well—where to touch, how to touch, how to ruin.

"So perfect," Parker growled against your skin. "So fucking perfect like this—taking me like you're meant to."

You clenched around him involuntarily, your body trembling, and he groaned, low and ragged, his thrusts faltering for a split second before he gritted his teeth and drove in harder.

The heat in your gut was climbing—tightening. Every drag of his cock, every stroke of his hand was pushing you closer, closer, until it was too much. The tension coiled in your belly, pressure building to a breaking point as your moans turned frantic, your thighs shaking with the effort to stay upright.

"Come for me," he snarled, breath coming fast now. "Let go."

Parker's hand didn't falter—not once. His palm stroked you in relentless rhythm with the savage thrusts of his hips, pushing you to the edge and beyond. Your breath shattered into pieces, your body seizing up as pleasure exploded inside you like fire through your veins.

You came with a strangled, broken cry—your release spilling hot across his hand, your hips jerking helplessly as your vision blurred at the edges. You collapsed forward against the wall, only Parker's grip around your waist keeping you from falling apart entirely.

But he wasn't done.

He groaned behind you—raw, wrecked—as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His cock throbbed violently, pulsing deep inside you as he spilled with a growl that trembled against your spine. He moaned your name like it was a prayer and a curse, hands gripping your hips so tightly it was all you could do to breathe.

Then, silence.

Only the sound of your harsh, panting breaths, the quiet hiss of fire from the sconces, and the ragged beat of two hearts pounding in sync. Parker rested against you, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck, sweat slicking his skin. His breath ghosted against your shoulder as he whispered, almost dazed, "Fuck... I needed that."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, still clinging to the wall, your legs barely steady beneath you. "We're going to be late."

Behind you, Parker gave a lazy, satisfied hum. He slowly slipped out of you with a soft groan, one hand trailing down your side before squeezing your hip. "Let them wait," he murmured with a crooked smirk. "You're worth it."

For a long, breathless moment, the room held still.

The only sound was the low crackle of the sconces on the walls, their flames casting soft flickers over sweat-slicked skin and scattered clothes. Then, quietly, you heard him shift. Fabric whispered against skin as Parker bent down, retrieving your shirt from where it had fallen, and gently shook it out. Instead of tossing it to you or cracking a joke, he brought it up behind you—delicately dragging the silk across your lower back, wiping away the evidence of what had just taken place.

His touch was slow. Gentle. Reverent.

No teasing quip. No triumphant smirk. Just silence.

That, more than anything, made your brows knit.

You turned slowly, letting the wall support your weight, watching him as he stood and stepped back into his trousers with a kind of quiet efficiency. He moved fluidly, like he'd done it a hundred times before, but something was off. His head stayed slightly bowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tensed as he refastened his belt. He was chewing on something. Not food. Not words. A feeling, maybe. One he hadn't quite decided how to face.

You reached for the shirt he'd just used and slipped it on, the fabric cool against your flushed skin. But your eyes never left him.

"You're quiet," you murmured—not accusing, just noticing. Like stating a shift in the wind before the storm finally broke.

Parker looked up at that, and there it was: the flicker. Barely noticeable, but there. A tightness around his eyes, a weight behind them. The mask—the smirk, the flirt, the devil-may-care sparkle—was still there, but it didn't reach as far tonight.

"That wasn't a complaint, was it?" he asked with a forced grin, voice coated in the usual charm—but it landed like a sigh, not a tease.

You stepped toward him, the stone warm beneath your bare feet. Your voice stayed even. "No. But you didn't come in here just to fuck me against a wall either."

He didn't argue. Just sat down heavily on the edge of the velvet chaise, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced loosely in front of him. His shoulders—normally cocky, open, unapologetically confident—were sloped with a weight that didn't belong to physical strain.

He looked like someone expecting a blow he couldn't dodge.

"It's starting to feel real," he said softly, almost to himself. "All of it. The trials. The politics. The games. And the weight that comes after the crown."

You didn't interrupt. You just stood close, quietly buttoning your shirt, letting your presence speak louder than words.

"I've always played the fool," he continued, his voice steadier now, but not by much. "The charming heir, the distraction. The joke between Abigail's fire and Hunter's silence. No one expected anything of me. That was the point."

He glanced up at you, eyes searching.

"But now... tonight, they'll be watching. Measuring. Like I might actually win this. Like I might actually become the next leader of my father’s dynasty."

You didn't let him spiral further. You moved—dropped to one knee in front of him, your palm resting against his thigh, grounding him.

"Because you might," you said simply. Truthfully.

His eyes met yours, unguarded this time, stripped of the armor and wit he always wrapped himself in. "And what if I'm not ready?"

The words landed heavy. Honest.

You studied him—really studied him. Not the heir. Not the flirt. Not the performer. Just Parker. A man shaped by pressure and pain and shadow, suddenly teetering on the edge of something so much bigger than himself.

You tightened your grip slightly on his leg, voice low and certain. "Then we get ready together. You don't have to face this alone."

Something shifted between you—deep, quiet. Not lust. Not rivalry. Something older. Something rooted.

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Alright," he said softly. A promise, not just a word.

Then—finally—a hint of the old Parker crept in, the corners of his mouth curling with the ghost of a smirk. "But next time I fuck you..." he murmured, rising to his feet and brushing his fingers against yours as he passed, "I'm taking my time."

You snorted, rising after him. "You're lucky I let you in this time."

He looked over his shoulder, that smirk turning just a bit warmer. "Please," he murmured, with a familiar glint. "You always let me in."

#x male reader #gay #charmed #parker caine x male reader #parker caine #hunter caine #abigail caine

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pinefamilycatsau · 2 months ago

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INCREDIBLY rough song i wrote and sung for the first time 5 minutes ago. enjoy @aroace-get-out-of-my-face

its late please forgive my terrible voice

lyrics:

Within the woods of time, where the soft pines whisper

A hunter came a stalking for an eager eared listener

And as his feet slipped onwards

The music it grew quicker

It's beat inched ever louder howling "hear me, hear me sister"

Within the woods of time, where the tabby cat grooms its whiskers

A hunter came a stalking for an eager eared listener

And I was found unwary

Like hot wind against a blister

And I couldn't stop the dreaming screaming "hear me, hear me sister"

Paint my face with words of steel and iron

You may keep the dreamers out

If you burn down the briar

But red thread, daisy chains, paper white as snow

When the good folk tell their stories they will surely find a home

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zeke-fanfucs · 24 days ago

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NEW OC

Yall can add on him. Please. I need help to add more stuff on him

Where I got the inspiration cause I’m a desperate writer. And I been thinking of this man.!!

Name: Ezekai “Dustveil” Varn

Species: Nyxan

An ancient alien race of shadow-wrought beings that phase in and out of dimensional layers, feeding on ambient emotion and light. Most Nyxans are elusive and nomadic, often seen only as moving silhouettes with glowing eyes.

⸻

Appearance:

• Height: 7’4”

• Build: Lithe but powerful, like a coiled whip

• Skin/Shadow: His form appears as a living shadow with faint, swirling wisps. Up close, you can catch hints of midnight-blue undertones.

• Eyes: Piercing golden irises—no pupils—shining like twin lanterns in the dark

• Clothing: Tattered but well-kept cowboy duster, wide-brimmed hat (stitched with memory-thread, a fabric that holds emotion), leather boots with spurs that don’t jingle—they whisper

• Accessories: Wears a silver pocket watch that no longer ticks, engraved with his wife’s name

⸻

Weapons:

• The Twin Suns: Two golden, rune-carved colts—Nyxan-forged revolvers that fire condensed shadowlight. They hum when danger’s near and can pierce through most armor by phasing through physical matter.

• The Veilwhip: A shadow-lash he keeps coiled at his hip, made from his own essence, used to bind or disarm.

⸻

Companion:

• Name: Umbrahoove

• Species: Voidmare

• Description: A towering skeletal demon-horse with a mane of flickering shadowflame and eyes like dying stars. Born in the Wastes between planes, it responds only to Ezekai’s voice. When it gallops, it leaves a trail of smoke and ash, and it can phase through solid terrain.

⸻

Background:

• Origin: From a forgotten shadow-mining town in the eastern ridges of Springrock, a semi-lawless territory at the edge of known civilization.

• Past Occupation: Once a feared bandit leader, known for swift raids and ghostlike ambushes. Later turned bounty hunter after losing his crew in a betrayal orchestrated by the Rangers.

• Enemies: Hated by the Rangers. They blame him for a massacre he didn’t commit.

• Wife: Milae, a human healer with a voice like honey and steel in her spine. She died of heart failure, but her influence lives on.

• Children: Kael (15): Quiet, inventive, and already mastering shadow-weaving

• Rowan (12): Fiery, reckless, and deadly with a Bow & arrows.

⸻

Personality:

• Core Traits: Stoic, cunning, deeply loyal, carries sorrow like an old song

• Moral Code: Will never harm children or innocents. Doesn’t shoot first unless you’re a Ranger or a liar.

• Quirks: Talks to his horse like it’s a person

• Collects broken watches and timepieces

• Hums old folk songs when sad, especially ones Milae used to sing

• Leaves silver coins on the eyes of the dead

⸻

Rumors & Lore:

• It’s said Ezekai can step into your shadow and reappear behind you.

• The gold in his revolvers was melted from cursed coins taken from a dimensional vault.

• There’s a bounty so large on his head that even some of his friends consider turning him in—if they could catch him.

• Some say he’s not just hunting bounties, but looking for someone—or something—that can resurrect the dead.

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 1 year ago

Note

Hi again! Can't pass the opportunity of suggesting a prompt either ^w^ Thanks so much!

V. "I'm a little disappointed. I expected a bit more of a struggle." for the Vampire / Werewolf AU

Thank you so much! I always love your comments, so I hope this is to your taste as well! ❤️

Leader of the pack

Rated: T

Words: 996

Tags: Vampire & Werewolf AU; Vampire Eddie; Kas!Eddie; Werewolf Steve; Eddie Munson Whump; Jason Carver being an asshole; Blood and violence; Nudity; Eddie is having a bad day

“You know,” the hunter says, and his companions snicker. “I'm a little disappointed. I expected a bit more of a struggle.”

“Well, what can I say?” Kas retorts. “You have very convincing arguments.”

He tries to struggle free, but his skin burns at each contact with the net. It’s woven of delicate silver thread. It might as well be made of steel. His grin turns into a pained snarl, lips peeling back to reveal his fangs.

“You flash those all you want,” the hunter drawls. “You won't be able to for long.”

“What?” Kas sneers at him. “You gonna kill me? I'm terrified.”

The hunter smiles sharply.

“Oh, no. I won't kill you yet. I know there's more of you wretched bloodsuckers lurking in the mountains, and you …” One of his hands grabs Kas by the jaw. “You are going to tell me where to find them.”

Kas snaps at him. The man laughs.

“Patrick,” he says to one of his companions. “Give me the pliers. Let's see how he likes biting once we pull out his-”

He doesn't get any further.

Something rustles and before he has a chance to fully turn, a giant, snarling shadow flies out of the darkness and latches on to his throat.

Kas hits the ground. His skull connects with a rock, and the world descends into a blur of teeth and fur and terrified shouts as more shadows lunge from the forest.

When the fog lifts, the hunters are gone. Their cries mingle with the sounds of howls and snarls in the darkness.

In front of him, staring at him with eyes like liquid gold, is a giant, furry beast.

Kas groans, head thunking back against the ground.

“Fucking mutts.”

The wolf huffs something that might be a laugh. Then, it hunches in on itself and the sound turns into a whine. Kas screws his eyes shut to block out the sight of the shift while the wolf’s pained noises mingle with the crunch and slide of muscles and bones rearranging themselves.

“The polite thing to say would’ve been thank you. I thought your kind was known for their good manners.”

When Kas blinks his eyes back open, the wolf is gone. In its place is a young man. His eyes are more hazel than gold, but still sparkling with smug amusement. His hair is the same caramel color as the fur of his other form.

He’s also bumfuck naked.

“Yeah, well,” Kas says, “I thought yours was known for keeping your noses out of the affairs of other races.”

The stranger huffs again. He stands and stretches - a long, graceful ripple of lean muscle - before he twists around to unsling the leather bag strapped to his back.

“We do, usually,” he says, sitting back on his haunches and rifling through its contents. “However, we tend to take it personal when strangers wander into our territory and hunt down our prey. Animals don't grow on trees, y’know?”

Kas stares at him, because … what? Surely this is a joke, because who'd say something like that with a straight face? The answer to that question, evidently, is naked wolf boy right here, because he refuses to even crack a grin.

“Wha-?” is what he finally says. “What animals? I haven't touched any of your precious prey.”

Wolf boy measures him with a long, doubtful look, like he's trying to figure out whether or not to believe him. Finally, he sighs and pulls his hand from the bag. Glinting between his fingers is a long, jagged knife.

Kas hisses.

Wolf boy rolls his eyes. “Are you always that dramatic? I was only gonna cut you loose.”

The knife slices through the thin thread with ridiculous ease, but it still takes a while to free him. Wolf boy needs to be careful to not touch the silver himself, after all - not the easiest of tasks without even a shred of fabric on his body.

“What’s your name?”

This must be the most bizarre conversation of his long, tedious un-life, he thinks. Exchanging smalltalk and platitudes with a naked werewolf while being cut out of a hunter’s net.

“Kas.”

“Bless you,” wolf boy says. Kas can’t see his face, having turned his back to give him better access to the net there, but he doesn’t need to. He can practically see the dorky grin. “What’s it with you vampires and your stupid, made-up fantasy names, huh?”

“It’s a question of style, alright?” he grumbles. “Not like I’d expect you to get it. What’s your pack leader called again? Otis?”

Wolf boy’s hands freeze, but only for a second. Then, the knife gives one final, brisk tug, and Kas can feel the last of the net fall away from his blistered skin. He can’t quite help the relieved sigh that escapes him.

“Anyhow, it was nice meeting you,” he mumbles, rolling his neck and reveling in the feeling of his powers slowly seeping back in. “Have a nice rest of your life, I guess.”

“Huh?” Wolf boy asks. “Oh no, you got that wrong. You’re coming with us.”

Before he even has a chance to ask what that means, something closes around his wrists. This time, the silver is encased in a thick layer of leather, so it doesn’t make his skin blister and burn. It still draws all of his strength right back out, leaving him weak and harmless like a kitten.

“What the actual fuck?” he snarls as wolf boy hoists him to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Funny that you should mention grandpa Otis,” wolf boy says merrily. “He’s been dead for ten years. My name’s Steve, by the way. Sorry if it’s not fancy enough for your taste. Come on now, I hate making my pack wait.”

Kas is powerless to resist as he grabs him by the elbow and walks him towards the myriad of glowing eyes staring at them from the treeline.

More celebration ficlets

Steve said "I'm the alpha" 😅

Part 2

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #hype's 1k follower ficlets

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ninibeingdelulu · 1 year ago

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“I should’ve bought you flowers…”

plot- you run into Leon, your ex boyfriend CLICK ME

A bitterly crisp autumn breeze whistled down the empty cobblestone streets of the sleepy rural marketplace, rustling scarlet and amber leaves scuttling across Leon's boots.

He dug both leather-clad hands deeper into his jacket pockets while hunching further into the insulated collar turned up against the biting chill as he strode purposefully onwards.

Mid-afternoon foot traffic always remained relatively scant throughout town - most of the local shops and farmstands having already packed up for the day once their fresh harvests sold through.

All except for the lone family grocer tucked away on the far corner where Leon typically grabbed essentials for the upcoming week.

Just the way he preferred it - in and out quickly with minimal interactions beyond terse polite nods at the shopkeep ringing up his basket.

Today, however...

The distinct figure standing alone beside the open-air produce section instantly seized Leon's attention like an icy fist clenching vice-tight around his ribcage.

That unmistakable silhouette he'd know from a thousand lonely city blocks away no matter how many endless nights of haunted insomnia blurred his vision.

Even from behind, every perfectly etched line of those slender shoulders and the elegant slope of that elegant neck remained scorched into his memory as if branded by a white-hot iron fresh from the forge.

Despite the crystalline sunlight glinting off your silken hair spilling in luxurious waves, Leon's pulse roared thunderously in his ears until all else fell abruptly silent.

As if the earth itself ground to a screeching halt on its axis to better amplify the way his heart stuttered at the mere sight of you for the first time in over a year.

Leon's first instinct was to pivot on his heel and retreat - retracing his steps back the way he came before you'd sensed his presence.

But something deep and inexplicable within kept rooting him to that frostbitten cobblestone, feet feeling as though they'd taken sudden root.

He watched through the hazy blur as you stepped minutely closer to the vendor's stall, slender fingers curling pensively around the handle of your tote as your head swiveled ever so slowly.

Until those wide soulful eyes he knew better than any remembered prayer swiveled to lock with his for one breathless moment suspended in amber streaks of morning light.

Your lips parted on a shocked inhale while recognition washed across those beloved features with the force of a tidal wave.

Leon remained frozen to the spot - a poor reconstruction of the suave federal agent and hardened hunter of biohazard evils crumbling away to expose the hollowed out shell he'd become in your absence.

All those tightly regimented walls built up over the past year came crashing down to lay the tattered remnants of his heart exposed as an open wound once more.

One side of his lips tugged upwards in a weak facsimile of a smile that never reached the enduring anguish flickering behind those shadowed steel-blue irises.

With supreme effort, Leon forced air into his lungs enough to grit out two words scorching like acid across his tongue:

"Hey...stranger."

It was all the unraveling threads of his frayed composure could muster without shattering completely.

He swallowed thickly while pivoting on his heel, boots scuffing against the cobblestone as he made to continue onwards.

Away from here...away from you. Before any deeper glimpses of vulnerability managed to slip through and reveal his soul's innermost hemorrhaging.

Leon only managed to make it a few paces before your tremulous voice calling out finally fractured what remained of his crumbling resolve.

"Leon...wait."

He halted obediently while squeezing his eyes shut against the ghostly caress of your honeyed syllables washing over him for the first time in far too long.

Drawing a harsh, shuddering inhale, Leon gradually turned back just enough to chance a sidelong glance over his shoulder without meeting your pleading gaze head-on.

It was all the restraint he could cling to not to fully whirl around and stare...to greedily drink you in after being denied that forbidden oasis for what felt like an eternity.

"I..." Your speech briefly faltered- words clearly failing to manifest the roiling ocean of emotions swirling across your expression before you visibly steadied yourself.

"What you said one year ago, about not being...enough...That's not true at all. You were always more than enough for me."

A bitter, mirthless chuckle rasped past Leon's lips - barely even audible over the keening winds.

"Yeah...and it took you one entire year to say it ? Why didn’t you said it back then, before disappearing ?"

Both of you recoiled in unison at the harsh self-loathing barb like physical blows.

Your dismayed features twisted immediately into anguished denial only to falter helplessly as he shook his head firmly, making an abortive motion as if to physically halt the reassurance already forming on your lips.

"Look, I'm...sorry. That wasn't fair of me."

Leon dragged his palm down the exhausted lines of his face while fixing that stormy azure gaze straight ahead.

Away from the irresistible temptation of your wounded eyes he knew would unravel the few stray threads of his composure still wound tight.

"I counted every minutes, every seconds…damn, y/n."

His adam's apple bobbed in a pronounced swallow against the tightening pressure rapidly constricting his throat.

"I missed you, but over the months I realized it was a mistake...Now, wherever the road led you from here after we parted ways, well..."

Leon swept one final glance over his shoulder then to convey everything his faltering speech couldn't accurately translate.

"I really do hope wherever it takes you next makes you happier than I ever could."

With one final rueful quirk of his lips, the former RPD survivor pivoted on his heel once again and simply walked away without looking back.

Only once those ramrod shoulders had disappeared entirely around the winding village path did Leon allow himself to sag boneless against the nearest building's stucco exterior.

He scrubbed both palms across his face to muffle the wrecked keen ripping itself from his very marrow as endless rivulets of searing pain left twin trails streaking each chiseled cheekbone...

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ammirabilis · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter 2

Pairing: Olivia x Fem!Hunter/Reader

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a hunt gone horribly wrong, you're forced to confront the ghosts of your past and a feeling you’ve been too afraid to name.

Genre: Action, romance, angst, hurt/comfort

CW: Canon-typical violence, reader has PTSD

Divider by: @strangergraphics

Part 1 | Also on AO3

There was so much blood.

The red liquid gushed out of the open wound, soaking through the fabric of the leggings you’d ripped up as makeshift gauze. You packed the wound as best you could but the bleeding wouldn’t stop with anything you tried. Where were the medics? Why were they taking so long?

She didn’t have much time, you could tell by the way she struggled to breathe, wheezing as blood gurgled out of her mouth. You felt helpless at this point. She was starting to choke on the fluids filling her lungs but you didn’t dare to move your hands from her stomach as it was the only thing keeping her insides from falling out.

“It’s okay. Stay with me, they’ll be here soon.” You whispered, a weak attempt to console her. Your eyes blurred with tears, obstructing your view of her expression for a brief moment. It wasn’t pained anymore, just resigned, utterly exhausted. “Don’t close your eyes,” you begged, unsure if she could even hear you anymore.

She weakly grasped your collar and opened her mouth, attempting to speak. You pressed closer to hear what she had to say but all she could do was moan. You knew it was the end, her brain was shutting down. Her body gasped and shuddered with one final exhale, eyes completely glazing over. She was gone.

You don’t know how long you sat there, holding her guts and blankly staring at the blood beginning to dry on your hands. There was so much of it still.

There was blood on your hands.

There was blood on your hands and you were shaking.

“Hunter!”

There was blood on your hands.

It was still wet.

You were shaking.

No— you were being shaken, lightly, as if you could snap at any moment.

Someone was calling your name.

Another shake, firmer this time, and your senses began to knit themselves back together. You were in the Windward Plains and Alma was here too. When had she arrived? You barely registered the warm press of her palm on your shoulder, bringing you back to the present.

“Medy is here, we’ll take Olivia back to base camp,” she paused, searching your face for some kind of indication that you were listening. “Are you okay to continue? Rosso will assist you in finishing the hunt.” Alma’s voice was soft, but the tension threading through it betrayed her worry.

You nodded mechanically, the importance of the unfinished hunt settling on your shoulders. The monster was still out there and knowing that Olivia was counting on you to finish this gave your body permission to move. You stepped aside to let the medic palico work, turning toward Athos with a somber look.

“You should go with them.”

But the felyne shook her head defiantly and darted to your side. “No, I’ll stay with mew. It’s what Livvie would want!”

A lump formed in your throat at her words. Had Olivia specifically instructed her to stay with you, just in case? Of course she had. It was so like her to be thinking of others first, even when she was the one bleeding on the ground.

You wanted to object, but Rosso’s voice cut through your hesitation, shouting for you to quickly regroup.

“Alright then,” you murmured, tightening your grip on your glaive. “Let’s go.”

Your body moved on its own, slipping into a rhythm forged from repetition and necessity. You launched back into the fray against the Rey Dau, vision narrowed to the curve of your blade, the snap of muscle, the spray of sparks where steel met scale. You didn’t think, you didn’t feel. You just struck again and again, chasing the end of it.

When the Rey Dau finally crashed to the earth, you didn’t stay to carve, didn’t speak to Rosso. You called for your Seikret and mounted without a word, Athos and your palico close behind, the three of you racing back to Olivia.

The camp came into view through the craggy hills, a glow of lanterns and bustling movement against the darkening sky. Your Seikret skidded to a halt outside the infirmary tent, and you were on the ground before it had fully stopped, Athos leaping off behind you.

Alma and Werner were already there, their backs to you, speaking in low, urgent tones to Medy. You caught fragments of the conversation: “fracture... shock... internal bleeding.” The words made you want to vomit.

Werner turned in your direction, his face grim. “She’s stabilized but not out of the woods yet. Word was sent to Erik, he’s on his way.” His fingers clenched around Olivia’s damaged armor, knuckles bone-white. All you could do was stare at it, the scorched ends and bloodstains a cruel reminder of your failures. With a sharp exhale, Werner shoved past you in the direction of his forge.

Athos moved on ahead, but you had frozen at the flap of the tent. For a moment, your legs wouldn’t move. You were braced against the memory of another time:

Five years ago, in the swampy Marshlands. Jess, crumpled under a Deviljho’s jaw, and a look of terror on her face that you’d never forget. She had been so eager, so young. Too inexperienced for that kind of shit.

Back then, you were throwing caution to the wind in chase of hunts that could prove your ability to stand with the elite. Jess was your junior by a couple years. She had just wanted to learn, and you let her tag along, thinking you’d be able to handle it. The Deviljho took you both by surprise and by the end of it, Jess returned to camp wrapped in a tarp. You remembered it so clearly— the same sick tang of blood and poultices hung in the air outside her tent as they prepared to send her body home.

You blinked and the image dissolved, but the taste of it lingered at the back of your throat. That memory haunted you for a long time. You promised yourself it wouldn’t happen again, that you’d go at it alone until you were strong enough to protect others too. Yet here you were again, still failing.

What’s worse is that this time it was Olivia that you had failed.

You tried to be professional at first, excusing the flutter in your chest whenever she was nearby as nerves or brushing it off as simple admiration for her prowess in the field. But somewhere between shared campfires and thrilling hunts, your walls had cracked. She found her way in, quietly and inevitably, like sunlight filtering through the forest canopy after the Downpour. Now, she meant more to you than anyone ever had.

This fact alone terrified you, because if you admitted the true depth of what you felt then the stakes become unbearable. In the violent, fragile life of hunters, was love a strength or liability? You didn’t have the answer to this question but you knew that if you lost Olivia, it would ruin you.

A soft nudge at your leg broke your thoughts. Your palico looks up at you with worried eyes. “Come on, meowster, let’s go see her.”

When you finally stepped inside, the sight of Athos curled up by Olivia’s side nearly broke you. She was so still, her freckled skin looked pale and cold. Her arm was bound in layers of gauze, torso wrapped tight, shallow breaths barely lifting her chest. She looked small, and you hated how fragile she seemed beneath the thick canvas blankets. You were used to seeing her tall and strong. Her presence had been a constant by your side throughout this entire expedition— unshakable, relentless, and indomitable. And maybe she still would be, if it weren’t for you.

You sank to the chair near her cot, laden with guilt. It should be you laying there instead. “She shouldn’t have shielded me.”

Athos’ paw touched your hand, a small comfort you didn’t deserve. “She made a choice. We all do, out there.”

“Still, I should’ve been more alert. Faster. Something.”

“Livvie’s tough, she’ll bounce back. And when she does, she’ll kick your tail for blaming yourself.”

You let out a bitter noise that might have been a laugh. Maybe Athos should blame you, too.

Beside you, your palico put a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t do that to yourself. Olivia wouldn’t want you to fall apart.” Perhaps he was right, but you were already falling apart. So you simply stayed there, watching the rise and fall of Olivia’s breathing like it was the only thing holding the world together.

The next few days blurred together. You’d lost track of time and the countless hours spent by Olivia’s bedside, consumed with guilt, fear, and whatever harsh hypotheticals your mind conjured up. Barely sleeping or eating, you were irritable.

Alma noticed it first, gently pulling you aside. “You’re a wreck,” she said, giving you a tight hug. “I’ll clear our schedule until your head’s back where it belongs.”

You initially wanted to fight her on it, but you knew she was right. Instead, you threw yourself into the training grounds. You ran through maneuvers like a mad thing, over and over. If you had shifted left, if you had vaulted faster, if you had taken an extra second to scan the ground. Every misstep became a lesson that you forced yourself to endure until you could barely walk.

Astrum unit closed ranks, like they always did when one of their own was down. The last time it had been so serious was when Athos almost lost her eye.

Erik brewed various salves from rare herbs he foraged and traded for. The concoctions were potent enough to knit flesh, ease fever, and minimize scarring. He spent hours brewing them up, and tended to Olivia’s injuries every day with a reverence you’d only seen in him when handling his most prized specimens.

Werner holed up in his forge, eyes rimmed red from smoke, hammering new reinforcements into the plates of Olivia’s armor. “Not letting this fail her again,” he muttered, inspecting every inch meticulously. On his weapon rack was Olivia’s trusty hammer, kept neatly polished for her return.

And sweet Athos, who always introduced herself as “Livvie’s companion,” naturally managed logistics with great precision. She brought everyone meals, even you, and nagged Werner to sleep when it got too dark outside. She followed Erik on his foraging runs, kept a schedule, and sat in on meetings. In the evenings, she’d make a fuss about Olivia’s blankets and pillow being just right, then recount the day’s events to her as if giving a formal report.

They didn’t talk much about what happened, but they didn’t need to. Their silence held weight— not of her absence, but of their endurance and how they shouldered every obstacle together.

You were the only one still spinning, wondering if you still deserved to be in her orbit at all.

#my writing #mhwilds olivia #olivia mhw #olivia monster hunter #monster hunter olivia #monster hunter #monster hunter wilds #mhwilds #monhun #longer chapter this time #I PROMISE there will be olivia interactions next chapter #hammer wife

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ssleeping-in-a-coffin · 4 months ago

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How to Neutralize and Contain a Vampire: A Practical Guide

Vampires are creatures with superhuman strength, speed, and regeneration. To take one down, you’ll need careful planning and a systematic approach. Here’s a step-by-step guide based on their physical traits. Ready, my dear Van Helsings?

1. Putting Them to Sleep

First things first, you need to temporarily neutralize the vampire. Use a tranquilizer with silver nanoparticles. Silver slows their regeneration, while the sedative knocks them out fast

Delivery Method: A syringe dart or gas spray

Pro Tip: Make sure the dosage is calculated for their supercharged metabolism

2. Securing the Mouth

Let's say you did manage to put the vampire to sleep for a while. Now you have to act fast! To prevent biting or hypnotic tricks, you’ll need a strong gag made of Carbon fiber or Kevlar

3. Blocking Their Vision

A vampire’s eyes are dangerous, especially if they’re into the whole hypnosis thing. Use a lightproof fabric with an extra layer to block UV rays

4. Muffling Their Hearing

Vampires have crazy-good hearing, which means they can pick up on the tiniest sounds, like your heartbeat. Go for noise-canceling ones or electronic plugs that generate white noise (Alternative: A soundproof helmet if the vamp is extra feisty)

5. Restraining the Arms

A vampire’s arms aren’t just for show—they’re strong and armed with claws. Use one made of tough materials like Kevlar or steel threads, and make sure it pins their arms behind their back

Extra Security: Add titanium or silver cuffs for good measure

Claws: If you’re feeling bold, trim them with heavy-duty tools

6. Locking Down the Legs

A vampire’s legs let them move at insane speeds, so you’ll need to keep them in check

Shackles: Heavy-duty metal cuffs that limit movement

Bonus: Chain their legs together for extra security

7. Suppressing Regeneration

To stop them from bouncing back, use silver rods.

Insertion Points: Target major muscle groups like the thighs (quadriceps) and shoulders (deltoids)

Effect: The silver slows regeneration and causes discomfort, keeping them subdued

8. Long-Term Containment

Once neutralized, you’ll need a proper place to stash the vampire. Keep the room at around –25°C (Ideally -40°C). The cold slows their metabolism and keeps them docile

Final Thoughts

Taking down a vampire is no walk in the park—it’s all about precision and preparation. Use durable materials like Kevlar, titanium, and silver to lock down their physical abilities. And remember, even a restrained vampire is still dangerous, so stay sharp. Good luck to you hunters!

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aifanfictions · 2 years ago

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Write a love story about the ant king Meruem (from the anime Hunter x Hunter) falling in love with (y/n) who has a weak body and this scares Meruem because her fainting for example would scare him into thinking (y/n) is going to die so he frets over her health at all times and is super observant

Regal Heart

In the world where their paths had intersected, Meruem, the regal and formidable Ant King, found himself unexpectedly enraptured by (Y/N), a soul with a body as fragile as glass but with a spirit as resilient as steel. Her weakness was not in her resolve but in her physicality, and it was this duality that both intrigued and frightened Meruem.

Upon their initial meeting, Meruem's curiosity was piqued by the paradox of (Y/N)'s delicate yet resilient nature. It was an enigma to him, the idea of someone so physically fragile displaying an unbreakable will. For a being as imposing and powerful as the Ant King, this contradiction was enthralling.

The episodes of (Y/N)'s fainting were a source of unprecedented worry for Meruem. Accustomed to control and dominance, the unpredictability of her fainting spells presented a vulnerability that both confused and concerned him deeply. The fear of losing her, of witnessing her delicate form succumb to its weaknesses, was a sensation he could neither understand nor control.

Despite the uncharted territories of emotions he was navigating, Meruem's vigilance over (Y/N)'s well-being became a cornerstone of his existence. His piercing eyes, usually unwavering in the face of battle, were now continually observant of her condition, anticipating the next moment of her weakness with an acute sense of dread.

On (Y/N)'s end, the unexpected attention from the Ant King was both humbling and perplexing. His fierce aura, usually associated with dominance, was juxtaposed against his gentle care for her well-being. She found solace in his protective instincts, understanding that his demeanor, though regal and intimidating, concealed a depth of emotion she hadn't anticipated.

Their relationship was a study in contrasts, a testament to the coexistence of great strength and fragility. Meruem's fear was a new, unfathomable sensation, driving him to safeguard (Y/N) against an uncertain fate. And for (Y/N), the concern displayed by the mighty Ant King became a shelter in her storm of vulnerability.

As their days progressed, their connection deepened, threading through the intricacies of vulnerability and strength. The fear that entwined itself within their relationship was as much a part of their bond as was the unwavering love that both sustained and challenged them.

Their love story was a harmony of strength and vulnerability, showcasing that love knows no boundaries, not even the boundaries of physical limitations. For Meruem, it wasn't about dominating or controlling; it was about protecting someone he cherished deeply. Meanwhile, (Y/N) discovered that the most profound strength wasn't just in physical resilience but in the enduring love of someone who feared losing her.

Their unconventional bond, an intricate fusion of vulnerability and resilience, highlighted the true essence of love—its ability to transcend physical limitations and fears. In the end, their tale became a testament to the eternal power of love, a story that echoed beyond the limits of their respective worlds.

NOTE! This story was generated by OpenAI

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lillylila2 · 3 months ago

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The old Tale of Avox

The Yuuzhan Vong pass around the tale of their Lord the Unholy Bane of the Hapain system.

Once there was a boy in the Hapain system. He always worked to exhaustion by his masters but as cruel as they were they could be worse than the visions of the realm of chaos he got in the night. Avox hadn't had much just a friend and a father in this horrid bother of a home but one day his dad had enough and caused a big huff resulting in the death of him and his son's friend. Now some say they made them take a bolt to the head or strung them up like a wire but despite the story they're certainly dead and expired. Avox filled with sorrow and alone awakened a power unknown so that these hapains won't see tomorrow.

Now Avox laid there weak and alone losing his only home he laid there ready to die but down came a sith in a form of flesh and metal. She had sensed Aux's power untamed and wild and in the guise of an angel to have his powers domesticated and vile under her new reign.

As her apprentice Aux was trained in power and reign to control those around him spread sorrow to those who surround him. He would be forced to work alongside 5 bounty hunters those being eyrie with eyes sharp as her blaster shot, Brier with an intelligence growing ever higher, Friea whose form was slender and fair, Barack whose strength was too much to bear, and Slick with a tongue cunning yet quick. The 6 would depart on a quest to claim a kyburr Chrystal although they faced their challenges each one each tough enough to give anyone calluses. They grew close like friends or so Avox thought until the end. Avox was shot in the spine, beat into line, mockery so horrid, and forms so adhorent his once friends have left him to die and what for just so that they may get a bigger reward?

Then he heard that voice once more " oh,my apprentice how you have been ravanged and discarded by those pathetic simpletons. I'm still your friend. You believe that don't you?" Before he could respond he passed out fast with his life hanging on by a thread.

In his masters lab within a stasis chamber he was modified. Genes sliced and diced, with metal infusion and delusion, being bigger, better, stronger, faster, and a monster although he was not fully unconscious with his nightmarish visions of chaos twiddling him down, degrading his mental walls, before finally he broke leaving him twisted into a manic monster of flesh and steel.

Upon his awakening it was not one of pained screams or one of immense hatred he lunged out of his stasis chamber shattering through it like a starving hound awaiting his next orders with an immense sense of psychopathic excitement. The old Avox was gone and in its place was all his desires and hatred twisted into this manic Demonic form towering over his master with a demented smile stretched upon his maw from corner to corner.

Much much later after several tests which were more like torture methods to test Lumiya's new creations endurance Avox got his rematch with old friends. Lumiya set up a trap leading her once past marauders into a secret mining facility upon the planet Ord Mantell. This mine was like an aberration, metal pipes along the walls and ceiling pulsing like veins with the only light source being a hand lamp which could hardly light the way making the tunnels look like it just faded into nothingness. The machinery looks to be expanding with wires extending outwards like cancerous growths with some of the now deceased workers having their electric tools fused with their body with others being fused into the cockpits of their mining machines but unfortunately there was one functional miner fused into the seat of his but whatever metal virus this is it seemed to have fully converted this into a metal zombie although he was blasted to hell and back with a thermal detenator from Barrack but Friea contracted the metal virus and before she could say a thing Eryie blasted her through the head before leaving the body to rot just like Avox.

Finally they reached a mining elevator above a dark abyss with these large pipes like veins running down into the abyss with an ominous beating noise coming from the abyss but as the elevator descended the beating god louder and louder before Brier goes crazy unable to comprehend this noise like it's twisting something inside of his brain further and further before he finally blasts himself in the dome. When the elevator reached the bottom they saw this large warehouse sized room with the pipe-like veins coating the walls, the ceiling goes so far up it's like a cloud of black smog, but at the end of the room the pipes all converge at one point curling around these twin gems that look like Kaiburr Crystals but Twisted into these ominous dark pulsing gemstones. Suddenly a drone comes forth and snags the gems before displaying a hologram of lumiya and says " You were not called here to collect a meguffim or tie up loose ends. You were tasked with being lab rats running in a maze with no exit, a race with no finish line, a present with no future, but you're now battle dummies for my latest creation.." before they can process from the darkness above Avox falls from above before them towering over the mauraders with that terrifying grin before speaking excitedly "Oh old friends I've missed you! I've been waiting ever so patiently for our next playdate!" Avox suddenly lunges fast sweeping up Slick fast and with one strong claw Avox snaps his throat permanently silencing his once cunning voice. With seeing this Barrack and Eryie open fire on Avox who just shrugs it off almost seemingly reacting like it tickles and one handedly lunges at barrack and just lifts him by the leg and slams him into the ground repeatedly like a toddler with a toy teddy until he's nothing but mush. Eryie now one on one with Avox tries to fall back to the elevator but as soon as it starts to go up Avox plunge his arm through it like it was cardboard and plucked Eyrie out before speaking once more " I remember you.. you're the one who knocked out my sight with your blaster shot but don't worry I have a special treat for you.." Avox finishes before plunging his thumbs into her eyes permanently blinding her but surprisingly he doesn't go for the kill and instead drops her. Avox starts walking away with a portal of green flame awaiting him before he turns back and says " Now you get to pretend you're me! It's your turn to experience the Avox trauma special! So it's your turn to rot like I did! " Avox says sadistically with Avox enjoying himself like a kid after playing with his toys. Avox relishes in Eryie's panicked screams for mercy and to "Not leave her here" before stepping through the portal back to his master's domain...

THE END

#passion project #oc #oc lore #star wars #Darth Avox

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keouil · 5 hours ago

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all while she stains the sheets of another

caleb sends zayne one line of text: hunter down. 3k. zayne/caleb/xavier/mc. also on ao3.

My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.

JEFF BUCKLEY

I take off my hands and I give them to you, but you don't want them so I take it back and put it on the wrong way, the wrong wrists.

RICHARD SIKEN

光

Zayne immediately knew something was wrong.

Akso Hospital kept a moderate temperature on its walls for the most part, a way to keep samples fresh and temperaments a little low. Less chances of anger breaking through the skin of people who were already either hyperemotional, hypervigilant, hypersensitive. He's used to the rhythm and icy meter of these blocks of concrete, welcomes it even, the natural way it stitches into his bones and his Evol clinging to it like water to a starving man.

But in all his years working here, it had never felt as chilling as it did now. As it did as he takes note of the room number and name scrawled on it’s nameplate. As he hears the wailing even from outside.

He opens the door.

"Zayne."

It is Caleb, of all people, who calls out to him. Caleb who was leaning near the door with his arms folded across his chest and blood marks all over his person. He was in his fighter pilot uniform and maybe that should have been Zayne's first warning sign, because he had been the one to sign off on his decommissioning papers hadn't he, insisting that the state Caleb was in was in no current mental or physical position to be out on the field.

But he knew certain allowances could be made in secret. That when push came to shove, certain people made the prospect of insubordination worth it.

It could only be that one person, then.

"How bad is it?"

Caleb, for all his credit, schools his expression into something somber. Something about it calls into a deep part of Zayne's own person he thought he buried along with William. The one that drilled in tranquility in moments of supreme pressure and high-stress environments, a steady hand in even the most violent of uproaring. He saw the soldier in Caleb the same way Caleb was calling unto the combat medic in him.

He'd meet him halfway.

He'd meet him in the deepest trenches of hell, at this point, for—

"Bad," Caleb finally says. His voice is like sandpaper on rocks, all tints of boyish amusement or dominant demeanor scrubbed clean. He suddenly sounded so young. So like someone around his own age who didn't command an entire fleet or belonged to top secret organizations.

"He fell pretty bad, Zayne. It’s—I don’t think he—um. Listen, I think," he continues, eyes moving anywhere but at the other side of the room with the veiled wailing, "I think he was pretty banged up. Even before then."

Zayne considers the lining in his words but can’t dwell on it. "Okay," he says, and says in a much lower voice, "But alive, right?"

"Barely," Caleb says sternly. "He needs—"

"Zayne?"

You hold yourself up by the thread of a needle sometimes, Noah told him just after Mount Eternal. What happens when you run out of thread?

As it happens, Zayne thought as he gave himself just a second to orient himself back into his body, as he gave Caleb a look of steel and met a similar one mirrored back on his face, this is what happens when that happens:

"Hey," he says, and takes a step closer;

"Zayne." she croaks, again, voice barely a whisper;

"I know," he says, softer, arranging himself next to her, and then: "I'll fix it. I'll fix him."

⊹

It was Caleb who made the call.

It was Caleb who sent Zayne one line of text just seconds before it: Hunter down.

"I don't fucking care if you're on your fifth surgery of the day or just waltzing into your shift with your morning coffee or some other bullshit," he very nearly hissed at him, tone seething and a little distracted, maybe even incredulous at what he was doing. "Make it happen, Zayne. Meet us in your operating room in one hour or her grief will be in your hands."

He'd been briefed by Greyson—who Caleb also rang in the middle of the goddamn night because he knew Zayne would need a second—that it had been an S-class mission that did them in.

There's a specific part of the mountains in Linkon Forest that was closed off not just to civilians but even hunters, the potency of radioactive protocores higher than what was healthy to consume even by meagre increments nor skilled hunter standards. A particularly malevolent area, it was; but rich in resources. Resources they needed to mine for niche protocore research. Resources that would help speed along a decade-long experiment by half. It was invaluable, necessary, and apparently life-altering.

Of course she went with him.

What they didn't expect: an undocumented terrain, the onslaught of a brewing storm just making its way into Linkon, their devices failing as soon as they gained more footing on the blind path. Linkon Forest regularly got requests for rescue missions from time to time, and by extension Akso Hospital who were first responders. But at the depth they were in, the heightened vulnerable points of their unpredictable path, and the particularly horrific details she was screaming into her phone when she finally got contact that came in quick, panicky bursts: ....b-blood [...] s-so much of i-it.. r-right lung fractured [...] eyes n-not opening .. p-pulse is not there [..] breathing, please, oh god please [..] s-someone [[.. help]] p-p-please!

It was one of the most harrowing, bone-chilling distress calls he'd ever heard.

Caleb was quicker to act than the emergency response and rescue team they dispatched. He was her second call, and even before they hung up, he was already bulldozing through the trees on his personal aircraft and zeroed in on their location and all but hauled them out of there.

He was quickly Caleb's first call then very shortly after.

⊹

The surgery is not without its complications.

Trauma lives in the body, is the first brutal lesson Zayne learned in medical school. Your body can't cover its tracks and will beg to tell the story of your pain. Every line of skin or stitching of wire is there to hold you up for a reason, your anatomy the single almost infinitesimal telling of how your print slices you off differently from the rest.

He could tell this had been a beautiful body once. Holy, princely, even.

But now his body was all but banged up beyond comprehension. Multiple bones fractured, multiple depressions to his skin, multiple bleeding arteries he was basically a flowing river of blood. It disoriented him as soon as he cracked open his chest to find black lining on his lungs. He knew he wasn't a smoker, because hunters get periodically tested for vices, and wouldn’t be allowed to continue if they saw traces of anything on their system. He had inhaled too much of it, then, the protocore residues; maybe it happened when they were rushing to outrun the falling debris and had to prioritize the air in their lungs. Maybe it happened before then, when she sprained her ankle and he had to accommodate her extra weight.

A lot of things could have happened. A lot of stories could be told.

The story this one does, though: a sacrifice. Zayne can already picture it, fills the gaps in himself, can practically see the scene play out from underneath him: a crumbling side of land giving away too quickly, rocks raining down on them as thunder shot in the distance like guns going off, a body covering another body. A rock covering a body. Another one trying vainly to pull it free, but a body of rock is as solid as a brick wall, and he already knew she lived a brief moment alone in that forest believing and was already trying to live with the worst.

She did it with Caleb. If she had to, again, with him: she could power through.

But Zayne knew she didn’t want to ever again.

Zayne didn't have to ask him for a confirmation when all she has to show for this night in hell was a sprained ankle and a few surface cuts.

And he's never told explicitly once, none of them would ever try he thinks, but all the same he feels it: his over involement. Greyson wisely keeps his mouth shut but also covers for him, for his slight tremors and general disorientation, for his over involvement and over investment and over everything of this procedure that clued anyone in on the dangers of tending to your own kin.

And he was, wasn't he, kin: because she had so obviously been his and that's all Zayne can think of that it fractures his nerves and sludges through trying to make it as impersonal as possible because it had now been anything but.

"Stay your hand, Zayne," says Greyson, lowly. "We’ve done this before and we'll do it again successfully. This is just another body."

So he does. He calls into the combat medic side of him to brave through this landmine, and he answers.

The body answers, too.

He checked five times with his anesthesiologist, he made sure he did, anytime the contours of the body’s mouth opened: but he was unconscious. His vitals told him that, the nurse holding his head has assured him, the silence in the room bar the rhythmic beeping and tapping of the machines also tell him as much. He made sure of it. He made sure every single person on the emergency trauma team bet their entire livelihoods on making sure of this.

And so when his mouth still kept opening from time to time, and his voice uttered something incoherent every so often, and Zayne finally relented and halted and the room took a breath to find out what he was saying along with him: he was even more spooked.

Because it wasn't her name he was saying. It wasn't her name at all.

Perhaps that was when he knew he was operating on a body that had overstayed its welcome.

⊹

"So did you know," says Caleb, not a question but a statement it felt like, when Zayne finally makes it out of the operating room and fought the urge to slide beneath a wall like a first-year medical student who just scrubbed into his first surgery and felt, for the first time as well, the grimming reality of it all. "About him and her."

Zayne accepts the coffee he hands him as he slumps down on a bench. Two sugar cubes and a dash of milk, he notes, and wonders how irritated Caleb must've felt remembering how he takes his coffee because he never told him but has told her plenty. "Him and her?"

It’s a little past three am now.

The only sounds the hospital is making at this hour are quiet stillness or loud anguish. There’s never a middle ground. Somehow they meet halfway, though, now on the clean synthetic walls of the cardiac surgery ward where there are no wars to be fought metaphoric or otherwise: or all the same have been forced to like old times. Swords being lowered down in favor of her.

Caleb takes a seat beside him and stares at nothing in particular. "Let's not do this, Zayne. We're both too tired and sleep-deprived and old."

“Where is she?” asks Zayne.

“Resting for now,” supplies Caleb. “Finally got her to calm down. I set her up in your office.”

Zayne nods along, takes a sip. "It's not our place to know," he says after a moment. "And it's also not the time, Caleb."

"I don't think there ever will be," sighs Caleb, something dejected swimming on the corners of his eyes. "You should have seen them when I got there. It was — It just —" he pauses, tries, and stops again.

And then:

"I've never seen her like that before."

Those are words Zayne knows Caleb doesn't say lightly.

He probably hasn't ever, in any point of his life, found a situation where he could arrange those words and mean it. He knows Caleb takes pride in being her best friend, at being the person who knew her the longest and has had the maximum amount of shared experiences with.

It's how he also knows why he's always been stiff with him as a result: because he, too, knew her for arguably a similar period. But he knows it was never about the time spent, but the quality of it. And he's already seen how just a few ample years without Caleb's hyper surveillance of her have married them in a way, at Caleb begrudgingly acknowledging he was the person to call in this situation, at the fine line of his mouth when he heard her croak out his name in relief a few hours ago, at the restraint it was taking him not to implode on the walls of this hospital because his balloon of safety net for them both has done exactly that: ballooned and strayed so far from his control.

Even farther, then, if—

"His name is Xavier," Zayne finds himself saying, trying to personalize this abstract form of enemy he knew Caleb was brewing inside his head. "Military probably knows him as Lumiere, though."

"I know who he is," Caleb says, so simply that Zayne believes he knows every detail about that man's life and his gross miscalculation that he ever doubted he would. "I just didn't know they were close."

"They're paired hunters," Zayne supplies. "Parabatai. They're sworn to an oath to protect their own, even taught to lay down their lives for the other if need be. But I know you know all of this already,” he says, turns to him, and then: “What I don't know is why you're getting so worked up over it."

Caleb's eyes flash to him for a second, but it's alright, because Zayne can hold it. Zayne could probably hold it the best out of all of them, and he knows this, and because he knows this, asks: "Am I wrong?"

A muscle in his jaw works out. A slip of his eye sharpens. "No," he says with great effort, teeth nearly flashing. "You're not wrong."

Zayne surveys him for a second more, before passing along his coffee. "There's a time and place, Caleb. Let her heal for now."

⊹

Caleb doesn't.

Zayne already knew he wouldn't.

He sees it in the harsh angles of his face that sharpen just exactly so when Zayne announces himself on yet another supervised visit, signalling annoyance that his attempt to get information had once again been blocked. Zayne knows he doesn’t know much about patience where she was concerned, and in some ways was so affably young in his relentless pursuit of information, that he has to remember maybe Caleb was like this because he was in fact still young. They don’t have a decade on each other but seeing how reckless Caleb got sometimes, it might as well have been twenty years they were apart.

She wouldn’t do with a sudden assault like that.

She was delicate as she was now, always just waiting idly by at his bedside brushing his hair away from his face or playing him soft piano instrumentals. Refreshing his flowers every day. Reading old fairy tales to him.

Caleb didn't like any of it and it showed.

Zayne was sure she was being granted so much leniency for now because he hadn’t expected that level of pure anguish from her, couldn’t believe it could exist for someone that wasn’t him. And he knew it took great effort to admit it on his side, but he thinks if he saw her model that similar reaction for Zayne: that at least wouldn’t have been too left field and he could have learned to live with it because they've learned to live with each other for just as long.

Zayne was an expected pesky variable in his equation. Xavier was not.

So he beats Caleb to it before he blows up.

"By the way," Zayne starts, gently, when they visit him again after all their shifts have ended and they were eating take-out courtesy of Gideon. "He was talking all throughout his procedure. Most patients get a phantom reaction like that, so it's no cause for concern. He was just mumbling something repeatedly, anyway. A name."

She stiffens.

Zayne does, too, out of surprise at her reaction: and so does Caleb.

But the way she does it, the way her body straightens into something like in alarm, the way her eyes also flash with something like apprehension and fear and maybe reckoning. That clues Zayne in on how maybe this wasn't the first time he's done this. And maybe the confirmation will wreck her, and so Zayne is already backpedalling, and is already thinking of something to reason with—

"A name," she repeats slowly. "Do you remember what it was?"

"Hey now," Caleb starts, putting his chopsticks down. "Maybe this isn't—"

"Who was it, Zayne."

Zayne doesn't look at Caleb. His eyes are arrested on her, holding her desperation, and knows it’s his damnation: he can't lie.

"It was an old name from a long time ago," he finally says, and whatever would become of this, they would brave it: "The name of an old Philos queen."

#zayne x reader #zayne x mc #zayne x you #zayne love and deepspace #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb love and deepspace #xavier x reader #xavier x mc #xavier x you #xavier love and deepspace #lads zayne #lads caleb #lads xavier #fic

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